Note: I originally posted this on my Facebook account on March 19th, 2017. However, Facebook is getting rid of their “notes” blog-like ability, so I’ve moved this content to my blog, with some edits for clarity.
I forget when in 1973 the Skrinak family house caught on fire. I’m guessing it was in late Spring, but that was so long ago. I do remember this — it was warm enough for my 11-year-old self to be on the roof of my house in my pajamas.
I went to bed after an ordinary day, around 9 PM. We had largely restored our house after the devastating 1972 flood from Hurricane Agnes that ravaged the Wyoming valley. The neighborhood had largely returned to its old Kingston self. We had also recently reshuffled the second floor so all of us siblings were able to get our separate rooms. Not that I minded sharing with my brothers, as many of us youngest siblings love our sibling’s company. Unlike now, a kid per room was a luxury.
As for my bedroom, I had three smallish windows. With the room darkened for sleep, I could see the streetlight-diffused night sky illuminate my room in a row of three rectangles. As I drifted off to sleep, I’d peek my eyes open and closed as I settled in.
My Mom had gone out with her friends, a long-deserved night of fun. She rarely went out, and it was good to see her have some down-time. In the kitchen directly below my room was a cooking pot of vegetable oil. The details as to why are unimportant. The cooking oil was soon forgotten by some other distraction, and a grease fire started. Grease fires move quickly — too quickly. The fire consumed the kitchen in minutes and spread to the dining room. The steps to the upstairs were off the dining room, and the nascent fire blocked access to the steps. My siblings — Kim, Kris, and Karen — scrambled out of the house, unable to get to me.
From my bed, I peeked my eyes open. The row of windows had slightly dimmed. I wasn’t sure why. I couldn’t smell the smoke as it was just starting to fill the room. I closed my eyes to go back to bed. The second time, I peek again. The windows were even dimmer but still clearly set. My eyes faintly burned when I opened them. The Sandman? Really? Odd, but I was so relaxed and comfortable. The smoke was like liquid Nyquil (the old formula), and I felt great. A third time I stirred. I didn’t hear anything (the white-noise wash of crackling house was steadily getting louder), but I “sensed” Karen calling for me.
Kimmer and Kris were scrambling to put the fire out. Someone called Mom, and she rushed home. Neighbors were helping as well with their garden hoses. Karen was focused on yelling for me to get out. The fire department had not yet come. Though a mere half-a-mile away, they took over 30 minutes to respond. I suspect more time than that. They play an imperceptible role in this story. Though I now daily pray for firefighters and first responders and honor the work they do, the hero in this story is Karen.
The last time I was this relaxed was when I was under anesthesia to get my tonsils out. “Kyle! Kyle!” Again, I sensed Karen. I didn’t hear her. I felt her, dreamt her, calling me, demanding my attention. “Kyle! Kyle!” I forced my eyes open. A million pinpricks greet my eyes. I wanted to shut them hard to keep the burning pain out. My breathing was difficult, but the difficulty had come gradually, in my sleep. The windows now were nearly imperceptible. “Kyle! Kyle!” I rose out of bed and walked to the stairwell. Looking down the steps, I see a dim eerie light show of a shifting red-orange-yellow, from behind a thin black smoke veil, raging from the kitchen. I couldn’t see the flames. The light above the steps, which was my night-light, was darkened by smoke. Unmistakably, something was wrong. Now I’m fully awake.
I pass through Kris’s room to his two smallish windows. I snap out of my dream-like state, and now I can hear Karen frantically and unmistakably calling my name. I poke my head out the window. My eyes and lungs get immediate relief. I see Karen, hands cuffed to her mouth to focus her shouts, and she is relieved to now see me. I can see our neighbors gathering to watch the unfolding drama.
Amidst the chaos, I notice two adult men, across Walnut Street, casually watching, having found their evening’s diversion. Karen and I now scramble to figure out how to get me out of there.