Here is that essay, unedited...with all the bumps, bruises and written stumbles that come along with being a new writer...
More Than A Home
On a crisp, late October evening in 1971, I sat hypnotized, watching the largest, hottest, most ferocious fire I have ever seen- and ever hope to see. That night, through the tears, I learned a valuable lesson. The most meaningful memories can be a mixture of good and bad, and loss can leave a gift of appreciation.
Earlier that morning, my two younger brothers were making sure the entire family was up and starting the day. They ran around our rustic, lovely old house, from one spacious room to another, calling out and teasing our baby sister.
Mom had been up for hours, so breakfast was on the table. We all piled into the huge country kitchen and were greeted with the warm, aromatic smell of fresh hotcakes, homemade vanilla syrup, and sizzling, crisp bacon. No one noticed a slightly acrid smell coming from a back bedroom.
We loved our home, but it was something very special to me. It was the greatest house on the planet. There were four huge bedrooms upstairs, one for each of us. The second floor was our domain. It was so great, it even had a pink bathroom containing a mammoth, claw-footed porcelain tub. You could swim laps in that monster.
Directly off the front door, there was a long, half-winding stairway climbing to a large landing, which worked well as a wonderful eavesdropping-on-adults hiding place. We spent many weekends sliding down those stairs in cardboard box "sleds." Our goal being to slide right out the front door, but we could never get enough speed.
She was a great house, but one of her best attributes was her age. Our grand lady was going to celebrate her one hundredth birthday. I can remember so clearly the feel of the highly polished wood floors as we slipped around the corners, "skating" from connected room, to hallway, to next room. The smell of home-baked bread. The nightly sound effects whispering from the aged beams, as if the gracious old girl was lulling us to sleep with her dry, creaking, comforting voice. I remember every square nail, every restored rough-hewn wood panel, every groan in every stairstep.
After breakfast that particular morning, dad went into the back room to check on the old oil stove. It was puffing along, trying to keep us warm. Within moments, we heard dad yell for help. As we ran in, we saw him throwing coffee cups full of water at the wall and ceiling, above the furnace chimney. There was an angry red glowing spot threatening to climb to the adjacent ceiling, which was the floor of the boy's rooms upstairs. It only took a few minutes, and several mugs of cold tap water, and the emergency was declared over. No more hotspot, no more danger. We began preparing for the afternoon Halloween party at church. We forgot all about "the incident."
A few hours later, we all piled into our VW van, and off we went. The party was colorful and festive; and soon after dark, it was time to head home. As we were leaving, some friends asked us to come by for pie and coffee.
Dad thought it was getting rather late for the boys, so he decided to drop them off at home first. However, by the time we had reached the house, our pleading and cajoling (and a little nudging from mom) worked, and he gave in. He decided to let the boys stay with us.
Thank God.
We had been visiting for a short while when we heard fire sirens wailing in the distance. We lived in a rural dairy community, and there were many miles between neighbors. This was an area where people watched out for each other, so when the sirens screamed, everyone became concerned. Quickly, we were gathered up and loaded into the van.
Following friends and neighbors in a convoy of concern, we headed toward the terrible crying of the alarm. The closer we got to our part of the valley, the tighter my stomach knotted. By the time we crested the hill overlooking our beautiful valley, I knew. We all knew.
The incredible glow in the sky couldn't be mistaken. The smoke billowed upward in eerie gray-black pillars, rising high above the brilliant, searing, all-devouring, flames.
We parked across the street and watched through hot, dry, stunned eyes as our home and life turned to ashes in less than seven minutes. All we had left in the world were the handmade costumes we were wearing, and each other. Especially each other.
Later we were told the fire had started in the furnace chimney and had immediately spread upward, engulfing the boys' room and collapsing the second floor. The boys would not have had a chance.
The next morning, at daybreak, we went to see what might remain. All there was left was the brick chimney standing tall in the center of the devastation. Here and there we found little mis-shapen globs of melted glass or what looked like remnants of our old cast-iron cookware.
The only other thing that remained were hundreds of old square nails which had once held together a graceful, sheltering home filled with love. Each nail represented a time, a person, who had shared in the hundred years of memories.
That night I lost the home I loved. We lost all our material possessions, including seven beloved family pets. But, with the loss, I gained something very valuable -the realization that the most precious things we can have are those who love us. The scorching loss of my home left me a true gift of appreciation, which I treasure beyond words, -even more than a home.
