Among the Ashes

I’ll never forget the night of August 12th when my mom left a message on my phone that our family’s mountain house – a home where countless memories had been created since I was four-years-old - was burning to the ground.

I was in complete shock.

I figured that maybe there was a small electrical fire and my mom was exaggerating. I had to speak with someone immediately. I needed answers.

When I tried to call my mom back and couldn’t get in touch with her, I then called my oldest brother who told me that it was true. The house was on fire. It had been struck by lightning. It was in flames. And the firefighters were running out of water.

I can’t quite describe to others what this moment in time felt like - Knowing that your home is on fire at the very moment you are being told…and not being able to do anything about it...it was horrible!

It was the most helpless feeling one can imagine.

Losing a home is like losing a loved one in a way. Initially, emotions of shock and confusion take over. And then - devastation.

The next morning, my oldest brother and my Dad flew to the house to assess the damage.

What they learned was that a gas line had been struck by lightning, and it appeared that the initial explosion occurred inside the house, in the room where I slept. The children always slept in the adjacent room.

When my brother arrived the next day and saw exactly what had happened to the home, he sent me pictures of the room where the explosion occurred - the room where I stayed.

Immediately, my heart sank and tears filled my eyes. I had JUST been living in that room, with the children close by, for most of the summer.

I could not believe that our lives had been spared. Someone was clearly watching over us.

And while the image of what could have happened put everything into perspective, losing the house still made me sad.

I’m extremely sentimental – the biggest pack rat you will ever meet. Everything I look at reminds me of a memory, so I have a difficult time throwing things away or giving them away. Knowing that this home – or even just part of our home – was lost was devastating to me and my family.

I cried every day for three weeks after the fire. I couldn’t even fathom what this was doing to my parents. This home was their happy place – the only place my dad was 100 percent stress-free. 

It wasn’t until a mother of one of my student’s at school said to me, “I know how difficult this must be to lose a home. But remember, the fire can NEVER take away your memories.”

And I know it sounds weird, but for the first time, I started to feel a little bit better as I reflected on what she said, knowing that her words were so true.

That same evening, snippets of my life flashed before my eyes as I began to think about what the fire has not taken from me (and my family):

A fire may have taken our home, but it did not take…

The moment when I was six and looked out the window in the middle of the night and saw snow for the first time.

It did not take…

The moment when granddaddy cut down our Christmas tree in the woods surrounding our house, and he and Daddy pulled it over the front deck upstairs on a rope so that they could put it in our living room.

It did not take…

The moment when we decorated that same barren little tree with strands of popcorn and handmade ornaments.

It did not take…

The moments when Grammie taught me how to make fudge or blackberry jam in the kitchen.

It did not take…

The nights away when we stayed up playing ping pong (GNIP…GNOP, we used to call it) with our cousins and uncles and aunts.

It did not take..

The countless Thanksgiving feasts we spent with friends, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins around the tiny dining room table.

It did not take…

The laughter and excitement when our grandmother, Manga, taught us how to play “Pook” or “Spoons” around that same table.

It did not take…

The moments when my Aunt Marilyn sat down with me to teach me how to sew.

It did not take…

The moment when Granddaddy taught my brothers how to cut wood and build flower boxes to place underneath each window.

It didn’t take away the nights of making s’mores, the nights of karaoke, the moments when we huddled together for warmth because the heat was out, the 30 something years of turkeys and mashed potatoes and stuffing.

It didn’t take the memories of squishing everyone in the house, under one roof, so that we could all be together in the summer and during the holidays (even if it made life a little more stressful at times).

Nor did it take away the moments we spent with our children in the house-the pitter patter of their feet on the wooden floors upstairs, the blackberry jam making with Baba in the kitchen, playing with the kitchen set and hairdresser set, roasting marshmallows over the fire, swirling sparklers on the deck, and watching the hummingbirds drink from the bird feeders and the bats and the lemurs.

And it didn’t take away any of the sunsets we witnessed as the entire sky changed into a palette full of colors that even the best cameras could NEVER capture – sunsets full of shades of orange, yellow, pink, purple, and red.

Yes, the lightning struck, causing a fire that took our home. But we feel blessed that we are all okay; it could have been much worse and lives could have been lost.

We feel blessed that most of our family pictures remain..

And most importantly, my favorite family collage – one that I regarded every time I walked by it because it included pictures of my late grandparents – remains.

Not only did it survive the fire, but when my brother took it off the wall to bring it home, the fire had burned around the framed collage in such a way that it left an imprint of a heart on the wall. 

Life is uncertain. But the one thing I know is that family remains, and NOTHING – not even a fire – can tear us apart. 

 

Something that was salvaged from the fire. 

We witnessed the rebuilding of the home today. Difficult, but hopeful and beyond thankful.