Verbose Storytelling From the Gutter and A Great idea

That 90's Christmas morning was strange. I had just finished my first year as a 'single mom back in school' and I was exhausted.
J1 and I had driven 130 miles to spend the holiday with my Mom and Step-dad, so when they informed me they were going to Salt Lake on Christmas day, I was a little hurt.
What were we supposed to do now?

Sitting in their house didn't appeal to me anymore than sitting in our rented place, so we opted to go back home.
I waited until the 26th, and loaded up the back of my truck and began the long, snowy drive back to the mountains.

What a frustrating trip that was! I can't remember how many times I had to pull over and adjust a tie-down strap, or gather something that had broken free of it's protective covering. It was like fate was jumping up and down in the road saying "Turn back now!'.

But I don't like being told what to do.

When we got to our place, the third floor "Mother in-Law" apartment of a luxurious home in a college/ski resort town, I was exhausted.

My back hurt, but it was the day after Christmas and I had a truck loaded with my little boy's gifts. His grandparents had bought him a playhouse. One of those huge, heavy, plastic Little Tykes playhouses. The home owner was busy so he couldn't help me lug those pieces up the stairs, I did it alone and my back screamed at me.

I put the house together and while J played in it, I lovingly unpacked some beautiful towels my mother had made for me and then made our dinner.

My back ached too much to de-clutter anything else, I couldn't even move my Christmas decorations down the stairs to be taken to storage in the morning, so we just sat among the boxes and enjoyed being still.

It was a sentimental night.

The pre-teen girls that lived in the house came up to my apartment and sat with me. I reminisced while flipping through old photo albums and we talked quietly while J slept.

We had the strangest discussion.

We all took turns talking about what was most valuable to us-- you know, the things one grabs in the seconds before the house burns down around them. Mine was my photos and J1's baby videos. There's were their birds, some mementos and a quilt they had been secretly working on for their dad.

Around 11 pm I fell asleep. A hard, exhausted, deep sleep, but I awoke immediately to a voice shouting, "Jeri, get up! The house is on fire!".

Without even having to think, I picked up my three year-old son and made my way down the stairs. When I got outside, I didn't even notice it was snowing, I just quickly placed J into my truck, assured him I'd be right back and ran back up the stairs-- to get the keys and our coats.

It was dark. It was stupid. I don't remember hearing any fire alarms. I don't remember smoke.

I had shut our door behind us (habit) and was thankfully smart enough to feel it before I opened it. It was hot, so I turned and fled back down the stairs to move my son out of the truck that was parked too close to the house.
Later I realized that we both smelled like smoke. Not just me from running back in-- our room already had smoke in it before we ever headed out.

When the fire trucks came, they pushed my truck away from the house. The water tank never made it. The falling snow had made the road too slippery and the first water truck had slipped off of the road--blocking any other water trucks from making their way to us.

I stood there in the cold, holding my son, both of us wearing the summer pajamas that kept us comfortable in an overheated house. As the snowflakes gently enveloped us, the girls cried for their birds. I stood numbly as I watched our apartment windows explode -- all hope of any photos, videos or keepsakes blew with it. We stood there with the firemen, helplessly watching that gorgeous house burn.

I kept saying, "We have each other, we have what really matters" and I meant it. I still do. But there's a horrible mourning process that comes with fire- numbness, denial, anger, blame, loss and for me, finally, a restoration of my faith in people.

Wonderful people stepped forward to help us. People I didn't know, people that had known me but hadn't seen me since I was a child and some terrific folks at the American Red Cross. The Red Cross got me into university housing that had a two-year waiting period within two weeks and stocked my kitchen.

I don't think it was coincidence that I spent that fateful night perusing High School yearbooks and old photos. Even though they're irreplaceable, they're now etched in my brain.
For the blessing of a backache that caused me to sit and enjoy them, I am truly grateful. Some day I'll tell you the miracles that emerged form that experience, but not today.

I'm choosing to tell you this story now because David asked if I had ever blogged about it (he's witnessing Victoria's devastation and the people who unlike us, didn't get out with what really mattered) and because Poutalicious over at Pouty Baby's Nonsense had a great idea to help.

She proposed we skip the Valentines cards and flowers and instead send the money to the Australian Red Cross. Yes, I'm late. But only for that holiday.

If you still have a few luxuries unaffected by the credit crunch, could you skip the mocha latte this week? Or the daily Sonic run? I know things are tight, but I also know that we all still have what really matters, surely we can share (some of what doesn't) for those suffering such a loss.

As she mentioned, "This year I think it's a good day for extending our love and prayers to the good people of Australia who, by the way, made huge contributions to U.S. Katrina victims."

Celebrating the conveniences we enjoy in these times--when we can reach across the world to help one another,