MWF ISO LTR w/ Normalcy

There is only one rental house on our cul de sac and it happened to be available at the time of our fire. The rental house is, amazingly enough, diagonal from our home. This has its advantages (availability and convenience during reconstruction) and its drawbacks (constant reminders of a sad and scary day).

Last night as I was walking from the rental house to Mo’s, I stopped in the street and just looked at our home for a while. I was tempted to go sit on the lawn for a spell and just visit with it. I told Mo “I feel sorry for my house”. She looked at me funny - but I genuinely feel badly for it. It sits there, all damaged and abandoned, alone in the dark. Our dear friend Baze has suggested that we have suffered a death of sorts. And even though (by the grace of all that is good in this world) we are not suffering that kind of tragedy, in some ways it does feel like a death to me. I mourn the spirit that our home had. It was a living, breathing part of our existence for 14+ years. It was a member of our family, a good old friend, with all of its quirks and charms. We loved it. It protected and sheltered us. It frustrated us and some days drove us near crazy. We transformed it from a house into a home. It had a soul, and I slowly see that slipping away. It makes me sad and I wish I could have done something to save it.

Our homes are such a huge part of the normalcy in our lives. They are our ultimate comfort zones – and to have that stripped away so unexpectedly and so suddenly is surreal. This whole experience has been surreal. Of course at the same time it is painfully, devastatingly real.

A few days after we moved in to the rental house (a virtual stranger, it felt uncomfortable and weird), Emmett had asked about spending the night at a friend’s house. At 16, they are a little beyond the “sleepover” phase and so we know that this is a thinly veiled attempt to shroud the fact that he wants to be curfew-free for the evening. This has always made us nervous, mostly because we remember what we were doing at that age. As our parents will attest, we were no angels. Of course, as much as we may be tempted from time to time, we cannot keep our children locked up through these trying years. Kids this age take all sorts of stupid risks and as their parents our job is to somehow give them the tools to calculate and balance their stupidity vs. the risk vs. the adventure - and come out without harming themselves or others. So far, so good. But in the aftermath so soon after the fire, I was just not up to the added anxiety and stress so I gently refused his request. The conversation escalated. Emmett was frustrated by what he perceived to be overprotection. I was frustrated by what I perceived to be additional, and unnecessary, stress.

At one point, he turned to me and said “I just want things to be normal!” Oh….honey. I took a deep breath. My frustration made room for empathy. He had finally expressed what we all have been feeling. I said “Don’t you think we all want that? But we don’t have ‘normal’ any more. We need to build a new normal and we’re just not there yet.”

Whatever life you live, your normal undoubtedly feels comfortable. It’s your routine. And while choosing to trade your routine for adventure and risk can be exciting, it’s a very different feeling when it’s thrust upon you. Normal also isn’t a calculated state – in my experience it’s what happens as you go about living your life and it kind of builds upon itself and falls into place over the years, almost unnoticed. Trying to create a normal from nothing is probably a futile exercise. I mourn our ‘normal’. In a second, I would take it back – lumps, bumps, and all. I know we all would.

So we have to begin the task of creating a new normal for our family. But what *is* normal when you are in someone else’s house, wearing someone else’s clothing, sleeping in someone else’s bed? For me, starting from square one seems a monumental task. Our lives have changed, our relationships have changed – we have changed – as a result of this experience. Some of the changes are obvious and immediate, while others are revealing themselves as time moves us further from Christmas morning. We can’t go back to what was because, well, what was is not there anymore - both physically and emotionally. We’re not the same people for whom it was. These are uncharted waters. As much as we want to meet our new normal right now, instantly, embrace it and get to know it, I suspect time is the only thing that can reveal it.

For now, through the amazing love and support of so many people, we have patched together a creaky, limping façade of normalcy while we rebuild our lives and begin the journey of staking a claim to a new normal. Hang on, I keep telling myself – don’t look down and don’t hold your breath - it’s bound to be a rollercoaster of a ride.

Lessons learned #2 (part 3 of 3): Keep your sh*t together

Today is exactly 4 weeks since the fire. We noticed that it is the first day that every article of clothing Jack is wearing is actually his own. That's a milestone of sorts. I'm still in borrowed jeans and sweaters but we'll get there. And speaking of jeans, this is where this third installment of "lessons learned #2" comes into play. Eventually.

After we had spent the first couple of nights post-fire with Mo and Ronnie, we moved on to the home of our friends Marybeth and Jim Welch. The Welchs (Welches?) were out of town and generously offered us *their home* while they were gone. All 6 of us (big dogs in tow), and with the insistence that the kids feel completely at home, invite friends over, eat whatever we wanted, etc. This is on a slightly grander scale than the standard "borrowing a cup of sugar" between neighbors. They allowed us to borrow their home - akin to opening their hearts wide open. Again, deeply humbling.

So Monday morning we wake up at the Welchs' and think of all the myriad of things we have to deal with. Positively overwhelming. Where to even begin?

We just had to start somewhere so our first order of business was to try to get our home phone number redirected to Jacko's cell phone. I realize this is a transition from wired to wireless but it's all AT&T so how hard could it be? Well, it was hard enough that it took transfers to 4 different AT&T teams. When we got to number 5 (which was also number 3, now we're going in circles wheee!) I gently suggested that AT&T should really have some sort of crisis number that people can call in situations such as ours and have a single, dedicated customer care person handle all of details. Judging by the response I got from the AT&T rep (after he yawned), I'm sure they'll be implementing that suggestion any day now.

While all of this is going on, dear Jack is in the background - and he is getting increasingly agitated by the circuitous route we are having to take through the labyrinth that is AT&T just to complete what should have been a fairly simple task. After an hour on the phone, and without any resolution, we hung up with the direction to "Call this other AT&T number". It would have been so easy to just lose our sh*t at that point. I mean, we were a hair away. But I said something to Jack along the lines of "We just can't lose it over this. We just can't." I mean, there are going to be a million of these types of interactions over the next months and we'll combust if we let each one drive us to the brink. We have to keep our sh*t together.

And now, the jeans. We heard back from the restoration people in San Antonio yesterday. They are the ones who took anything left standing in our home after the fire. Clothing and bedroom furniture took a trip to San Antonio in hopes of being power-cleaned and returned to a usable condition. No such luck. They're recommending to our insurance people that we total everything. Soiled and sooty. Uncleanable. Though tempted to lose it, I had to remind myself to keep my sh*t together. I had held out hope for at least some of our favorite items. Those perfectly comfy sweats with the hole in the knee, the t-shirt from that great concert, my Smokey the Bear hat - that kind of stuff. I will miss them. And mostly, I am distressed about having to say goodbye to my favorite jeans. These were not just any jeans, they were good ass jeans. And you just can't put a price on the value of good ass jeans. These particular ones are not made anymore. RIP, GAJ.

Instead of losing my sh*t, I am working hard to keep my sh*t together. I thought I'd write about it here and turn tears into giggles. Here's to keeping your sh*t together.

In your face, 2009

Many of you know that 2009, how shall I say, *sucked* for us. Of course it is all relative but in respect to the life we are accustomed to - it fell far short. It actually started in the end of '08 with Jack being unexpectedly and unceremoniously laid off from a job that he loved, with people he loved, and a company that he loved. With barely a handshake, and without being given a chance to say goodbye to the team which he had built, he found himself out on the street - so to speak. Not to mention the 2/3 income cut to our family. Yeah, I am still a tad bitter over that one.

Jacko's always had great work experiences and has usually had more than his share of offers but in the current economy middle management has been squeezed out and so basically for all of 2009 he worked a variety of short term contract gigs. Don't get me wrong - we know we were lucky to have those. Many friends and former colleagues reached out to him, offering encouragement, support and the occasional opportunity. Our dear friends at both Monkee-Boy Web Design and BackRow Design offered him continuous, part time employment and basically saved our butts financially. But stress and anxiety permeated our year.

Then in June of '09, we lost Jack's mom Nancy who was recovering from triple bypass surgery. Aly and I had visited her in the hospital two days after the surgery. We were up in Boston doing college visits. Nancy was alert and seemed to be doing well, despite the tubes and machines and the giant scar. Two days later she lost consciousness, and shortly after that she was lost to us. Nancy is the first parent that we have lost between us, and Jack was very close to her. I couldn't have asked for a nicer mother-in-law and her passing brought us a tremendous wave of sadness.

And of course we ended 2009 with the fire.

Yeah, not one of our better years.

And yet.

On Christmas Day, the fire trucks pulled away and friends started to disperse to give us a chance to hopefully sleep a little, or at least get a shower. Tracey and Theresa said "We'll be back to pick you up at 5pm, ok? We are all going to have Christmas dinner together." Now, both of these families are extremely family-oriented. I know for a fact that the Fuellings had plans to visit Theresa's mom and sisters in San Antonio that day. I am sure the Browns had plans with their extended families as well. Normally I would decline ("No, don't be silly, you have plans...") but in our weakened state, we simply nodded. "Ok, we'll be ready".

At 5pm, they came to retrieve us. I wasn't sure we were really up for any form of socializing, but we went anyway. We figured it would be a good diversion for the kids. There were cars lining the Browns' street and I remember thinking "Oh yeah, this is a normal, joyful day for so many people in our neighborhood". We walked into the Browns' home and were met by a small army of dear friends. There must have been 10 families there and everyone had brought their Christmas dinner with them - so there was a veritable feast spread across their kitchen. All of these families, who undoubtedly had prior plans of their own, had changed everything at the last minute - and all for us. How humbling is that? Sweet Kim led a prayer circle, and just 12 hours after our disaster we were strengthened right then and there by all of these amazing friends.

A few days later my friend Cathy left a message. Cathy and Dave always have a big New Year's Eve party and even though we are sworn anti-New Year's Evers, we've made an appearance at Cathy and Dave's for many years because of the warmth and fellowship we find there. Cathy said that she knew we probably weren't in the mood, but that she hoped we would come at least for a bit - because they were having this year's party in our honor. Well, the truth is that we did not feel like being sociable, and certainly didn't feel like we had anything to celebrate. But at this point (fire+6 days) we had started grasping for any remnants of normalcy, so we pulled it together and went.

The Swofford's was filled with another set of our friends, about 30 in all. In addition to their kind words and ample hugs, they had all brought gifts for us. Later I would say that it had been like a wedding shower. It was a little too overwhelming to open the gifts in front of everyone, and they were all very understanding. And at 11:30 when I told her at that we were going to leave, Cathy asked if we would just stay for the fortune cookies. It's part of their New Year's Eve tradition to pass around a big bowl of fortune cookies to their guests and then everyone reads theirs aloud. Jack and I went first. My fortune read "Big journeys begin with a single step". There was a collective "ooOOooohhh" in the room - how appropriate considering our situation. Jack went next. He read his fortune: "Big journeys begin with a single step". Really? Really. I joked with Cathy - had she maybe gotten a box with all the same fortunes from the discount bin at the Chinese market? We continued around the room. No one else had our same fortune. What are the odds?

So in the midst of this deep, dark time for us - when it seems that nothing is going right and everything is going terribly, horribly wrong - we cannot help but be lifted up by the people who have gone out of their way to surround us and who refuse to ever let us feel alone, even for one moment.

Today I came in to work and there was a gift on my chair from a co-worker. Karen had written "It's not a lot but hopefully it'll get you motivated". Inside there was an abundance of brand new workout clothes. Karen and I are gym buddies and often see each other at the company fitness center. In fact, our paths cross there more often than they do in work-related business - so she knows how important my workouts are for me. And she thought of that, and she thought of me. Karen is a single mom.

Everyone giving from their hearts. It's simply overwhelming.

So in your face, 2009. You have not gotten the best of us.

Lessons learned #2 (part 2 of 3): Don't lose your sh*t

First vignette: When the sun came up, the smoke had cleared, and we were finally allowed back into the house, we began to assess the extent of the damage. Half of the house was reduced to charred studs and ash. This included the kitchen, living room, family room, and office. The garage was one of the areas that suffered intense smoke and heat damage, but did not actually burn. Two of our cars were in the garage and we found the cars in tact, but massively covered in soot. Our keys were, of course, in the kitchen and what we found (and could identify) was fairly melted. The metal key parts were still usable but the FOB/transponders (I think the technical term is "clicky things") part of the keys were hanging on by a (melted plastic) thread. We were able to start the cars and move them over to our neighbors driveway. The firefighters advised against driving them further since the heat and smoke had likely compromised the on-board computer systems, hoses, tires, etc. The key remnants were put on the shelf in Mo and Ronnie's kitchen - we'd save the auto claim for another day.

Second vignette: On our cul de sac there is exactly one rental property, just diagonal from our property - and it happened to be vacant. So over the next few days, while our heads were still spinning, our neighbors negotiated with the remote landlord on our behalf. He was not excited to rent to us with our two big dogs, and he did not want to sign a 6 month lease - but our neighbors were persistant and in the end, things worked out and just a week after our fire, we were handed the keys to a home right across the street from our own. I joke that it's from the brady bunch era and probably hasn't seen an update since 1970, but as long as Jacko doesn't start calling me "Alice", for now it is going to be our home and we are thankful to have it. The move in date was 2 days away (while insurance worked out the finer details with the landlord) so in the meantime we put the keys - where else? - on the shelf in Mo and Ron's kitchen, alongside our melted fobs.

Moving day came. Kind friends showed up to help us haul our hefty bags across the cul de sac. Other dear friends showed up with trucks to make runs to the homes of still more generous friends who had offered us beds and other furniture. Mo and Ronnie's was our central command post and we ran the operation with precision. This was no time for tears, we had to put a home together in just a few hours. We were on a roll.

Aside: Staying organized when you've lost your home and temporarily lost your senses is challenging. It's even worse when you have things being hurled at you at record speed. Utility stuff and insurance stuff and donations and, oh yeah, did I mention that we're right in the middle of Aly's college app process and have important deadlines to meet?

So at last we were ready for the final run across the street to our new rental home. Since our new filing system consists of baggies and plastic bins, we wisely moved the key remnants and house keys from the shelf in Mo's kitchen into a baggywhich we dubbed "the baggy of many important things". The baggy got stuffed into one of the duffle bags or bins heading across the street to our new home.

And that was the last we saw of the b.o.m.i.t. Somehow in the shuffle, that all important baggy vanished.

This was not good. For the Saab, we learned, it would mean $1700 to replace the car's entire locking mechanism. In general, losing all of our keys would be a huge hassle on top of the mountain of hassles that we were already facing.

Vignette #3: We cannot tell you how many times in the past we have harped on the kids for not putting car keys on the key rack in the kitchen. Of course it's frustrating when one car is blocking the car you need, and you can't find the keys to move it. It's happened more than once, hence the repeated harping. Fortunately for us, our kids did not feel the need to heed our harping because they are teenagers and we are stupid. Within a few days (during which we were sweating it out) both kids found spare keys in their smoky-but-not-burned bedrooms. Thanks for not listening to us, kiddos. No, seriously.

We've still not had the guts to tell the landlord that within just a few days, we managed to lose both house keys. We'll save that for another day.

Lesson learned: Don't lose your sh*t.

Lessons learned #2 (part 1 of 3): Know your sh*t

I have to admit that I've always considered homeowner's insurance to be one of life's necessary annoyances. I know it's not really giving my hard earned money away - I just wasn't getting something visible or tangible for my hard earned money. I mean, what exactly does peace of mind look like? Well, until you need it, it tends to look like a big black stinking hole - which is the way it looked to me up until December 25th. And since that's the way it looked to me, I never spent much time developing a relationship with it, wooing it, and really getting to know it intimately.

Now, some of you, who shall remain nameless (and who are simultaneously despised and revered), are probably on top of this and have had an intimate affair with your homeowner's insurance for years. You've probably doted on it, caressed it, fawned over every detail, and planned annual rendevous with it. You probably have your agent's number on speed dial. This was not us.

And so it came to pass that when judgement day came, we were surprised to find ourselves somewhat underinsured. The reason for this was twofold. First, the prior owners had added a 500 sq ft addition without getting required permits. This meant that the additional square footage was never added to the public record (tax assessor, or whoeverkeeps records of that stuff) and so while our insurance amount looked reasonable for a 2300 sq ft home, it was a bit shy for a 2800 sq ft home. Secondly, our $100/sf coverage was generous when compared to the cost for new construction at the time we initiated the policy, but came up short by today's standards. Lesson learned: Know your sh*t.

Hello, kind stranger

The word spread early on Christmas morning. Via text, IM, phone, email - the ripple effect was beginning.

Aly had texted her two closest friends who woke their moms with the news. They started spreading the word locally. I had called my dear big bro, Paul, and sis in law, Chris - and they started rallying the family. Baze posted to the ex-Tivoli distribution list and to the Yelp community. He immediately set up a paypal relief fund for us through the BD Rileys website. From the ex-Tivoli list, word jumped over to the ex-Convex list. Within just a few hours, literally hundreds of people knew of our situation. And despite the fact that it was Christmas day, and the fact that they undoubtedly had plans of their own, people mobilized.

Local folks showed up with clothing and toiletries and blankets and towels. Remote folks started donating. On their Christmas day, everyone stopped what they were doing and completely shifted gears to come together to take care of our family. And I am not talking about a small handful of our closest friends and family (though of course they did too), I mean many many folks did this for us: folks we had not seen in years, people we barely knew and, yes, people we did not know at all.

We still had soot on our faces, we were still in shock, and there were hefty bags full of clothes lined up in Mo and Ronnie's house. The steam was rising from the remains of our home at the same time that the funds were rising in the paypal account.

I can only say this: it is incredibly humbling to be on the receiving end of this outpouring, this sheer tidal wave, of selflessness and love and support.

At one point, our neighbor George (you know, the George I had awakened at 4:30am) came over to Mo and Ronnie's with his son Robert who lives south of Austin. Robert had a pile of Christmas presents, all colorfully wrapped, with tags that said things like "for the teenage boy" or "for mom". He explained that after George had called to tell him what was going on, he had told a friend of his. And this friend, who we have never met and whose name we do not even know, had sent up presents for our family. Seeing as how this was Christmas, we know that this family did not go out shopping that day. They must have taken gifts from under their own tree - to give to a family they have never met. How beautiful is that? To see my 16 year old son open a brand new wii - right after just losing everything and almost losing his life - and to see him staring at it, trying to comprehend..."Wait, who is this from?", he asked. We don't know, I told him. It is from people we have never even met. This abundance of generosity and kindness from people we have never even met. Hello, kind stranger.

Battling the beast

We could hear the sirens getting closer. It was really cold, and dark, and we had only gotten out of the house wearing pjs or sweats. Emmett had no shoes on. Jack said "Go wake up George and Barbara" (these are our dear neighbors across the street). I ran over and rang the doorbell. I kept turning and looking at our burning house and then back to their door, banging and ringing the doorbell. Of course they were in solid slumber so it took a few minutes for them to be roused. George opened the door - "George, the house is on fire".

Inside George and Barbara's, the kids and I huddled and paced, paced and huddled. The dogs were antsy. Five firetrucks were now lining our little cul de sac. Jack stayed out there, at first directing and then standing back and taking direction. Firefighters, EMTs, Red Cross, police officers - everywhere.

Mo and Ronnie were up in Paris (TX), but Ronnie's son Andrew was home and was the first one to come outside. He brought Jack warm clothes and a few blankets. Soon other neighbors arrived with blankets and shoes and, most importantly, hugs. One neighbor is about 8 months pregnant, and another had just had her twins s few days earlier. I collapsed in their arms. Andrew told us he was going to set up some beds for us inside his house - for whenever we were ready. Later I would tell Ronnie and Mo how proud I know they would have been of how wonderful and sensitive and caring Drew had been. During the ups and downs of child-rearing, there are days when a parent isn't quite sure what their kid is made of - Ronnie and Mo now know what kind of man they have raised.

It's now about 5:30am and the fire is being battled full force. I'm back outside and see the EMTs bringing a stretcher - I'm panicked but they reassure me - this is SOP at a fire. None of the courageous, amazing firefighters were hurt. The fire captain told me something that will stick with me, I assume, forever: he said that never in his 20+ years of firefighting had he seen a fire of this intensity, which started at this hour of the day, where everyone survived. Merry Christmas, indeed.

Word was starting to spread. Other dear friends started arriving. Each brought their own brand of loving embrace and comforting words. We'll be ok, they told me. They never said "you", this was happening to all of us. We were not alone. Their strength and compassion kept us going.

Once the fire was out, the sun came up as if nothing had happened.

http://www.myfoxaustin.com/dpp/news/local/122509-Fire-Destroys-Northwest-Austin-Home

The little things

The kids hadn't worked since before the fire. Both had decided they were ready to go back and had told their boss. On Wednesday Aly called me while I was at work: "Does Emmett know he needs to work tonight?". It was 3:30pm. I didn't know he had to work and I would have bet that he didn't know either. I asked Aly if he was home yet and she said no, he didn't get out of school until 4:10. Work started at 5pm. Aly and I went into survival mode. "OK, you get in touch with Emmett and make sure he knows and I will zoom to Academy and buy some black pants and a belt". We knew work would provide the blue shirt but employees are responsible for the rest. His "rest" was toast.

At Academy, I realized my dilemma. The kids have been buying their own clothes for the better part of the past couple of years. I wasn't quite sure of Emmett's size. I grabbed 32x32 black khakis. That seemed right. But what if...? He is taller than me now. I grabbed 32x34 too. What if he's gained weight? 33x34 joined the pile. Plus two belts - who could be sure? I left with an abundance, reasoning that I'd just return whatever did not fit.

On the way home, I reasoned (to myself) with some confidence that 34s would not be too short, but what if 32 was too long? Hmm. Ok, I didn't have enough time to re-hem (who am I kidding? A lifetime would not have been enough time). I devised a backup plan: if I found myself in that situation, I would have to hem by safety pin. Just for the night, then I could properly hem them with needle and thread before next time he was scheduled to work. Except. I didn't have a safety pin.

Now, in and of itself, this should not have been a big deal, right? Because in my life before all of this happened, I would most certainly have *had* safety pins, but I would not have been able to find them. So this really was no different, right? Except in this situation, I started to lose it. I was seriously about to bust out crying. Over a safety pin. And *that* got me giggling. Thank goodness for my logical self because emotional Veek was a lost cause.

It's the little things.

Yesterday we got home from the grocery store with a new paper towel holder. Jack "set it up" and stood, admiring it. I said "You're just so happy to have that paper towel holder, aren't you?".

It's the little things that will make you, and the little things that will break you.

Lessons learned #1: The things you grab

Today is Aly's 18th birthday. Like most parents whose child reaches this milestone, it seems hard to believe. After all, weren't we just 18 a few years ago? But this milestone has even more significance and poignance for us because of our current situation. All day I've had this aching thought in the back of my mind. If things had gone a different way, today would be one of the saddest days of my life and Aly's birthdate would forever more be one full of heartache for us. Instead, we are joyful, and we are celebrating 18 years of sunshine and laughter with our little girl.

In the past when I would read about this happening to another family in the paper, I would momentarily stop and think "What would I grab if that ever happened to us?". Perhaps you've thought that yourself, after sharing in our story - perhaps your great grandmother's wedding ring, or your kids' baby albums. But I now know this: you don't grab anything that does not have a heart beat. For one thing, time is of the essence. For another, it is all so surreal - during those 10 minutes, I really didn't think our house was burning down - until we were standing safely outside, watching the flames consume our material lives. I suspect that other fire survivors have had a similar experience and have come to the same conclusion. I fear that, more often than not, the world has lost those who tried to grab their things.

We may not have our things, but it is crystal clear that we have what matters. And so today is about a joyful celebration of life, and our precious baby girl. Happy 18th, angel!

Chreasters

I had warned the kids in advance - on Christmas Eve we *will* be going to a church service, and then down to 37th street to see the lights, and then to dinner at Kobe, a Japanese steak house which has kind of become our tradition. This was met with the requisite teenage eye rolls. Aly said "I can't believe we're Chreasters". Huh? She informed me that Chreasters are those who attend church services just twice a year - on the big holidays, Christmas and Easter. Yes, we're Chreasters.

Christmas Eve was cold and windy. Since I've lost my New England tolerance, we decided to skip 37th street. We went to the 5pm service at Bethany United Methodist. It was a contemporary service which is not Jack's favorite. He just can't get right with the electric guitars and tamborines rocking out to "Oh Come all ye Faithful". We saw several families we knew there, and gave the church pew wave when we made eye contact. I remember thinking how nice it was to be part of a small community - we see people we know all the time at the grocery store, out walking, and twice a year at church. These are good people - we're not judged for being Chreasters.

After the service we headed to Kobe. I don't usually like the whole Japanese steakhouse performance and opt to sit on the quiet side - but the kids wanted to so we enjoyed the "show". On the way home I told the kids the plan for tomorrow was for everyone to sleep as late as they wanted, then we'd lounge around in pajamas all day, and then dad was going to make us a nice dinner. Everyone agreed that this sounded like a great Christmas.

At about 4:15am I was roused by a strange noise. It wasn't really a strange noise, it was our smoke detector - but I was in a very deep and groggy sleep. I nudged Jack. "What's that noise?". Jack: "I don't know" (also groggy). When you have teenagers you get used to hearing all sorts of interesting noises during the night - but a smoke detector is so distinct, it was strange we didn't immediately recognize it. I half wonder if carbon monoxide was slowing us down. Regardless, Emmett was soon pounding on our door yelling "The deck! The deck! Get up!".

The next 10 minutes were totally surreal. I tried to walk out to the deck but as soon as I hit the family room my eyes started burning and breathing was difficult. I saw no flame. I went back to the front door. Aly was asking "Should I call 911?". I responded "I'm going to try and open some windows" (obviously still not grasping the gravity of the situation). We were doing all of this in the dark. Jack then saw the flames and told us to call 911. I went to the kitchen and called. "Is everyone out of the house?". "Well, no we're still in the house - there is a fire on our deck". "OK, I know it is cold outside but you have to get everyone out of the house now". Aly put Scout on a leash and headed out. We could hear the sirens now. Emmett said "Fenway!" (our other pup who sleeps in her kennel in the office). Jack turned back for Fenway as Emmett and I went out to join Aly and Scout. Jack can tell you what happened next much better than I, but my understanding is that he entered the office, which was filled with smoke from the ceiling down to about his waist. He couldn't see the kennel so he just reached for it and got a hold. As he was reaching for it, he turned towards the french doors that separate the office from our family room. There were floor to ceiling flames just 3 feet away - on the other side of the door. Jack, carrying Fenway's kennel (which held 65 pound Fenway), got out safely. He says he never felt any heat, just saw the flames. The firefighters had a word for that - "adrenaline" they said.

We were all on the front lawn now, watching flames shooting out of the door from which we had just exited moments before.

The really crazy thing is that the entire time frame - from the moment we got out of bed and saw no flames, until the flames were shooting out the front door and engulfing our home - could not have been more than 10 minutes. It was simply, amazingly, terrifyingly fast.

Forgetting how to breathe

Our dear friend Kimberly intentionally waited until New Years Day to come and see us after the fire. She knew it was symbolic and would have much meaning for us - turning the page, starting fresh, a new canvas. After the hugs and the gentle words and the gift card to a favorite local restaurant (the one, in fact, that we had dined at a mere 8 hours before everything changed), she told us that she wanted to draw up the plans for our new home, as a gift. If you have ever hired an architect before, you know how costly it can be (and worth every penny). And in the midst of all of our pain, shock, devastation, and uncertainty came this amazingly strong sunbeam. I told Kimberly that I felt like she had just given us mouth-to-mouth resuscitation when we had forgotten how to breathe. I told her that I felt like I was under a rock in a deep, dark place - and that she had lifted that rock which let me see a beautiful blue sky - still out there, waiting for us - all we had to do was look up. How do thank a friend who does that for you in your darkest hour?

There are others to thank - so many. The outpouring of love and support has been absolutely breathtaking, and extremely humbling. Our friend Baze simply took charge of the "situation" - from 1500 miles away. While we were standing there immobilized by shock, wondering what just happened to our lives, he sprung to action. It is no surprise, really - he is that kind of man (heartfelt thanks to Janet and Papa Joe, who raised him). Baze is a man with a ridiculously huge heart, and a sense of humor to match. So while we stood there, mouths agape, brains spinning in a feeble attempt to comprehend - simply unable to process anything ("Where do we go?", "What do we do?" and, oh, "I guess we need shoes") Baze spread the word far and wide. He set up a paypal account for us and told everyone about it. And I mean everyone. He rallied the troops, and they came running. This is how it is possible that a rental house which was totally empty just 4 days ago is now filled with every comfort we could ask for, all donated by friends. Now returned to Austin, Baze continues to be there every day, every moment. He steps up when our brains betray us (which is often, these days) and helps us navigate the necessary steps and he steps back when others want to help. He is our lifeline.

In light of a tragedy, we are blessed beyond measure. And that dichotomy takes some time to process.