The Fire On Upton Street - Changed

In the early morning hours of Friday, November 9, 2007, a fire occurred two houses away from the house in which I had an apartment on the first floor. Two of my neighbors died in that fire.

I wrote a seven part account after that fire. The anniversary comes in two days. Seth and Sayid have been 0n my mind. Today I walked past the building that housed this tragedy. I am going to post my writing from two years ago.

In memory of Seth and Sayid

CHANGED

Saturday, November 17, 2007

I find myself unable to sleep tonight, for my heart is unsettled and sad. It was during these early morning hours only one week ago that life in our neighborhood changed. I had fallen asleep on my son's bed, where I had been sleeping since he had left for Amherst College. Our big, black bear of a dog seemed more content when I slept there in that familiar space next to her.

About 3 a.m., I awakened to her barking."It's just a truck, Tasha," I told her. "Be quiet and go back to sleep."

The barking continued, only by now it was getting louder and more urgent. I dragged myself out of bed and towards the front door. When I pulled back the fading white curtains in the door's window, I could see one of our city's big fire trucks with its lights flashing. It was parked directly in front of our apartment.

"It's just a fire truck, Tasha," I said, just barely awake. "Thank you for telling me. Now, stop barking and go back to sleep."

I had barely stepped next to the bed when the barking started again, and I knew Tasha thought we were in danger. This time I looked out the dining room window and saw another fire truck and two police cars. There was an eerie lightness to the normally dark living room, with flashing red and white lights changing the nighttime hues to a surreal combination of light and dark.

I looked out the living room windows, then out the window to the front porch.There were six or seven fire trucks, police cars surrounding them, hoses and cables stretched along the side street, a strange smoke that touched everything around it, and meticulously organized groups of firefighters going back and forth from some house I couldn't see. I slipped on my shoes and put Tasha on a leash. I wandered out to see what was happening.

It was like walking out into a movie set, but there was no magic of film here. Everything had a disturbingly powerful smell of smoke, but I could not see the source. I was told that the house two doors down was on fire, but that the fire department was working well to contain and extinguish the fire.

I saw my immediate next door neighbors across the street. Shouldn't I leave, too? There was less than eight feet between my apartment and his house, and less than eight feet between his house and the one on fire.

And what about my two cats and the three cats of my upstairs neighbors who worked the night shift?

I was told to go back into my house, that they would let me know if I had to leave. I quickly gathered a few precious things: my young adult son's Panda Bear, a picture of each child when they were babies, a heart-shaped picture of these same two children as toddlers "reading" together on the couch, a small picture of my mother and father, my violin, the dog's leash, a blanket and my jacket. For the next two hours, I was in a daze watching the work of the firemen, frightened for my own safety, and overwhelmed by the feeling that none of this was anything I could control.

I finally fell asleep, curled up in the recliner, with my dog at my feet. When I awoke at eight in the morning, there were only two or three fire trucks left, and several police cars keeping some sense of order. The other vehicles had been replaced by vans from the major TV stations, reporters with mikes, and stands stabilizing cameras.

Once again I went outside with Tasha. I asked the first reporter I could find if anyone had been hurt in the fire. Her eyes filled with tears as she told me that two young men had died in that house and a third was in guarded condition at the hospital. What I couldn't have seen from my side of the house a few hours earlier was the flames that sped through this house so quickly that even working smoke alarms made little difference.

One young woman, an overnight guest, had fled from the first floor out into the parking lot of the high rise apartments next door. Two young men had climbed out onto the small second floor porch and jumped onto the top of one of the cars below to safety.

Many of the senior citizens and disabled residents of the apartment building had come down to the parking lot just to be there with these students who screamed and cried, totally in shock. Blankets were brought to keep them warm, but there was nothing else to do but watch the flames shooting out from the windows.

For the others, there simply had not been enough time. The firefighters rescued the one young man from the second floor, not knowing if he would live or die. The other two young men had died in this nightmare of smoke and flame.

All who had lived there were students at the Rochester Institute of Technology. The two who had died were fourth year students, very smart young men with their whole lives ahead of them. In a few short minutes, those dreams were ended.

"Those were my neighbors," I cried.

I sank down on the front lawn outside of my home, my arms around my dog, holding onto her for comfort. I wept and wept and wept. "Those were my neighbors. Those were my neighbors."

There was still smoke in the air, a burning stench that was inescapable. There was, also, another kind of smoke: a blanket of intense pain that had fallen over all of us, a dull sense of shock that filled the streets of our neighborhood.

In the quiet of an autumn night, two of our neighbors, wonderful young adults, were taken from life too soon. Two of our neighbors had died.

An uninvited guest had taken residence among us. A deep sadness had entered all of our lives in those early morning hours. Our neighborhood had been changed forever.