Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

Witness: Seen and Unseen

by 5 Comments

I haven’t told you this: I almost certainly saw the arsonist that morning.

I qualify that because of my own sense of fair play. Our fire was not officially linked to the series of fires set in the summer and fall of 2010. Ours was the first and on a different side of town from the rest, but fit the m.o., exactly. I don’t know why ours was not tied to the others and haven’t had the energy to find out. I didn’t think it mattered as long as he was caught and convicted, but I found it did matter to me when he did not confess to ours.

I’m writing about it privately for now, but I’ll tell you this, he had already set our house on fire when he looked me right in the eye and asked a question. I was busy getting my children to safety and thought he was just a knucklehead, a random gawker. I was running from my burning house but couldn’t really believe it was on fire. I had no idea someone set it; I still can’t believe that.

After the bombings in Boston I read about Jeff Bauman, the young man who lost both his legs and is in the wheelchair in that infamous picture. When he woke up at the hospital he asked for a pen and paper and wrote, “Bag, saw the guy, looked right at me.” One of the backpacks had been dropped at his feet.

While still in the ICU, Bauman helped the FBI identify the suspects.

This week I have found myself thinking about him and wondering what must run through his mind, the image he remembers and how he must feel knowing this man looked right at him and still dropped the bag. It makes it so cold-blooded and strangely personal. I have been thinking about what we look at and do not realize we’re seeing.

I’ve also been thinking about Carlos Arrendondo, the man who helped save Jeff’s life. He’s the man in the cowboy hat in the the picture helping push the wheelchair and pinching shut the artery in Jeff’s right leg. He was in the bleachers near the finish line handing out flags and cheering on members of the National Guard and a suicide prevention group who were running in honor of his two deceased sons, one of whom died in Iraq in 2004. When the bomb went off he ran right towards it to help people and realized right away that Jeff needed him most.

This picture holds so much: violence, loss, terror, compassion, heroism, fearlessness and horror, and that’s only what’s visible.

Arrendondo visited Bauman in the hospital the other day and this is what he said, “The picture that you see, that’s what it is and that’s how it happened, you know, I was just trying to help him in every way I could, and thank God he gave me the opportunity to help this beautiful young man.”

For his part, Bauman has a great attitude and has told his family he’s going to walk again. I pray he will and that he never knows despair. This journey has just begun.

When something terrible happens there is that continuing sense of surreality, even if you have accepted what is and have mourned and healed. Time passes and this deep disbelief mingles with years of hard reality: the endless both and.

Each of us has our sorrows and losses, many of us carry memories of unutterable heartache. Jeff Bauman isn’t ready to walk just yet, his wounds need to heal. Too often we rush this and trauma, physical or mental, slows you down. When you are learning how to walk without legs, a good attitude isn’t everything, but it is so much.

I’ve been so ashamed by how long it has taken me to heal since the fire after starting so strong. It is what it is, though and today I can’t tell you what I should have/could have done differently. I’ll tell you though, Carlos Arrendondo’s behavior before and after the bombing pretty much personifies what I want to do going forward: while everything was peaceful he was handing out flags and cheering for others, but as soon as the bomb went off, he ran right for the wounded, found the person whose need was greatest, did what he could, and afterwards thanked God he had been able to help him.

What NOT to Say After a House Fire: “At Least You Got a New House!”

by Leave a Comment

photo: Sandi Gunnett

It is so strange to see your life frozen in time.

Last week I was featured on Houzz.com with the article  “10 Real Ways You Can Help After a House Fire.” Houzz was a helpful resource throughout the rebuild, especially during the planning stage. I’m delighted to write for them.

If you are a long time reader you might remember the struggle I was having trying to write a concise account of the fire. Only recently has the “story” felt over and how long it has gone on has been a source of sorrow and—if I’m honest—shame.  I could never have imagined how painful this entire experience would be nor how long it would take, even after everything was “back to normal” although I can’t tell you exactly what that means now.

As I was reading about the Waldo Canyon Fire in Colorado Springs, I came across an interview with a woman who evacuated her home in Colorado Springs and had already gone through the Hayman Fire of 2002 in which she and her husband lost their business and livelihood. Regarding the Waldo Canyon fire she said, “It’s not the fear of losing stuff. It’s the fear of starting over.

When I read that I sighed. She knew. From what I can tell, most people who lose all their possessions—in one way or another—tend to hold more loosely to things afterwards. You know what you can live without and it’s practically everything. Our old house was more than 2500 square feet and the things I have wept over could fit into a small closet with room to spare. And yet, just the thought of going through the process of rebuilding again makes me want to climb into any closet and never come out.

A peculiar aspect of a house fire is, in most cases, there is a brand new house at the end of the story, so you know, happy ending. I know someone whose 100 year old farmhouse burned. She is grateful for her new house and she misses her old one. I do not miss my old house, but my nine year old daughter does. She has wept many tears for her home.

Unless we pay it, we can’t ever know the full cost, can we? I’m still paying the price for our fire, literally: our mortgage increased and figuratively when I get up at night and walk by any of the windows on the north side and reflexively glance out and scan the yard for a dark figure. I’m not consciously afraid, just assessing conditions, making sure another arsonist isn’t out there.

When someone has experienced a grave loss, it’s not the responsibility of those of us on the outside to extract the possible benefits of the situation.  When we preface anything with “At least” we are ignoring the loss and that doesn’t make it go away. For a sorrow to heal it needs to be acknowledged and mourned.

And for those inside the tragedy, “at least” comes from such a weak place. When I’m looking for a lifeline to pull me through the pain, I prefer the strength of gratitude.

In the early days after our fire, I was only thankful. As time and trauma wore on, this seemed to slip and I was so ashamed. What helped me in the middle of everything was when people asked, “How is it going?” When I told them, with perhaps a little too much detail, but then caught myself and apologized for going on and on…or didn’t and just went and went…or started to cry, they were gracious and kind, tolerant and forgiving. They were curious and listened. They taught me so well and I’m forever grateful.

4th of July

by 3 Comments

Happy Independence Day!

If you’re visiting from Houzz, welcome!

I have been blogging since the olden days (2005). I began to stay in touch with old friends and to get in the habit of daily writing. I couldn’t know this blog would serve as the remaining archive for our family stories. I was never good at keeping scrapbooks but I wrote down what my kids’ said every day of their lives.

When our house was set on fire I lost all my journals, but this blog remains.

Thank you for stopping by.

Remembering Our Fire As Colorado Burns

by Leave a Comment

On the second anniversary of our fire, I’m thinking of Colorado.

This time two years ago my house is a sodden mess and still smoking: a total loss from the perspective of insurance. I am at my sister and brother-in-law’s house, dazed but euphoric. I am technically homeless, but could not care less.

I’m not thinking about the stuff. I don’t care about the stuff. I didn’t have time to worry about the stuff.

Paul and the kids are safe. Hope, Lydia’s friend who was spending the night—God bless her—is safe. Jack, our beloved dog is safe.  Max, the fledgeling sparrow Eden rescued just the day before is safe.

It is well with my soul.

We are all alive.

I feel great.

The good thing about someone setting your house on fire while you are in it sleeping, is you’re not given time to worry. Alarms go off and you slip right into shock.

Shock is awesome.

If someone sets your house on fire while you are in it, you are spared the thinking, the weighing and deciding, the trying to save things. You focus on saving lives. You lose every thing but, if every one is safe, you don’t care.

This time two years ago we are at Paul’s sister’s. It’s a second home for our children, so they begin to relax. The surreality has context: standing in your pajamas watching your house burn can’t be understood, sitting in Aunt Dawn’s and Uncle Thom’s living room watching your house burn on TV feels half way familiar.

Hope is scared. Hope wants her parents.  They are on a rare get-away, attending a wedding. They have turned off the phone. They never turn off the phone but just this once they do. Hope calls and calls. No answer. Hope calls an aunt who knows the name of the hotel and reaches the parents who are across the state, more than two hours away. There are more calls and plans and a close family friend comes to get Hope.

I meet her at the door and smile widely. She is crying. I hug her. Yes, it’s terrible, but we’re fine. We’re OK. We’re going to be OK. I hug Hope. She could have stayed with us; we love Hope. I am oblivious to her need and fear.

I know Hope is leaving, but I can’t understand what that means, exactly. Too quickly, I will learn.

I don’t know what it’s like to have an impending fire. It must be terrible to have all the stress of flight and the extended worry in the possibility of loss. If your’e going to lose everything anyway, I prefer immediate shock and certainty of loss. But we can’t always choose our fires.

This morning, in my new home, my husband occupied by the banal tasks of turning on sprinklers, sipping coffee, writing bills, our children and dogs still sleeping, birds chirping, this peaceful, quiet morning, I am thinking of Colorado—and the elusiveness of the appearance of hope—and I’m praying.

How Siri Can Help You Grieve

by 2 Comments

I recently joined the 21st century and bought the iphone 4s. My kids were elated. Christopher immediately set up Siri  and had her address me as “Alpha Mama.” He thought that was hilarious. I made him change it to my first name.

I enjoy having a smart phone but I’ve only taken advantage of a few things. I rarely use Siri but I do like her measured, unflappable tone. Years ago, when I worshipped my idea of the perfect mother, I think she would have sounded a bit like Siri.

Eden was with me in the car a couple weeks ago when I asked Siri to look something up and she couldn’t.

“Ugh!” I said.

“Frankly, Alison, I feel the same way.”

Eden laughed.

“This is stupid!” I said. It was ridiculous that this program could respond with humor but couldn’t fulfill this simple request.

“You’re certainly entitled to that opinion.”  Siri said.

I put that phrase in my back pocket. With two teens, and an almost tween, that was gold.

The other day I said, “Call home.”                                                                                                              

“Which home?” Siri asked. ‘Home’ or ‘Harmon Home’?”

“Home.” I repeated.

“You have two phone numbers for contacts named ‘Home.’ Which one should I use?

I glanced down and saw the numbers to the two rental houses we lived in after the fire. I haven’t written about the first rental that we lived in for just three months. I’ll get there eventually, just know that things didn’t go well.

The numbers themselves are a bad memory. After the fire, we forwarded our calls to Paul’s sister’s house, where we stayed the first six weeks. When we moved to the first rental I tried to transfer the number. Our kids had lost everything and it became important to me to keep that number, to maintain one, literal line of consistency for them. I spent hours on the phone, I talked to so many people at Comcast, for nothing. They couldn’t or wouldn’t let us keep the number.

In protest I never used our landline. Up until the fire, I rarely gave out my cell number, it was for my use, but afterwards, I used it exclusively and gave it out freely. And yet I thought, once we moved back to the new house, I had entered our home number, but I clearly hadn’t and I’d never bothered to remove either of the rentals.

It is strange what triggers sorrow. Regardless of how far down the road we might be, how over something we think we are, there are still the small things that flare and, if for only a moment, flame and then burn out.

I saw these numbers and was surprised. I felt the visceral pain in my stomach and a lump formed in my throat.

“I couldn’t understand what you said, Alison.”

I swallowed.

“Call Paul.” I said.

And she did—without a question—as if she knew that Paul is, first and always, home for me.