By Dawn Duckett
It was an ordinary late afternoon. My husband John was about to drive into town to pick up Chinese food, and we planned to settle in for a quiet movie night. I was on the couch creating video content for my Facebook page while John was out in his shop sewing.
I remember hearing creosote falling down the woodstove pipe — that dry, hollow sound — and it kept interrupting my recording. I walked out to the shop and asked John when he had last cleaned the chimney.
“A couple months ago,” he said. “It’s fine. Sometimes creosote falls.”
I went back inside.
John came in a few minutes later to grab his car keys. He paused. “Why is it so hot in here?” he asked.
There was a strange piece of debris on the floor in front of the woodstove. He bent down to pick it up.
It wasn’t debris. It was part of our ceiling.
He looked up and said the words no homeowner ever wants to hear:
“Oh my God. The house is on fire. Call 911. Get the fire extinguishers.”
If John had already left for dinner, I would have been alone.
Instead, we moved.
Throughout our careers in local government — John as city manager for Shasta Lake and me as a fiscal manager for Shasta County — we were required to attend safety trainings. Fire extinguisher operation. Fire hazard response. The kinds of trainings busy professionals quietly dread because there is always something more urgent waiting on your desk.
We never imagined those “inconvenient” trainings would one day save our home.
We have four medium-sized fire extinguishers placed throughout our house. John immediately began closing all doors and windows to cut off oxygen to the fire. As a matter of habit, we keep unused bedroom doors closed — something firefighters routinely recommend. That practice would later prove critical.
John grabbed a ladder and climbed into the attic with an extinguisher. I called 911, and while I was still on the phone with the dispatcher, I began gathering medications, our IDs, and my purse, taking them out to my car. It was during that urgent back-and-forth — coordinating with emergency services while moving essentials — that our dog Alice quietly slipped into my car unnoticed.
I then opened our security gate for first responders and alerted both neighbors on either side of us. They rushed over with additional extinguishers. One neighbor, an electrician, immediately shut off our power and confirmed we had no propane. That happened before the fire engines even arrived.
By the time crews from CAL FIRE and the Cottonwood Volunteer Fire Department reached us, John had already been in the attic suppressing flames. He emerged covered in white extinguisher residue and soot.
The firefighters later told us that several ceiling beams had burned almost completely through. If the fire had not been knocked down early, the structure likely would have collapsed inward. The extinguishers — and the training behind them — saved our home.
As crews entered and exited, they gave steady updates. They carefully removed family photographs from our hallway before advancing hoses so water would not destroy them. They covered our fish tank to protect it from chemical residue. Volunteers used our shop vac to clear debris from bookcases and floors. They treated our home and belongings with such respect.
The damage was concentrated in the ceiling above the woodstove, leaving a gaping hole in our living room. There was water damage in a back bedroom from suppression efforts. But because one guest room door had been closed, that room was completely preserved — no smoke, no water, no residue. We were able to stay in our home that very night.
But in the middle of all this, we realized Alice was missing.
We live near Gas Point Road, a fast-moving highway. Alice is not savvy about traffic. Neighbors got into their cars to search surrounding roads. The Cottonwood Citizens Patrol joined the effort. I posted her photo to local Facebook and Nextdoor groups, and our community began sharing it immediately.
It grew dark. The fire was out. The responders had left. We had not eaten all day. I ordered DoorDash, and John continued patrolling the neighborhood with Citizens Patrol while I waited at home.
While waiting for the delivery driver, I went out to my car to retrieve my purse.
As I reached inside, Alice poked her head up from behind the front seat and looked at me as if to say, “Is it safe now?”
She had been there the entire time.
Alice asked that her glamour shot be published. Photo courtesy of Dawn Duckett.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Do you know how many people are looking for you?”
That night could have ended very differently.
Here are the lessons we learned:
Get trained.
Emergency training may feel inconvenient, but in a crisis you fall back on muscle memory. Training replaces panic with action.
Have fire extinguishers — and know how to use them.
Have more than one. Place them strategically. Make sure everyone in your household knows how to operate them. They saved our structure.
Make sure to keep up on chimney maintenance.
We believe our fire actually started because some blown-in insulation had come in contact with the stove pipe.
Close interior doors.
Closed doors limit oxygen and dramatically reduce smoke and water damage. One closed door preserved an entire room in our home.
Know your neighbors.
Community showed up for us before the sirens did. Extra extinguishers. Electrical shutoff. Searching for our dog. That matters.
Support volunteer organizations.
Volunteer firefighters and citizens patrol members give their time and skill when you need them most. We witnessed firsthand how deeply they care.
We thought we were just picking up dinner and watching a movie.
The night could have ended so much differently.
Dawn Duckett lives in Cottonwood.
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