Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

How To Teach Children To Mourn – Part Three

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Jack eager to get to the Christmas tree farm, 2012

Part One is HERE.
Part Two is HERE.

If you asked, “Alison, what did you learn from the fire?” I would definitely tell you, “Hire a Public Adjuster.”  This is a person or company distinct from an insurance or claims adjuster—the party who will negotiate on behalf of your insurance company. The Public Adjuster negotiates on yours.

This post isn’t about insurance, so I’m going to leave it at that. But repeat this three times, to seal it in your memory.

Public Adjuster
Public Adjuster
Public Adjuster

Should your house ever burn down (God forbid!) and you forget, contact me.

“Alison, I don’t need insurance tips—(you so do!)—I’m wondering what you learned, you know, spiritually.”

Fortunately so few people go around asking others what they have learned, because I would be hard pressed to tell you what the fire taught me. Looking back, it just seemed like a long march. I did learn a ton about how to support and care for people in crisis. And yes, I learned spiritual things  too—mostly about hope—but I still find it hard to neatly explain it.

But if you asked me, “What about that time your living room remodel went off the rails and you had to wait until right before Christmas to get your tree and everything fell apart; what did you learn? I would be able to tell you immediately:

“Parents need to teach their children to mourn.”

That’s it in a nutshell, but of course I want to tell you the whole story.

By the time the living room was finished and we were finally ready to get a tree it was five days before Christmas. The thing is we were going away that year. My mom’s side of the family was spending Christmas at a resort in Indiana and we were leaving Wednesday, the 23rd. It seemed ridiculous to get a tree only to have it less than three days.

Paul and I conferred. He was all for renegotiating with the kids. At first I was all for it too. I just wanted to get everything cleaned up and put away. The thought of pulling out all the Christmas things to turn right around and take them all down again was exhausting but something gave me pause.

Christopher, Lydia and Eden were 14, 12 and not quite 7 years old and all of them were eagerly awaiting this. How long would that last?  Sure we could make them come on this family outing as long as they were under our roof, but that’s no fun. It felt important to do this, knowing it could be our last. I was thinking of the kids growing up and individuating.

I have no idea this will be our last Christmas decorating the tree with ornaments the children had been given since their births, with ornaments I had collected since I was a child. This is our last Christmas in this house and before the fire. But I don’t know that, I just have this compulsion we should pony up and get the tree regardless of how impractical it seems. Paul sees my point and agrees.

Would the farm even be open still? I called and listened to the recording of their hours. I looked on their website too. Both said they were open on Sundays and there was no mention of when they closed for the season.  We decided to go right after church and invited my mom to come along.

The day was cold, but beautiful. We’d had a lot of snow. Everyone was happy and eager. This would be Jack’s third visit to the farm and he couldn’t wait. I don’t know how he knew where we were going but he seemed to and parked himself between the front seats just like in the picture above.

We turned off the exit and hit the first fork in the road. There were signs for several farms and stands, but the sign for our farm was missing. This  brought my first sense of foreboding but I kept quiet. Turning onto the road I also noticed the lack the traffic, but it was the chain across the first entrance which confirmed my fears.

The kids all reacted immediately, gasping and crying out. Paul pulled into the second entrance and stopped. We looked at each other.

“What do you want to do?” He asked.

“There’s another farm, Jane and Doug go to just up the road,” I said, “Kids, let’s try another place,” I called to the back of the van, “Okay?”

“Those mean, mean people!” Eden shouted. I pictured the kindly older couple who ran the farm with the help of their children and grandchildren.

“Eden!” I said, “You know they’re nice people. It wasn’t clear they were closed, but it is less than a week before Christmas. It’s understandable.”

She crossed her little arms and stared at me, sullen and intractable.

“Does this mean we aren’t going to get a tree?” Christopher asked from the very back.

“We’re going to get one,” I said, “We just need to figure out another place. Miss Jane goes to a farm right near here. Let’s try that.”

Paul turned around and pulled out onto the road, back the way we came.

Jack threw back his head and howled.

To Be Continued….

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

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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

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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

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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.

My Friend’s/Neighbor’s/Co-Worker’s House Burned Down: What Should I NOT Say?

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photo: Sandi Gunnett

This is the view from the garden bed that ran along the western side of my house. You’re looking into the storage area that was under the stairs and opened into my garage, which was where the fire was set.

“Was set” denotes purpose. Most home fires are accidental, but ours was caused by arson. Someone randomly (he was a stranger and had no personal animus towards us) set our house on fire.

When something goes drastically awry in another person’s life, we feel for them. How horrible, we think. And we wonder: what happened? This is natural curiosity as well as the subtle desire to pull  back from the possibility that this could happen to us. We look for the cause, in order to assure ourselves we are safe.

My rule of thumb for conversation with anyone who has experienced a trauma is to ask myself, “Would I say this to someone who has been repeatedly thwacked in the head with a shovel?” I find, more often than not, the answer is no.

  • “Did they ever find out what caused it?” This is the natural question after a fire. Don’t ask it, especially if children, who ran from the burning home, are present. This seems obvious but you would be surprised.
  • “You weren’t home.” This assumption was a favorite of strangers and quickly followed by:
  • “But everyone’s OK, right?” I’m going to need you to define “OK”?
  • “It’s just stuff.” Absolutely, and no actually, it’s a whole lot more.
  • “At least you get a brand new house!” 
I know it’s apparent how unhelpful these are, but watch yourself: given the chance to comfort someone after a fire you will probably find platitudes bubbling up that would give Pollyanna a run for her money. In crisis situations some of us tend to blather and most of us have the impulse to try to make things OK. To be willing to stand in that discomfort, without platitudes and rosy mathematical equations (fire + new house and stuff = worth it!) is a rare gift.