It’s euphemistically called an “RFP.” But if you really want to get technical, it’s Section 3, under Article 2.6.3.4 of the Ontario Environmental Protection Act, and it says:
“Notwithstanding, any provisions herein, no person shall cause, permit or allow a fire to be set or cause, permit or allow a fire to burn in the open air…”
Just before Christmas, I grabbed my COVID mask and my wallet and visited the firehall to buy an RFP, a Recreational Fire Permit. It all began – a just before the second emergency lockdown over New Years – when one our daughters suggested I build a portable firepit so that handful of us (in the immediate family) could gather ’round a small fire on chilly evenings.
“Great idea,” I said. “I get right on it.”
In the garage, under several years’ accumulation of junk, I found the pieces of this portable firepit. In what was left of the packaging, it looked to be just a barbeque-sized bowl and sundry other bits. I figured all I had to do was plunk the bowl on the ground, throw in some kindling and light an inaugural fire. It turned out, the package contained about 50 different parts – trusses, handles, legs, wheels, ring clips, fibre washers, lock ones washers, a circular screen and a lid. It took a while, but I eventually found the assembly directions and put it together.
Then, I bought my RFP (fire permit), and we christened my new firepit. One evening, we gathered a few of our grandkids (at a distance) in the backyard snow to toast some marshmallows, and to escape the confines of the pandemic if only briefly.
There’s nothing like tackling with the elements as an antidote to the ill-effects of being cooped up all these months. Another of the elements arrived a few weeks ago, during that quick February thaw we had. On the surface the sun felt wonderful. Then, I spotted Niagara Falls flowing over the edges of my frozen eavestroughs and knew I’d better clear the gutter of ice so that the melt-off could flow through the downspouts instead.
I was a few hours too late, because we were soon mopping up the results from our basement floors. The irony was, all last spring and summer I had built up that side of the house with fresh soil, new sod, and my wife’s new rose garden, to soak up any abundance of moisture. As they say, “Best laid plans…”
Having dealt with fire and water, I awaited another round with the elements. And I didn’t have to wait long. Remember the high winds about a week or so ago? We got such strong gusts that week, I felt as if we were living in the wind tunnel of the National Research Council for a few nights. But that wasn’t what kept us awake.
“Did you hear that odd sound in the walls last night? I asked my wife.
She had. And her immediate conclusion was: Critters! We both had visions of racoons or squirrels or bats or some wildlife tenants taking up full-time residence inside the walls or up in the rafters of the attic. So now I’m thinking, “How do I get a pest control expert here in a pandemic?”
Well, my wife wasn’t about to wait. One night, when the rattling and banging persisted, she got up, took a flashlight, and did a complete circuit outside the house looking for unwelcome guests poking holes in our shingles, walls, soffit and fascia. Nothing. We were really wondering if we were just hearing things. Next morning, we visited our neighbours for a better look. Their porch was higher than ours, about even with our eaves, so we figured maybe a better vantage point? Again nothing.
“I’ll come over later and maybe we can have a look in the attic,” my neighbour offered.
“Not that easy,” I said. “I’ve been up there. It’s jammed with insulation.”
Our imaginations were running wild. What if we found critters up there? What would we do? Set traps? Clearly the winter elements were having their way with us. Then, as we thanked our neighbours for the porch view, I did one more pass along the outside wall of our house looking for clues.
I accidentally bumped into the plastic downspout outside our bedroom wall. Wait a minute! It clattered a familiar clatter. I bumped it again on purpose. It sounded just like the clatter that had kept us awake the last few nights. My wife and I both listened as I bumped it again on purpose.
“The wind!” we both said. We’d considered all the other elements. But it was the wind wiggling the spout that got us imagining, “Lions and tigers and bears. Oh my.”
It must be a sign of the times.
