I will never forget that cool fall evening in 1984. I had been to school all day and was at my weekly Boy Scout meeting. We had an interesting bunch of kids that attended my local Boy Scout hut. We were all more interested in smoking white owl cigars and looking at the latest edition of Playboy magazine secluded in the wooded confines behind the hut rather than earning badges and becoming eagle scouts. We had an inept scout leader and could get away with this most Wednesdays.
I remember waiting on mom to pick me up after the hour was over. I was standing on the front of the porch with some other kids as my uncle pulled up into the parking lot. His car at the time was unmistakable.
“Now this is strange,” I thought as my uncle was never much of a family man or very family friendly.
He meekly walked up to the porch to talk to me.
“Andrew, something bad has happened,” He said. “You’re mother can’t come to get you. I am going to take you home.”
My heart leapt up into my throat as various disastrous scenarios played out in my mind. “Was mom dead? Had there been a car accident? Was my grandmother sick?” were some of the scenarios that came forth.
My uncle has always been a very shy and socially awkward man. I don’t think he ever felt comfortable around kids. It was a long drive back home as he tried to explain what had happened.
“Your house almost burned down,” He finally said bluntly after many awkward moments. “It is in pretty bad shape.”
That moment was forever etched into my mind. The words echoed over and over in my head. That day turned our foreseeable lives into chaos and uncertainty for many months ahead. We were, for all intents and purposes, homeless. I thought it was my fault because I had sinned by smoking those cigars and looking at that Playboy magazine. God was punishing me. I felt guilty for years after that incident.
We pulled up to the house to a barrage of fire trucks and scrambling firemen. Smoke was still billowing out the broken windows. A large crowd of neighbors had gathered in the street in front of the house to gawk. I saw my father standing in the front yard with his hand to his head looking dismayed. I timidly walked up to him, afraid of him and his reaction, but managed to meekly ask what had happened.
“Your mother burned up the house,” He tersely said with a fiery mad look in his eyes. “She left French fries frying on the stove and the oil bubbled over and caught fire. She forgot about it to go pick up your brother and you.”
“Oh hell,” I thought. It was my fault after all. God was punishing me. I had sinned and brought down his wrath.
The firemen finally had the fire put out and were putting up their equipment as I and another neighborhood friend walked up to the front door to look inside. I will never forget that acrid smell of smoke. It clung to your clothes. All the walls were blackened and there was considerable heat damage. The kitchen was a complete loss. I remember standing at the front steps as water poured out in little rivulets upon the floor of the front door and down those steps.
“Andrew, get the fuck away from the house!” My father screamed at the top of his lungs as he ran towards me. “You are just getting in the way!”
That incident frightened this child to death. I had never seen my father so virulently angry at me. It took years for me to forgive my father for that embarrassing moment. All the neighbors and neighborhood kids were watching on as my father berated me and cursed at me. I don’t think I had ever been so embarrassed in my life. I still have scars from that moment to this day and remember it so vividly.
We ended up living with my grandmother for a month and what a crowded house it was. Tempers were constantly flared. I lost my beloved cat that month as well as she disappeared to never return confused in the change of addresses. We later on got an apartment and life returned to some normalcy. It took months and months to bring our home back up to livable standards at much expense. My father never again let my mother cook or touch the stove.
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