A more complete version of the story I told in my previous post ("Resilience and Beyond"):
In June 2009, I had plans, lots of plans. In two weeks, I'd fly to Salt Lake City for the Unitarian Universalist Association of Congregation's annual General Assembly. A couple weeks later, I'd take some courses at Meadville Lombard Theological School--before my official enrollment in their Master of Divinity program in August. Fall semester at work, teaching first year English writing and literature, would begin at the end of August.
Then something happened . . .
The wood siding was burned off
that side of the house; upstairs ceilings were coated with black soot; the
attic was partially burned. The kids’ wood-sided sandbox and the laundry on the
clothesline were gone. In the big red maple next to the garage, the sap had
boiled and burst through bark all the way up the trunk. Lilacs, raspberries, hostas, roses were all
gone.
In June 2009, I had plans, lots of plans. In two weeks, I'd fly to Salt Lake City for the Unitarian Universalist Association of Congregation's annual General Assembly. A couple weeks later, I'd take some courses at Meadville Lombard Theological School--before my official enrollment in their Master of Divinity program in August. Fall semester at work, teaching first year English writing and literature, would begin at the end of August.
Then something happened . . .
August 2016:
My house, back porch, raspberry bushes against garage, and big red maple.
Photo by Jennifer Thomson
June, 2009, 10:30 pm:
I’d
been sitting up in bed, knitting my first afghan. My tuxedo cats Marty and
Monty curled up by my feet; a Great Courses lecture on Early Christianities
played on my laptop. I half-listened to the lecture and half-dozed, all snuggly
in my flannel nightgown and blankets on this unusually cool June night.
Then—was that a noise downstairs? Maybe someone at the door?
“Hello!?
C’mon in!” I called down. No response.
It
occurred to me that the sound was more like glass breaking than a knock on the
door. What the . . . ? So I put my knitting aside, moved my feet out around the
cats, who seemed either oblivious to or unconcerned about the noise downstairs,
and stepped into the hallway.
Out
the window at the other end of the hall roared bright orange flames, taller
than my Victorian house. It didn’t even register at first.
“Oh
crap, oh crap, oh crap,” I said aloud. I looked back at the bed—leave the
knitting, grab cell phone; there’s no way I can round up (not to mention carry)
all 4 cats, so they have to fend for themselves; the stairway is on the same
side of the house as the fire—must be the garage—must be entirely engulfed—just
get out and call 911.
I
hurried down the stairs and outside in my flannel nightie. As I dialed and the
911 operator answered, I heard LeRoy next door through his upstairs window,
already talking to 911.
He
called down to me: “Turn on the hose.”
In
my head, my thoughts were clear and focused. I had even grabbed the landline
handset on the way through the kitchen in case I couldn’t get a cell phone
signal. But I couldn’t figure out how to unwind the garden hose or turn on the
spigot. LeRoy yelled for me to hurry as I fumbled with the hose—then a bunch of
neighbors (maybe 3 men?) ran up, got the hose working, and started wetting down
the side of my house closest to LeRoy’s.
I
don’t remember just what happened right after that. The clarity in my mind came
back when the neighbor kid Ellie showed up—OK, she was in her 20s, but we’d
been neighbors for 20 years, so she was the neighbor kid. I asked her to help
prop open the front door for the cats to escape, then to follow me into the
house and wait at the bottom of the stairs while I retrieved my wallet, keys,
medicines, computer. The fire was still limited to the garage—maybe a little up
the back steps—so I could grab what I deemed essential. Luckily, I kept wallet
and keys in my pants pockets, so I ended grabbing some clothes too.
Next
thing I remember is sitting next to Ellie on the curb across the street,
Ellie’s arm around my shoulders. All around us, lights flashed atop emergency
vehicles—fire trucks, rescue squad, police cars. My yard swarmed with volunteer
firefighters in full gear. Neighbors milled around, watching the action. A
paramedic kept asking me, over and over, if I wanted a blanket to wrap up in.
“No, I’m still not cold!” Geez Louise, how many times do I have to tell her?
(Later, I noticed that my nightie was missing a top button and I had been a bit
exposed—if she would have said “Look, you’re flashing us,” I might have taken
the blanket. Emergencies are no time for subtlety.)
I
don’t remember where I stayed that night.
The garage and everything in it—grill, bike, lawn tools, camping gear, and my Sebring convertible Sabrina—was obliterated.
The garage and everything in it—grill, bike, lawn tools, camping gear, and my Sebring convertible Sabrina—was obliterated.
 |
June 2009, from left: Red maple, back gate, Sebring skeleton.
Crumpled garage door in foreground. Photo by Ellen Chloe
|
The wood siding was burned off
that side of the house; upstairs ceilings were coated with black soot; the
attic was partially burned. The kids’ wood-sided sandbox and the laundry on the
clothesline were gone. In the big red maple next to the garage, the sap had
boiled and burst through bark all the way up the trunk. Lilacs, raspberries, hostas, roses were all
gone.
Everything
in the house was smoke damaged—walls, ceilings, carpet, furniture, clothes.
 |
| June 2009, from front to back: garage studs, Sabrina, house, red maple. |
 |
| All fire photos by Ellen Chloe. |
I
bought a new convertible on the way to the airport.
And I had a great time at GA.
 |
| GA June 2009 side trip: me floating in Great Salt Lake. Photo by Leslie Frick or Nic Cable. Probably Leslie. |
And I had a great time at GA.
It
was all a lot to take in. Later, my neighbor Patti told me I was incoherent when she tried to talk to me the night of the fire. How could that be? In my own head, my thinking was crystal clear. Then
again, as I tell this story, I’m surprised by the gaps in my memory. How did I
get to the curb across the street? When did all the emergency vehicles arrive?
Did I spend that night at my friend’s house down the block?
Trauma
messes with your head. I think that both the clarity and the incoherence arose
from adrenaline shooting through my body to get me through the emergency. That
adrenaline rush faded by the next morning, but I’m still dealing with the
aftermath of the fire seven years later.
At
the same time, I adapted fairly well and fairly quickly to the disruption of
temporary homelessness. The most difficult part wasn’t moving to an apartment
for a few months—it was having to house two of my cats with a friend. In my
small town, I couldn’t rent a place that would allow me to move in with 4 cats.
On the up side, I think Isabel and Audrey enjoyed their months away from the
bullies, Marty and Monty.
Repairs to
the house took 6 months, including new flooring, new siding, new roofing. The
new garage went up the next summer--it's the one in the picture at the top of this post. I’m still working on the yard, though a new
raspberry bush sprung up a few years ago all on its own. Did roots migrate
under the new garage slab to the other side? Maybe birds planted for me.
The red maple has lost half its branches and its trunk stands half-naked, the exposed gash limned with thickly scarred bark.
 |
August 2016: scarred red maple.
Photo by Jennifer Thomson
|
The red maple has lost half its branches and its trunk stands half-naked, the exposed gash limned with thickly scarred bark.
My
new red convertible now lives in my new garage. I threw away mattresses and pillows
and heavy furniture; gave away half my dishes, a double bed frame, and the bed
headboard my parents bought me in 1968. Just after I dropped off the little
girl’s bed frame, I went into the store to shop. There, I heard a man telling
an employee that he was looking for a big kid bed for his daughter.
As an initiation into the world of ministerial formation, a dramatic fire resulting in lots of property damage but no injury to people or pets seemed like an omen to me. The dislocation it caused and the loss of familiar surroundings and possessions pushed me to consider what was really important to me. It also altered the terrain on the path I was about to take in my journey toward ministry. All the money I had planned to use for seminary tuition went into house repairs, so the path became rockier and steeper and more circuitous than I had hoped or expected. But I made it.
I’m not saying I experienced a complete transformation, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of the fire. But my struggle to be resilient—and to go beyond—did result in personal growth: emotional, intellectual, spiritual. I learned that I really did value people (and pets) over possessions; I was able to let go of 25 years of accumulated stuff--an apt way to begin a new journey. After 20 years living in the same large house, I enjoyed my temporary home in a small flat with a sunny south window. As daunting as I found the image of burning bridges from my past so I was forced to face the future, I made it through thanks to family, friends, my faith community--and my Audrey, Isabel, Marty, and Monty cats.
I’m not saying I experienced a complete transformation, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of the fire. But my struggle to be resilient—and to go beyond—did result in personal growth: emotional, intellectual, spiritual. I learned that I really did value people (and pets) over possessions; I was able to let go of 25 years of accumulated stuff--an apt way to begin a new journey. After 20 years living in the same large house, I enjoyed my temporary home in a small flat with a sunny south window. As daunting as I found the image of burning bridges from my past so I was forced to face the future, I made it through thanks to family, friends, my faith community--and my Audrey, Isabel, Marty, and Monty cats.
August 2016:
Left
Red maple
(scarred side)
and Audrey.
(scarred side)
and Audrey.
Right
Red maple
(non-scarred side) and new garage.
(non-scarred side) and new garage.
Photos by Jennifer Thomson.
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