The fires in LA have brought back strong memories to me.
In 1975, we lived in northern Virginia, right outside of Washington DC. On the night of February 2, our house caught fire.
I was 7, and asleep when the fire started. My parents got me, our dog (a huskie named Joe), a roommate, and themselves out. And left the cats to fend for themselves (out of panic and urgency, not neglect; cats hide 😢). One of three cats got out.
There was snow on the ground. It was Groundhogs Day.
It was a Monday, because my parents mentioned in stories later that they were watching MASH in the living room with the fireplace… when they noticed the wall above the fireplace was glowing. They realized the house was on fire inside the walls. It was later determined fire leaked out of a flaw in the chimney design. Note: the house was more than 50 years old at the time, so that flaw had held for quite awhile.
The house was an old farmhouse that was on 4 acres, now surrounded by suburban developments. There was an old chicken coop on the property that had been converted into a cottage. My parents, their friend (who was barefoot through all this), the dog and I huddled in the cottage as the fire engines arrived. The big furry huskie laid down on the roommate’s cold feet.
The first fire engine got stuck in the narrow curving drive way and my mother yelled at them to drive over the flowerbeds. The firemen did a good quick job, and only the central section of the house burned, around the fireplace. My bedroom and my parents bedroom were spared fire, though had smoke and water damage. Their friend who lived with us, his room was destroyed. His cat and one of our cats died of smoke inhalation.
I don’t remember a lot beyond that. Some I remember because my parents told the story of that night many times. We went to a motel that night I believe. And then my mother found a school friend for me to stay with the next week while my parents figured out what to do, where we’d live, etc.
That week, staying with this new family with multiple kids, I tried sweet potatoes for the first time, and learned to cross myself like a Catholic at dinner prayer. I don’t remember the classmate’s name now. We hadn’t been super close. I assume the parents offered to help when they heard what happened, and they had space for me in one of those nearby housing developments.
My parents miraculously had bought renters insurance for the first time ever a few months earlier. Much of what we lost or had damaged was able to be replaced or repaired.
The owners of the house let us live rent free in that cottage on the property. My parents and I were doing Tiny House living before it was cool! I slept in the loft, they slept on the pull-out sofa. The bathroom and kitchen shared one sink. It was an adventure, while we watched the house get repaired for six months. This was how I lived during the second half of second grade.
Some of my books survived, and were slightly tinged grey from smoke damage. I still have one of them. Everything smelled deeply of woodsmoke for months. I lost my baby blanket and my favorite teddy bear because they couldn’t get cleaned enough.
The 49th anniversary of that fire is in a few weeks. It was a traumatic and memorable night.
And we were so lucky, we only lost two cats and some of our belongings. We had people help us, and soon a new (tiny) place to live. It was briefly traumatic, and later mostly a big story to tell.
It all pales in comparison to what these people are going through in the LA area. A classmate can’t help you out if the classmates’ houses are all burned too. There are no little cottages to awkwardly squeeze into for a few months. To lose your whole house — not just a part — and your community… that’s traumatic. My heart breaks for everyone in the LA area.
I still remember that smoke smell, 49 years later. It gets into everything.