Burning grass is great, if Mother Nature lets you ~ April 25, 1985

David Heiller

Last Thursday evening was a nice night for burning the grass in back of our house. The day had set record highs—88 degrees in Minneapolis, 94 in Fairmont, Minnesota. Dry conditions, yet the ground underneath the grass was spongy wet. Little wind. Clear sky, frogs starting to peep in the swamp. Grass burning weather.

First step—go to the local fire warden and get a burning permit. Every township has one. Next step—make sure you are prepared. I watch my fires with a five gallon pail of water and a wet burlap sack. The fire gets out of hand—flop that sack on it, and it will generally come to a halt. If the wind suddenly picks up, or you hit a patch of canary reed grass, stand back and hope for rain.

David and the tall grass.

I take an extra precaution and burn a narrow strip on the perimeter of my burning area. That way, if the fire gets out of control, it should go out once it hits the ring that has already been burned.

Last Thursday, everything was set up perfectly. Noah was asleep in the house, with Cindy there too. I finished burning my perimeter strip, then burned carefully around the five weeping willows that Cindy planted in 1982. If those trees get singed, so does the over-grown kid out there burning.

The wind puffed weakly from the south, spreading the fire north toward the rim of the garden, and around to the west where the tall reed grass grows. I stood in the blackened grass left over from the advancing flames, holding a garden rake across my shoulders, like some modern day warrior who is winning the battle.

As darkness settled on the line of flames, I began to glance over my left shoulder to the western horizon. A storm had popped up from the woods to the west. Already three fingers above the treetops, and lightning scratching my way. The flames crackled yellow in the dusk. The wind switched from south to west. I shifted the rake across my shoulders, getting a firmer stance. Man and Mother Nature would do battle on the Plains of Birch Creek. Water and fire, the classic match-up.

The stars overhead disappeared, covered by black clouds. The wind dropped, scared off by thunder and lightning, now nearly overhead. The calm before the storm. Patches of reed grass burst into flames to the left and right, struggling in the calm.

Then came the wind, first in a gust, then a steady flow. The flames jumped with excitement, but like a miner with fool’s gold. For with the wind came the rain, and the mighty line of fire broke down, fizzled, shrunk into a meager patch of burning reed grass on either end fighting to see who could endure the longest.

I stood in the field, rain falling, watching the age-old confrontation, just as Indians must have watched the prairies flicker and go silent under the thunderstorms of 500 years ago.

I hear the screen door slap shut. Cindy’s voice called across the field. “David, what about that lightning?” She could see the reflection of the rake across my shoulders in the flashes that came from overhead. The rake was serving more as a lightning rod thank leaf stabber.

I headed toward the house, as the rain poured down. The fire went out. Mother Nature won. And Man went in to watch the Minnesota Twins lose another game.