What makes it through a fire?

By Naomi Klouda
Homer Tribune
As we sifted through our belongings after a fire engulfed our apartment, I was distracted by the thought of how amazing it is on what makes it through. A photo of my mother when she was first married; the black and whites I obsessively took of my children through their formative years; the old boxes of news articles I have carted around in my two decades as a reporter.
Among the rubble were enough items to distract my 11-year-old son and I into tiny eruptions of happiness.
“Look mom, I found the remote,” he would say. “See, the television still works.”
On Friday night, a fire broke out in our apartment in my son’s bedroom. Lance had two friends over after we went to the movies, and they were playing a game on the Xbox. I was downstairs trying to get my Christmas tree to straighten up a bit.
Somehow, a fire started on the wall nearest Lance’s bed. By the time he noticed it, his bed was already in flames. The boys tried to put it out, but it wasn’t safe. I got them out of the house and we called the fire department.
It seemed to take forever for the fire department to respond, but I’m sure my concept of time was significantly altered as I watched my home burn. I was grateful they had managed to save so many things, including the photographs they took from my walls, as well as the furniture they piled in the middle of the floor and covered with a heavy red tarp to protect them from smoke damage.
For Lance, not much survived. His bedroom was a hive of all the stuff he had carted through his short life, his Lego collection and Bionicles, his Pokemon card collection, his Boy Scout crafts, his video games. Worst of all, his piano, out in the hallway landing upstairs, burned too.
At Bay Realty, Gina Pelaia was able to find us a place to live not even 12 hours after the fire was put out. My boss, Jane, brought over a bed for Lance and blankets. Friends helped us sort through what survived, and haul it over to our new home. It was an amazing undertaking that showed us that things are indeed “things.” And when some things are lost, new things can be found.
At some point in all the confusion, I noticed Lance hadn’t cried or expressed very much distress over what he had lost.
“How come you haven’t cried?” I asked him bluntly.
“They’re material things, mom. They can be replaced,” he said.
That by itself was enough to fill my heart with such thankfulness, I didn’t really feel like I had lost much.
I have Lance.
As we tentatively added new furnishings, towels, socks and pants into our lives, I began to notice how good it makes us feel that people are so kind. We are still talking about the woman who came out of nowhere in the dark of that night to put a hand-sewn quilt around my shoulders, and give the boys warm fleece garments and hot peppermint tea.
And while our cat didn’t survive the blaze, Wes, the fireman, found her and brought her out so that we could bury her. I am thankful for Gary who supported us so faithfully, and Chris who helped us sort through the rubble.
People – not things – make us happier. That part is profoundly true. It’s not shoes or dresses or toys we’ll miss. Here at work this morning, I am surrounded by people, the ones I work with and the ones who come in for business, the ones on e-mail who communicate with me, the ones I need to call for stories. All these lovely people.
As I found myself thinking about the fire after we were all safe and warm at a friend’s house, I began to consider what I’m really grateful for.
I am thankful that the fire didn’t happen when Lance and his friends were sleeping. If it had, they might have woken up to being injured by the fire. Days later, I’m still stopped in my tracks by that thought: most of all, I am deeply thankful that we made it through the fire, that my child is alive, and his friends are OK.
That’s what made it through the fire.

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