Memories Will Never Be Lost...
Last night, Hubby and I were seated at the kitchen table- he was playing on his computer while I tried to settle restless mind doodling. Our big bay window in the kitchen, covered by a curtain to keep out the winter chill, faces the home I grew up in- with a new street number of 3777 Johnson. At 12:03AM- the fire scanner burst open with the address of 3777 Johnson street, residence fully involved, calling for an assist from numerous fire departments in the surrounding area. I went running out the back door and was greeted by the sight of fire ravaging the house next door- flames licking the night sky from the peaks of the A-Frame at both ends.
I remember screaming. Screaming at the tops of my lungs for my husband. Screaming for him to call my parents. I remember falling into the house and hitting my knees of the landing, still screaming and crying now. Hubby's phone was ringing- my sister-in-law from next door wanting to come over. I managed to call my parents to get them coming over too.
The view from my house.
After mom and dad and sister in law got to the house, we stood in horror, all crying together, holding each other, trying to convince ourselves this was really happening. After I don' know how long, my sister-in-law and I walked down the street to find my brother amongst four fire departments worth of fire fighters. When we found each other, all we could do was hang on and try not to cry.
We stayed down there well into the morning, talking to neighbors listening to the story of what the new owner says happened change over the course of a couple hours. Around 2am- my bare feet stiff from walking around in house clogs and sweatpants- we walked home and I found warm solace in bed next to Hubby.
This morning- this is the sight outside my kitchen window.
I gathered up my camera and drove down to the house, wanting to get pictures of what was left of the home my parents built, where I grew up- watching the memories escape those A-Frame walls like steam and smoke still rising from the ashes.
What the living room looks like- then and now. Now, you can see the basement from where the outside wall should be- notice there is 4 feet of water there now.
Looking in through what was the massive double set of bay windows at the front of the house.
The picture on the right is from the weekend we moved my parents out a year ago this past October- see the wrought iron staircase? It's in the picture below too- melted and twisted from heat.
This is what's left of the back porch. A porch that welcomed so many of my high school friends. Also the very place Hubby and I called his parents in South Dakota to tell them we were engaged- Christmas Eve of 2006.
This is what it looks like from the road now.
This is what it looked like just after mom and dad finished building it.
We have the memories. We have pictures. We have each other. I don't know what I am feeling half the time now- am I mad, am I sad, am I happy the jerk that bought it can't ruin it anymore then he has? I don't believe his stories (yes, it has changed at least twice now) of the events from last night and I hate to think he was stupid/cold blooded enough to kill his own dog trying to get out from underneath a home he hadn't had insurance on just to raise the land value and build what he really wanted.
My family is safe. That's all that matters. The smoldering smoke smell is filling the air when I step outside, and if I don't look to my right when I step out the door, I can pretend it's not all gone.