Dark, ugly smoke came through the cracks around the windows, curled upward, rappelled around the soffits then sublimated across the slate shingles, wispy tendrils reaching into the damp morning air like so many undulating fingers. Through a bay window to the right of the front door, inside toward the rear of the house, a fierce, coruscating red glow could be seen in spite of the murky smoke inside.
Suddenly something inside exploded with a huge Kcerrrrummmppp!!! and the front door blew off its hinges and out into the street. All the windows in the house sent flying glass shrapnel in every direction. With the fire open to the air the beautiful, rustic stone rancher almost immediately became fully engulfed in flame.
My great grandfather, in his twenties at the time, stood there with his arm around Grama and they watched their home burn. At about the same time the local volunteers pulled up with a team of horses lugging a fire pump.
Chief Wilson jumped down and ran over to him. A couple of the other men began to unlimber hoses while the rest tossed sandbags into the small stream near the house, damming a pool to feed the pump.
Removing his helmet and wiping his brow, the fire chief said, “Looks like we’re too late, Jim.”
“Yeah, but we all got out,” great grandfather said. “That’s the important thing. I think the furnace just blew.”
The fire totally destroyed the comfy home, the slate roof finally collapsing into the stone shell, which smoldered for more than a week. Great Grampa and Grama, and Shamus, their golden retriever, were offered and gratefully took shelter at their closest neighbors, the Nicholsons, just down the road. The Nicholson’s turned their family room over to Great Grama and Grampa and told them they could stay there for as long as they needed.
Two weeks later, on a Friday, all the businesses in town closed at noon and every able bodied man, woman, and child went to Great Grama and Grampa’s house and began to clear away the mess. And they came for the long haul. Wagons laden with new construction materials arrived and everyone, each to their talent and skill, pitched in. By Sunday night Great Grama and Grampa’s house was rebuilt and ready to use. That’s how they did it in the old days.
At least that’s how my grandfather used to tell the story. I always thought it wonderful how his friends and neighbors got together to help his father. All the more pertinent now as I watch my own home burn to the ground. Like Great Grama and Grampa we all got out, so we’ve been lucky that way. Still, it’s hard to watch everything for which you’ve been working for years go up in smoke.
Sandra Bulk, my insurance agent, picking her way carefully over hoses going this way and that on the lawn, gets up to me and, ruefully shaking her head, says, “I was watching 50 Shades of Grey when you called. I dropped everything and came right away!” She looked at what was left of my house. “Looks like it’s too late to save anything.” I tell her we all got out and that’s the important thing.
“I was talking to the Chief,” she says. “We might have a problem.”
“Ohh?”
“It seems the flooded creek undercut part of your back yard and dropped your fuel tank about 8 inches. The broken fuel line and the shorted pump circuit are what apparently started your fire.” She was most apologetic, “Since flood waters caused the damage to your house—and you don’t have flood insurance—you’re not covered for this.”
I almost fell down. “What?!” I say, flabbergasted. “I’ve been paying that stiff premium for 18 years and now that I need it, you’re telling me I’m screwed? Lady, my HOUSE just burned down. What does that have to do with floods?”
“I’m afraid that’s it,” she says. “Of course the fire marshal will investigate but the chief said it’s pretty obvious what happened.”
“And there’s no way you can help us?” I ask, not believing what I’m hearing. “What can we do?”
“Well,” she says, “at least there’s the Red Cross. There’s nothing I can do for you. Get some flood insurance next time—I have several policies available.” She fairly backs away from me for a short distance. “I’m sorry,” she says, then turns to go finish watching her movie.