The hills were blackened and the remnants of the homes were as gray as asphalt. Block upon block, cement stairways led to parcels of foot deep smoldering ash encased in crumbling foundations. Twisted appliances stood askew in the shadow of naked chimneys. Pools of aluminum and glass testified to the placement of windows along patios and walkways.
"This neighborhood's not what it used to be," I said to my brother, cracking my voice like an old geezer. "I remember when we had houses."
Humor, we found, was our best ally. During the days that followed the fire, there was much second-guessing. I should have responded sooner, I told myself. How could I forget the family pictures and works of art on the walls? I must have passed them a half dozen times. Why did I not get the movie reels beside the photo albums? I knew precisely where they were. I had gone through them only months earlier. Why did I bother to hose the roof? Over five minutes were lost - time I could have spent salvaging belongings. It was against my better judgment. The heat was too intense. Why did I leave so soon? I could have taken another few minutes, at least. I let the urgency of my siblings persuade me to leave.
There were things, many things, I wished I had done differently but given the same circumstances I was not sure I would have done much differently. With the fire three doors away, houses blowing up, the police scrambling about in panic, and no firemen in sight, decisions were met quickly and permanently. There was no looking back.
So strange those last moments moving through the house - feeling the floors beneath my feet, the knobs against my hands, the cool still air against my cheeks. The memories associated with every piece of that home - how they filled my mind at every turn. I could not imagine flames destroying it. There was a before and an after but my mind not allow an in between. We sifted through a charred landscape convinced we had taken an errant turn.
A month after the tragedy I began recognizing the streets I had grown up on and placing names and images to the burned out carcasses that once were houses. I had found comfort in the neighborhood's alien nature - it was as if I had left the fantasy of my past, for good, and was now moving to a new reality bare of association and full of opportunity. Now I realized it would be a long time before I divorced the setting of my childhood from the foot deep ash punctuated by crippled appliances and naked chimneys. I felt a piece of my identity stripped away. I resented the fire for the haste at which I abandoned my past. If only I could have stolen a moment of reflection.
A German traveler had once told me, "I admire your laid back attitude. You don't care if you miss the train because you know another will come along." I clung to that perspective and persuaded myself that I was merely on another journey. Friends called, some daily. Others sent care packages. One suggested I talk to her mother who had a house for rent. Looking at it snapped us out of our paralysis and got us out, individually and together, looking for places to live, places to begin rebuilding our lives. Friends and family, both, offered to return letters and gifts from my travels. What I had given away was that which had endured.
We would find our ultimate solace in knowing that we were not alone. A meeting concerning the fate of the community found three hundred in attendance. Tentatively we discussed the Herculean task that lay before us. There was so much to do. Debris had to be removed, foundation secured for erosion control, roads widened, utilities rerouted, experts consulted, bureaucracies navigated, insurance claims negotiated, and, finally, construction undertaken.
Disparate voices filled the room. The moderator reminded us that our immediate task was to organize ourselves. Did any of us know of neighborhood groups already in place? Years before he and his neighbors had organized to combat zoning issues. His idea, now, was to have these smaller groups specialize in a particular area of the reconstruction and together unite under one umbrella for a collective voice. Word of associations trickled in. A representative of one pushed us to unite. Distracted with more personal concerns, people drifted into other areas with questions. What was going to happen to land values? Should we push the city for another fire district? What type of response were people getting from their adjusters? For a long while we quibbled back and forth. Our resolve seemed lost to our private anxiety.
One man who, up to that point, had remained silent came forth with a motion to form an association as originally suggested. When the motion was quickly second, the atmosphere suddenly became charged. Another gentleman came forth with an amendment concerning boundaries. Again, a burst of seconds crossed the room. This was the town meeting, democracy at its core, conducted just as I imagined our New England forebearers had. Before the night was through a steering group had been put in charge until elections could be conducted. A treasury and members list was established.
The good fight had begun.