The lighting, the switches and a wardrobe

"It's just stuff. It's just a house," I keep saying.
But it breaks your heart.
I know it could be worse. We have our health. We have each other. We've bonded as a family through this more than we would have without it. But still.
Demolition is set for tomorrow. It's exciting and sad. We're one day closer to a new house, but we have to say goodbye to our old house.
Nearly everyone that has walked through the aftermath can't believe everything has to go.
"Why can't this be saved?"
"It's a shame that has to go."
I've had the same thoughts. I could save a piece of the coffered ceiling, or some of the baseboard, or some piece of wood and just make something out of it later. That's where I stop.
If I save a piece of wood, how long will it sit in the garage until I throw it out? Attached to that piece of wood will come guilty feelings for not taking the time to make something out of it. Then, after it becomes clear that I'll never make anything out of it, it will produce guilty feelings for throwing it out.
The wood, the mirrors, the toys that seem fine (but are probably covered in things I wouldn't want my children putting in their mouths) are going. I'm ready to start over.
And, while I mention the urge to simplify, I find myself obsessing over how we'll change the house, the decorations, the furniture.
It's something I struggle with. I have an app on my phone that puts a vast library of images of homes and furnishings at my fingertips. I think I've finally come to terms with minimizing changes to the house. We'll keep it as close to the original as possible, with some minor changes to add convenience or storage.
Demolition starts tomorrow. Another step in life post-fire will begin. Eventually, we'll struggle to remember the way the house looked and felt, which is something to mourn about. We will, however, make memories in our new house.
It's just a house. It's just stuff. But it breaks your heart.

 

Our fire from Coury's perspective

From my Friday...

On Friday morning, Emerson cried out for "Daddy" at 5:15. This was after a series of sleepless nights and Jesse's middle of the night proclamation of "I'm exhausted!" 

As I took my shower that morning -- a shower in a bathroom designed perfectly for children, one in which I imagined our two children from the day we bought the house -- I thought to myself, "Tonight, we'll make popcorn, cuddle on the couch, and watch Emerson's new Curious George movie." We needed to relax together as a family. 

While I ate my breakfast, Moe -- the cat I've loved for 12 years, my only roommate for five of those -- meowed his reminder to feed him. I cursed myself for neglecting him since Eliot's birth, filled his water bowl, rubbed behind his ear, and smiled at his responsive purr. 

Finally, I set off for work: kissing my family goodbye, wishing everyone a good day, and walking through my living room and bedroom -- the rooms Jesse and I spent hours scraping and painting ourselves just three years ago -- and off I went. 

------

Teachers entered the building completely drenched. The janitor posted "Wet floor" signs all over the halls. But still, I slipped. While talking to a co worker, I slipped and fell straight on my rear and elbow. No one laughed, which told me it must've looked as bad as it felt. When I told the secretary, she filled out the paperwork with concern in her eyes. I had to keep reassuring her and the nurse that I was okay. 

-----

At lunch, I learned the newest word for "good" was "fire." We laughed at teen slang. Hope you feel "fire." That's so "fire." Have a "fire" weekend, someone said. 

Two minutes later, my principal and secretary came from behind me, touched my shoulder and said, "Coury. We just got a call that your house is on fire."

----

We pull up. There's smoke pouring from my ceiling. I see my daddy and collapse. 

Mom pulls up. I collapse again. 

I sit on the sidewalk, searching desperately for my partner, my best friend, the only other person who knows this feeling exactly. Finally, I see him, and I run. 

---

The rest is a blur. A nightmarish blur of faces and words and tears and smoke. Moe wrapped in a blanket on the porch. Firefighters gasping for breath on my yard. Smoke hurling out of Emerson's window. A blur, and yet, one full of vivid pictures I can still see and smell and taste and hear. 

---

But we are blessed. One week before, I could've been home alone with the kids. We are alive. 

And my God the support. From family to friends to coworkers to community members we don't even know, the support, both mentally and financially, makes me dumbfounded. You guys are amazing. Truly. Please keep praying for us as we continue on this journey. 

"What's your house number?"

At 11:37 a.m. on Friday, August 9, my house was filled with smoke. More than likely, a melted gas line was already causing a blow-torch effect that burned through our basement floor, charred our first floor hallway and caused our cat, Moe, to perish from smoke inhalation. 

At 11:37 a.m., my friend, the newspaper publisher, called me to ask my house number. 

"475."

"Your house is on fire."

***

Our son had been sleeping poorly through the night for the last several weeks. I rocked him back down at 10:30, 11, 2:30 and 4:15. At 5:15, my daughter called out. 

"Daddy?"

I woke up and trudged up the steps (the steps that the gas line would later render unsafe).

"My finger hurts."

After a kiss and my best act of persuasion since conning my wife into marriage, I went back downstairs. 

At 6:15, I woke up in my house as I know it for the last time. 

The morning was smooth: no tantrums, no tears. Mostly.

My daughter wore her rain boots. When I carried her through pouring rain to my mother-in-law's house, she cried. She wanted to run through the rain unassisted. So I turned around, walked back to the car, put her down and let her go. Tantrum averted. 

Soaked in my shirt and tie, I waited a few minutes inside the house to let the rain die down.

The drive to work was slow, my wipers going full blast. 

Still soaked from earlier, I ran through the parking lot in pouring rain to get to my office. I joked with a co-worker about my inability to read the weather forecast.

***

"Your house is on fire."

Rush out the door. Try to lock a door with shaky hands. Run to the car. 

The phone calls started coming.

I talked to my mother, my mother-in-law, my wife, my friend, my cousin. 

What could I have left on? A coffee pot? The stove? No. Coury unplugged the coffee pot. No one used the stove that morning.

Maybe it's minor, contained to a room. The cat will be fine. He'll be hiding under the bed, safe, in another room. The house will be fine.

I called the neighbor.

"How bad is it?"

"It's bad. There's smoke rolling out of your windows. The street is blocked off."

I parked at the old Dairy Freeze and ran to my house. My wife met me behind a fire truck. 

It was bad.

***

It's 4 a.m. on August 11. Coury is asleep beside me in a hotel room (thank you, Red Cross). Eliot is on the bed next to us. Emerson is having a sleepover at Ma Dee's house. 

We're displaced, but safe. Our house will, at the very least, be gutted, rewired, new plumbing, new heating and air. 

It will be at least a month before the first hammer is swung, I'm told. It will be at least six months before we move back in.

Obviously it could be worse. The scenarios are too many and too painful to even write down. We are safe.

***

We live in an amazing place full of generous people. I am floored by the offers to help, the donations, the food, the show of concern. Our phones haven't stopped since 11:37 a.m. on August 9. I could never say thank you enough. I promise we will pay it forward.