It was hot. It was too hot to sleep. I turned over in my bed and threw the blankets off. Half asleep, I opened my eyes and there above my bed was a sheet of flames licking out of a hole in the wall and spreading across the ceiling.
My father scooped me up out of bed as he carried my baby sister under his other arm. He went over to my older brother’s beds and kicked them awake.
“Come on! Get up!” He shouted. Out in the kitchen, window glass was shattering and there was a roaring with intense heat and smoke. Outside the window the dog was barking frantically. Literally in a foot race with the rapidly spreading flames, my two older brothers ran ahead while my father carried us out barefoot over the shards of broken glass. My mother stood in the open doorway dressed in only a flannel nightshirt, her hands up to her mouth in terror.
“Oh, you got them!” She cried. You got them!”
My father rushed by her and set me down just beyond the porch, leading down the hill to where the cars were parked. My mother continued to stand in the doorway and hesitated as the fire suddenly flashed over, engulfing the entire house from top to bottom.
“Come on!” My father shouted to her halfway down the hill, my sister still under his arm. “We can’t save anything now! It’s gone!”
I ran down the hill following my brothers. When we reached the foot of the hill I stopped and looked up back at the house. The cherry red, orange and green flames roared out of every window, lighting up the trees all around.
My father started the car and I pounded on the door screaming. I was only three years old at the time, but I can still remember it vividly as one of the most terrified moments of my life.
We drove down the long, winding driveway through the wooded Michigan hills to the nearest neighbor a quarter of a mile away. My father pounded on the neighbor’s door, dressed in only his underwear to use the phone. Just beyond the hills the sky glowed a dull, brick red.
When the fire trucks arrived, we drove back with them as they put water on the fire. We stood out on the front lawn and just watched it burn. The fire chief, carrying an axe came up to my parents. He shook his head.
“It’s too far gone,” he said. “We can’t save it. I know that’s a hell of a thing to say to you folks, but the only thing that we can do at this point is hose down the woods, to keep them from catching fire too.”
My parents stood arm in arm and nodded solemnly, the light of the fire in their eyes. Nobody cried. They just stood there and watched it burn. The refrigerator was literally melting and the mattress on my bed was burning furiously. My older brother Jim ran across the lawn.
“Dad!” He said. “I can’t find Shepper! She must have moved her pups. I made a box for them outside by the corner of the house, but now they’re gone!”
“I’m sure she’s okay, Jim.” He made an impatient gesture. “She woke me up you know. She was barking and howling outside the window.”
“What’ll we do now?” My mother asked quietly.
“Find someplace to spend the night.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’ll rebuild.”
“Okay,” she said.
And that was it. The decision was made. We left soon after that and went to my grandparent’s house. My father was still bleeding from the sole of his left foot when we went into the kitchen. My grandfather was just cleaning it up for him when my grandmother took us upstairs to bed.
I slept restlessly that night and with the smell of smoke still in my nostrils, I awoke screaming. My grandparents picked me up and took me in bed with them and it was there that I spent the rest of the night.
The next day, we drove back to what was left of our home and picked through the still smoking ruins. There wasn’t much. We found my mother’s good silverware melted into one twisted lump and my father’s glasses which were still there beside the bed, charred and scorched. All that we had left were the clothes we were wearing.
The only happy moment of that day was when Shepper found us. She ran around and around in circles, barking and leaping high up in the air, licking our faces. She led us to where she hid the pups beneath a fallen log, not far into the woods.
My grandfather stood next to my parents surveying the burnt-out cinder block walls.
“Only about six weeks until the snow flies,” he said, lifting his hat and scratching his head. “If we’re going to rebuild Bob, we’ll have to get started.”
“Yeah. You’re right. We’ll need to clear off the foundation.”
“I know where we can get a bulldozer and a dump truck,” he said.
And so, the very next day, my father drove the bulldozer and knocked down what was left, clearing off the charred remains. Standing up on the hill that overlooked the gutted house, I could see where my bed still lay. All that was left were some bedsprings and ashes.
Word got around about the fire. We were living in borrowed tents at the base of the hill when reporters from The Grand Rapids Press arrived. They took pictures and suddenly people showed up. Not only friends of the family – but total strangers came, carrying hammers, plumb bobs and lumber. Spontaneously, an old-fashioned barn raising occurred and a new house appeared Phoenix-like on the very same foundation.
My “Grandpa Reed” was there almost every day shoveling and mixing mortar, sawing lumber and hammering shingles. A delightfully warm, funny and toothless old man, he did whatever was needed and everything he had was at my parent’s disposal. My wealthy “Grandpa Perrin”, however, was there only a couple of times. Never failing to be critical or imposing, he came by only once for supper. He did build the cupboards for the kitchen, but he charged my father for the wood – and his time.
Eventually the house took shape, but more and more each day the weather turned colder, as autumn turned the trees all around the house into the brilliant colors of the season. Soon, there was frost on the ground and it was a race to finish up before the snow came. There was always plenty of help, but it was money for building materials that slowed things up. Each day, my father brought things home from work with him, like window casements, shingles and insulation. He also brought M&M’s, hidden in his coat pockets for my sister and I to find.
One night, it grew bitterly cold and the wind howled outside stripping away what few leaves were still left on the trees. Sleeping on a cot given to us by the Red Cross, I awakened to see my parents and two older brothers holding on to the tent poles so the tent wouldn’t collapse. My grandfather Reed knelt down by my bed and wrapping me in a blanket carried me up the hill through the roaring blizzard. The next morning I awoke with the rest of the family upstairs in the only finished room of the new house. Outside, it was still snowing and continued to do so for the rest of the day, covering all traces of the fire.
The house was never finished completely, but we lived happily in it until my parents retired to Florida in 1980. We never had much money, but to the best of my memory – we were never poor. The new house was completely paid for from the day it was begun and my parents never had to worry about a monthly house mortgage.
Never again was there a family crisis of the magnitude that matched the fire. Both of my parents are the heroes here, since my mother, the epitome of the “Fifties mom,” nevertheless worked right alongside my father and was just as much responsible for building it as he was. I can remember several days that ended late at night, with my mother tucking us into the cots with open blisters on her hands from swinging a hammer all day long. I remember one occasion looking up at my parents while the house was being built. They were working side by side on their hands and knees. My father was sawing the lumbar for the second floor and he turned toward my mother and asked her to pass him some nails. Smiling sweetly, she reached over and gave him the nails with a loving kiss. It was just such a simple act, and yet in that fleeting moment was all the love and strength which made them what they were.
When asked why they didn’t move closer to town they always had the same answer: “It’s so beautiful out here. We love it so much and just didn’t want to move.” My own parents were remarkable people and both of them are heroes here since even through the extreme adversity of losing every single thing they owned – they still built a house and a home.
And in that we were all very richly blessed indeed.
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