My wife, Aretha Franklin

Sometimes husbands or boyfriends might forget to consider the feelings of his wife or girlfriend. Or maybe it’s just me. But it’s something I do.

For instance, a painful one is the time I almost broke up with her over the phone while I was in a bar in Florida and she was in Kentucky, celebrating the passing of a board exam that would further her career. Why couldn’t I just talk to her without distraction, she asked. Why was the bar so important tonight?

The bar wasn’t that important, looking back. Obviously it wasn’t that important. But I wasn’t in the moment with her. I was 16 hours away and had forgotten about the weekend afternoons and evenings when I mindlessly played Playstation games while she wrestled with the months-long process of earning this new certification that would bring her personal satisfaction and higher earnings over her career. It would elevate her to an elite level as a teacher. It would certify that she was nationally qualified to teach.

I was in a bar in Florida because that was the dream I concocted when I was 18 and entering college. Five years later, I was in that bar in Florida. Living my dream. The dream, though, belonged to an 18-year-old. The guy with the amazing girlfriend who lived 16 hours away was ignoring the present to live in a dream created in the past.

We almost broke up while I was in Florida. I tried. My wife, though, persisted. Is this really what you want, she asked. Really?

It wasn’t.

Today is my wife’s last day of teaching. She’s moving up in her career and leaving the classroom behind. It’s an emotional time for her, but I haven’t really been in tune. This is my attempt at tuning in.

Just this morning I read a story about a husband who worked at a newspaper and insisted that his wife, a poet, stay home and write all day.

“I’m going to work and she’s going to write all day — when you are marrying a genius, that’s the deal,” he said, watching her on the swing. “It’s like marrying Aretha Franklin. She’s going to get to sing. If you hear Aretha Franklin sing — ”

“ — you understand what’s going on musically. Whoever was the first person to hear Aretha sing, understood. I just happened to be the first.”

My dream was to move around. The itinerant journalist. Place to place. Coast to coast. Florida. California. Maybe the Carolinas.

Then I moved to Florida and realized I couldn’t ask her to uproot. I couldn’t picture her there. I couldn’t ask her to leave a place she loved as I stumbled through career choices, not positive that this is what I was born to do when it was obvious that she knew what she was born to do.

Like the husband who married the genius, I recognized that it was important for her to teach and to teach in a place where she could be most effective. That place was where she already lived. I’ve said many times that I couldn’t ask her to uproot for Florida. I just couldn’t.

She would have, though. It’s amazing. She would have.

I was right. She has thrived. I’m not surprised, but I’m very proud. When I grow up, I want to make a difference like she does.

This week two remarkable things – things that some people never receive in a lifetime – happened to my wife.

A stranger stopped her in the optometrist’s office and doted on her. My niece talks about you all the time, she said. The lady then looked at me and said, You’re so lucky to have married her.

Well, yeah. I would have never tried to ruin that relationship.

That kind of interaction happens pretty frequently, really.

Then, yesterday she brought home a letter from a student. The student wrote “I love you” on three occasions in this letter. Can you imagine? Someone loves my wife for doing a great job. I’m pretty sure no one has ever said they loved me because of my work. I wouldn’t expect them to, but goodness. Wouldn’t it be nice?

To summarize, my wife is an Aretha Franklin. She is making the right move at the right time. She’ll be even better at what she does next. But this has to be tough for her. It does. She’s leaving behind a rock star career in the classroom for the unknown. It’s probably not as clear to her that she’ll continue to make her mark and be successful. People will still love her for doing her job well. That’s all unknown to her right now, but not to me. She’s about to cast a wider net and affect more students. While those students may not know to say I love you directly to her, they will.

I love you, Coury. I know this is hard. It will be until it’s not. But Emerson, Eliot and E. James are here for whatever you need. We have lots of love to share.

Wife appreciation day

Sunday, I think, was supposed to be the national day to appreciate your wife. Well, I found out late and haven't gotten around to it until now.
If you have a wife, you know that they should be appreciated every day. It's only right. But on special occasions, the appreciation should be cranked up a little, at least. Here's my feeble attempt at appreciating my wife.

Coco,

Thank you for many things. In no particular order:

• For being on a domestic mission since the fire. I think the washer, dryer and dishwasher have been running nearly constantly since Aug. 9. I could probably count on one hand how many times I have turned one of those machines on.
• For being the good cop to my bad cop routine. Not that you're soft, but our kids definitely need their mommy to keep things a little more fun and loose. Otherwise they would be sentenced to Daddy's Hardcore Training Camp for Kiddos. Only slightly kidding.
• For caring enough about your work to get stressed and feel responsibility. You know I've always admired the career you've built for yourself.
• For being my partner during the chaotic time pre- and post-fire. Having babies is chaotic enough. Dealing with the aftermath of a fire is enough. Combining the two is insane. I couldn't conquer insane without you.
• For knowing what a young Fitzgerald looks like and caring enough about literature that you talk to me about it every chance you get and swoon when your students are getting it.
• For listening when this post-fire business gets to be, well, shitty. And for venting right back.
• For just being a solid mom and person who doesn't do things you shouldn't do.

That's all I've got for right now. I'm five minutes late coming home and you're cooking spaghetti. I don't want to miss that.

Love you.

Personal contents inventory

We had at least 1,747 items in our house. That doesn’t include clothes, even. Doesn’t that seem like a really large number?

Today we received an inventory of items that the insurance would pay to replace. If you want to try a fun game, review a print out of every item in your house that now resides in a land fill or exists as a pile of ashes. Fun times!

I was beginning to think I had this situation emotionally whipped. I’ve seen the house as it has entered the demolition phase and I’ve adapted. I’m used to seeing a dumpster full of wall fragments in our yard. Today though, after going over this list, I’m a little out of sorts.

First of all, how much of that stuff can we live without? Half of it? A quarter? I’m in the mood to simplify but I acknowledge that we have to furnish a house for four people.

Secondly, we want to be good stewards with the money we receive to replace these items, as well as the money we’ve received from many, many generous people. Scrutinizing a list of 1,750 items while trying to be a good steward is a dizzying task. I’m happy that I don’t have to replace all of these items today.

Third, what didn’t make the list? I look through it and think of something here and there, but it’s incredibly difficult. I do know that the liquor bottles (especially a bottle of Blanton’s that was given to me as a wedding present) were not listed, as they were residing on a high shelf in a room that was hard to access after the fire.

Fourth, are things that we need to replace adequately priced on our inventory list? I’ve found a few things already that aren’t in line with the actual cost or are an incorrect item. I lost an iPad in the blaze, but my replacement is listed as an iPad mini. Nope. It was an iPad. That’s what I want to replace it (I’m not criticizing anyone here, as I’m sure it’s easy to make a mistake or two on a list with over 1,700 items. I’m also sure it’s easily fixed with a call or text to my adjuster).

My head is swimming today. Look at all this stuff. How can I be a good steward? What can we live without?

I know one thing: I could use a drink of the Blanton’s that was left off the list. You better believe I’ll be emailing that change over. 

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.

What does it mean to be a dad?

That's a good question. I'm glad I asked myself.

Tonight, while folding three loads of laundry at the dining room table, I started thinking about dad-like things I had done this weekend. I was going to make it a Facebook status, but there were too many things.

It meant replacing the batteries in a hide-and-seek rabbit, changing a mushy diaper, buying fruit and milk and toys at the grocery.

It meant not buying all the toys, holding a baby girl with a boo-boo in my arms while she lay her head on my shoulder, it meant singing "Jump" by Patty Shukla on repeat while my daughter jumped on her bed, my bed and the guest bed.

It also meant singing the Barney theme song and "Amazing Grace" on demand for a demanding daughter, it meant sharing every meal with my toddler because it's just more fun to eat off Daddy's plate and it meant playing peek-a-boo while folding aforementioned laundry.

It meant falling asleep after baby's bed time because you're tired and you better believe the clock is ticking once she's down.

It meant waking from a dead sleep to a cry of 'Mommy!' at 5:30 a.m. It meant staying in bed until 6:44 a.m. while my family lay beside me. It meant cooking bacon and chocolate chip pancakes for two very appreciative girls.

It meant sneaking off for an hour of work and wishing I was with those girls. It meant coaxing and prompting a 19-month-old to say her own name (a mouthful for people decades older than her) and marveling at what sounded like said 19-month-old counting to nine (look, I know I heard six, seven, eight).

It meant trying to explain that no, we don't jump on the cat because it hurts the cat. It meant saying, for the 457th time, please crawl on the couch, don't run. It meant staying away from the computer until nap and bed times because otherwise it meant fighting a toddler who doesn't understand that computers aren't just for Patty Shukla videos.

It meant listening to my (pregnant) wife cry in the other room because she was so sad from the recent school shooting. It meant looking at the pictures of the children that died and seeing that they aren't much older than my daughter. It meant discussing what my wife, a teacher, would do if a school shooting occurred. It meant telling her, please, if something were to happen, protect yourself and my unborn baby.

It meant finally taking a minute to write to my daughter.