Spellbinding Stories

Dolores writes in detail about the events before and after the horrific fire on Friday 13th, 1946. This story is a must to read. Part one captivates the heart and Part two is just as compelling. The tragic loss of a father, brother and son brought me to tears. Her courage inspired me…GPPP.

This was the day I learned what empathy meant by actually feeling grandmother’s pain. Knowing all about sympathy was one thing, but empathy was different. I knew what it was like to lose someone you loved deeply. She lost her son, my father, when he was 36 years of age in a house fire. It was on a cold, rainy, foggy day like this day that my mother shouted. “Jump out the window. The house is on fire!  You must run to grams now!”

That dreadful day washed over me like it was yesterday.  As I raced forward on my bike, I began reliving that horrific day once again. I cried out,  “will this nightmare never go away and leave me in peace?” The memory of my words made me shiver.  “This is not really happening. I will go back to sleep and when I awake it will be just a dream.”  It was not a nightmare it was real. It was so real I could taste the smoke and feel the heat from the fire. Hearing my mother’s voice once again screaming, “get outside, hurry!” My father was downstairs engulfed in flames. The kerosene can that he was using to start the fire exploded. He became so disoriented he did not know how to find the door. When he finally did get out, his clothing was in flames and his body was badly burned. My mother kept screaming for my brother, John and I, to jump. The fear of jumping was almost as bad as the fire. I went back to bed and covered my head with blankets, still believing it was a dream. Suddenly, realizing that my brother was not in the room with me, and that I was alone, a thought came to my mind that perhaps it would be safe to go down the stairs and creep out the front door to safety. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, in a crouched position, a sudden giant orange flame reached the top of the staircase. It felt like long hot arms were coming to get me. Knowing that this was impossible, I crawled to the bedroom window, and looking down, I saw my mother. She was shouting in a raspy voice, “jump I will catch you!” I shouted back, “I’m afraid, I can’t jump.” I noticed little pieces of clothing burning on the ground. My father was rolling in the snow to put out the fire. Smoke was overtaking me, and I felt sick. The flames were getting hotter.  They lit up the house in an orange flare and the sky seemed to be the same vibrant color. Father stood up and saw me by the upstairs bedroom window looking down. It was then that he realized I was still in the house.  He quickly walked toward the house, and stood bravely under the window saying. “Sara jump! I will catch you.” I jumped and he caught me. I was safe. How can this be happening? My father was so strong and brave and now he stood in front of his family with skin peeling from his naked body. This is a scene that has been played and replayed in my memory like an old horror movie for many years.

My brother and I stood shivering in the snow wearing our nightclothes. The cold and fog was nothing to what we were feeling inside for my father. Mother was telling us to run to grams. We began running in our bare feet in the snow as fast as we could to grandmothers. An angry dog was barking in the distance. Grandmother stood with a look of disbelief when she finally opened the door.

Father gave in to the pain and suffering that afternoon at a quarter of three. It was December 1946, on Friday the 13th. Christmas lost its spirit, for my brother and I, for many years.