Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

Witness: Seen and Unseen

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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.

On the verge of losing 30 pounds

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My clothes shopping is infrequent but rigidly scheduled (every October and every other April) and directly tied to writers conferences. The Festival of Faith and Writing is biennial and convenes in April, while Breathe Christian Writers Conference (sponsored by my writer’s group, The Guild) is every October. Wanting to look fresh at these events gets me to the mall.

This past April I found myself waiting until the very last minute. Only a funeral a week before Festival, forced my hand. I had a nice, black dress to wear, but I didn’t have any dress pants for the visitation. Fortunately my sister Torey was able to go shopping with me (I NEVER shop without her) and while we were at it I picked up a few things to wear to Festival.

Only afterwards did I question why I had put it off so long. Did I plan to go a day or two before? That was ridiculous, even for a non-shopper like me.

Pictured above is my nightstand from before. The sooty book in the center is “Thin Within” a book I had been going through in the days before the fire and read that last night. “A Grace Oriented Approach to Lasting Weight Loss” is the subtitle. It’s a Christian book breaking down why a person over eats and a guide for how to break that habit. The idea is to prayerfully work through why you might be overeating and recognize how you are while, slowly and compassionately, breaking the cycles at play.

Six years ago, I lost 30 pounds by eating when I was hungry and stopping before I was too full, and by walking several days a week. A series of events occurred which precipitated me breaking these habits and slowly to gain back the extra pounds.

Six months before the fire I was poking around the nooks and crannies of my life and faced two sources of discontent: my weight and the lack of organization in our home. It’s a good life when the things that trouble you are completely within your control. I knew that and was thankful, and I got to work. I went room by room through the house de-cluttering and reorganizing, and I got back in the habit of exercising regularly and making better food choices. My home was almost entirely in order the day the fire was set; with my body, I had made a solid start with hope for the future.

After the fire, care for the one was unnecessary and for the other it just sort of fell away.

I was reluctant to replace anything the first year or so but especially clothes because I wasn’t the size I wished to be and ought to be losing weight. I was clear on this. But it was only when I wondered why I had waited until the very last minute this past April—to less than a week before—that something became apparent: I had been holding off to give myself time to get smaller. Up until the week before the conference I had been on the verge of losing 30 pounds.

Mind you, I had been doing absolutely nothing to promote this endeavor, but I was holding this delusion as a possibility to the very last moment. And then I saw it for what it was and how ludicrous my thinking had been. 

That’s what they call an aha moment. That I could be so self-deluded troubled me. 

Soon after my brother announced he wanted to shoot a documentary about my son Christopher in June. I considered being thusly immortalized, if only for a few seconds (it’s a short documentary) and said, “Hail, no.”

That’s what they call a catalyst.

Short story: fourteen weeks ago I started a health plan and have since lost 27 pounds. I have a bit more to go— I’m finessing that—but I feel good, my energy is up and I’m more comfortable in my own skin again, in its every meaning.

I would like to talk about this some more and tell you my back story. Despite the fact that I’ve only been overweight a fraction of my life, I’ve been worried about my body since I was seven, and there were some precipitating events there too. I wasn’t abused, but I was raised in a veritable hothouse for mental disorders regarding eating and weight. That’s a story for another day.

So here I am truly on the verge of losing 30 pounds and it’s great.


Remembering Our Fire As Colorado Burns

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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 to Climb the Tallest Tree and Walk the Longest Road

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This maple is the meeting place I established, years ago, in case of a fire.  Thankfully, the morning our house was set on fire, we fled our home together and yet, without thinking, ran to the designated maple.

I’d like to highlight this: take a second, make a plan and then picture yourself enacting it. I know that doesn’t seem like enough, but it’s amazing what kicks in in an emergency.

We’re in the final days of school.  Last weekend both of the big kids had a lot of homework, mostly studying for finals this week. Christopher is doing much better with personal organization and self-motivation, but still benefits from re-direction. After church yesterday I couldn’t find him and asked Paul if he knew where he was.

“I thought I heard him out front.” Paul said.

I had scanned the front yard and there was no sign, but then I heard Christopher’s distinctive voice from a strange distance. I walked outside and there he was.

Between the fire and the rebuild we lost four mature maples, one of which was the kids’ second climbing tree that Eden never got to climb. To climb this tree, even the big kids need a ladder to get to the lowest branches. Yesterday Christopher nailed a few boards and scrabbled up into the highest branches. From this aerie he shouted at birds and passing cars. He was delighted when I found him and took his picture.

“The boards I nailed are not very secure.”  He said. I walked around the tree and saw them. They were too small and his big feet had pushed them up and down—not secure at all—and yet he got up as high as the tree would hold him.

Here Christopher is outside of church with his portable loom. One of his electives this semester was a ceramics class and they’re finishing out the year with a weaving project.  All week long he has been dragging this loom around everywhere in order to meet the deadline when they are cutting and binding their hangings in class today.

We had him take ceramics because we were looking for an elective that was hands on and didn’t have a lot of homework. His support teacher was nervous because this art teacher runs a very tight ship and has been known to kick kids out of her classes with the slightest provocation. I pushed a little and the support teacher met with the art teacher who, when she heard about Christopher, said “This class will be perfect for him.” And it has.

His other elective this semester was theater which was selected for the same reasons as ceramics, but has not gone as ideally. The entire class culminates in a series of one act plays the students produce. I assumed Christopher would do something technical and behind the scenes and was surprised to learn he was cast in one of the plays. As I ran lines with him I was even more surprised he had the largest part.

“How did this happen?” I asked.  I couldn’t believe the teacher assigned him the most lines.

“I chose it. But it is a decision I now regret.” He said.

He plays “Death” opposite “Life”, “Youth” and “The Girl”. It’s a terrible play and “Death” is the biggest and best part, which should tell you something. Youth and The Girl are would-be suicides. Death and Life throw the die for both their lives and Life wins. You will wish she didn’t; they’re both so horrible.

“I think my classmates are going to be surprised at how well I know my part.” He has been the weakest link up until now and his fellow thespians have been giving him some push back.  Yesterday we focused on pacing and interpretation, which we will continue  tonight and tomorrow.

When you first understand that your child has special needs, it can feel like your path has been diverted. Of course parents of a typical child will tell you that there are turns in every road.  And yet, with a child with special needs, the journey can be so arduous with no end in sight. The relationship continually changes (hopefully!) and evolves (more hope!) but is it ever really over—for any parent—until it’s over?

Four more days of tenth grade.

Further up and further in.

Reading is our drug of choice

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This is Christopher at church. Some Sundays he brings the mug he made in Ceramics class. The look on his face is reserved for when he’s indulging a request of mine (posing with his mug for a picture) but doesn’t mind.

Tomorrow is Christopher’s sixteenth IEP (Individualized Education Program). This is the plan that is created to determine what services a child in Special Ed will receive and what accommodations will be made to support the child. This is also where goals are established for the coming school year. The goals, whether or not they are achieved, reveal the child’s progress.

Last week he took a vocabulary test (PPVT-4 for those in the know) and scored the age equivalence of a 25-year-old. Christopher is sixteen.
That’s pretty impressive for any kid, but for a young man who is hard of hearing it’s flat out amazing.
I’m proud of my boy.