Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, November 1, 1994 TAG: 9501050002
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: KATHLEEN WILSON
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
First at a banquet honoring those who were retiring. Then with the C shift of Roanoke's Fire Station 2, who graciously agreed to model neckties for our fall fashion section.
+r And I interviewed a Salem fireman over the phone just a couple of weeks ago for a story I was writing about the Virginia Senate race and people who wear uniforms.
But on Saturday night, I mingled with firemen in a way I never had before.
Wearing pajamas and no shoes. In my own front yard. Clutching my dog.
My house was on fire.
I live in Salem, where there has always seemed to be a higher - or at least different - level of Southern manners and hospitality.
One man I know who lives there recently suffered a heart attack in the middle of the night. He wouldn't let his wife call the rescue squad.
``The lights would wake up all the neighbors,'' I'm told was his reasoning.
As a transplanted Yankee, my reaction when I heard a crackling noise coming from the attic - an attic I didn't even know I had until Saturday night - and discovered I had no electricity wasn't quite as thoughtful.
I called 911. And three fire engines were there just about as soon as I got out of the house.
About the only time you read about fires in any newspaper is when the news is bad. Arson. Death. People losing everything. In those stories, you'll read comments from the victims. And a comment or two from the fire chief.
Since all I lost Sunday morning was electricity, hot water, heat, sleep and my sanity, there wasn't much news.
But there sure was a lot of mingling.
Most all of the neighbors turned out. And when the thought crossed my mind that, gee, shouldn't I be offering them coffee or running to Krispy Kreme, for a moment I realized I'd become a whole lot more Southern over the years.
In a social sense, it was a nightmare. Imagine a dozen guests - the firemen - unexpectedly arriving after midnight to roam your home. Thoughts raced through my mind. Had I cleaned the toilets recently? Was there underwear visible in the bedroom? Was my sink filled with dirty dishes?
``'Fraid we've got some water damage in the bedroom,'' was the first report I received from Capt. Jerry Cooper of Salem Fire Department's B-shift, as we watched firemen David Horton and Bill Sinclair carving a big hole in the roof with a chain saw.
From all of the smoke, I just accepted that I'd probably lost everything.
Especially when Charles ``Al'' Campbell revved up a chain saw and walked right through the front door into my living room.
I just buried my face in a neighbor's chest and said, ``Tell me when it's over.''
Capt. Cooper kept asking me if I'd like to sit inside the fire engine, pointing to where Rex Taylor was standing. ``It's almost like a motel room in there.''
Then, as the firemen's flashlights lit up the living room, there seemed to be a miracle.
They were moving my desk, hand-painted by a local artist. Probably my very favorite piece of furniture.
Gingerly, Capt. Cooper, Kenneth Gibson and Tracy Coe were removing all of the welcome signs I collect and a half-dozen wreaths, taking them to a safer part of the house.
(Don't we all usually just assume a fire company will run helter-skelter through your house blasting water?)
In a moment of irony, Tracy Coe - the fireman I'd interviewed over the phone for the political column - had to interview me for their records.
Somewhere around 2 a.m., they'd put out the fire. Capt. Cooper came to walk me through the house.
I was braced for the worst. But inside, there was virtually no damage.
Although Al Campbell's stint in my living room with the chain saw seemed like it lasted an hour, the hole in the wall near the ceiling was only about 4 by 8 inches.
``We did our best to move anything that looked like it was of value,'' Cooper told me, pointing to a box of family photographs they'd moved to the dining room.
The dreaded water damage in the bedroom amounted to nothing more than a dozen or so drops of water on one piece of furniture.
Except for the fact that none of the furniture was where it had originally been, after two hours of fire and chain saws and water, my house looked exactly like it did before all hell broke loose.
The only thing missing in action seems to be the TV remote control. But, heck, I can't find it half the time anyway.
Then the neighborliness of Salem kicked in.
``I hope this doesn't sound too forward, but you can sleep at my house,'' offered Smitty, the seventysomething widower who lives across the street.
I opted to rough it out inside. I wanted to start cleaning up.
Normally, I would have been out mingling on a Saturday night. Luckily for me, last Saturday I was singling inside.
I'm told that if I'd been out or asleep, I would have lost everything. Including, quite possibly, my own life.
Since Sunday was the day before Halloween, my plans had been to hit Hill's, Wal-Mart and Kmart to write about frazzled parents who'd waited too long to buy their kids a costume.
But, as John Lennon once said, ``Life is what happens when you're making other plans."
by CNB