Gutted Lives

When the boys were young, and we were in a season of realtors and buyers flushing in and out of our little house in May’s Pond, oh, every few days, the three of us had gotten used to getting the call, scrambling wild around the house, picking up toys, tossing clothes in the closet, and grabbing dog, cat, and ourselves to flee in the car for a half hour or so until they were finished with their visit. Our little dudes, though small, became proficient soldiers in the whole process, putting their own efforts next to mine to get the job done. It was summer, and needless to say, after each call we ended up stinky and dripping at the end of the 10 minute explosion and the house, thankfully, usually looked much better than we did.

One of those afternoon calls, I threw the boys in the car (along with the dog and cat), and pulled off down the street out of sight to park and wait out the people who were coming to view our house for sale, keep out of their way and all that. I hadn't really made much thought of where I'd parked until I looked up and suddenly was astounded at what I saw. Across the street was a burned out shell of a house, charred black, almost completely gutted, with nothing left really but the main frame of the structure. It was shocking particularly in such stark contrast to the well-kept, fresh summer yards and homes surrounding it.

By this time the windows were mostly all open air, the ceiling, roof, and much of the wood frame were darkened by smoke and fire damage, the basement flooded from water hoses, and a huge haul-away garbage container like those you see piled 6x10 high on shipping vessels sat in the front driveway , containing the remains of what once was somebody's home. Wood beams and tin air ducts littered the front yard where the demolition crew had been working hard to strip the surfaces and start anew. I got out of the car to ask another neighbor what had happened there - "a fire" - and if they knew where the family was now - "don't know". (That’s helpful.) They’d been renters with no forwarding address, I guess.

What landed even harder was the striking symbolism of the picture I was looking at. We’d known the family who had lived in that house. At least in passing anyway. We bought a puppy from them once. Looking back on it now, it's sad but in some ways I remember thinking at the time it wasn’t quite a surprise their house ended up in flames. I know that might sound a little harsh, but let me explain. I don’t mean it without compassion.

Gary, the dad, who we did most of the puppy business with, seemed like an intelligent, quiet, but passive guy with a wife who always had that worn-out, frustrated, and kind of suspicious look on her face. Almost felt like she might have had a snarl in reserve and could either bite or run at any moment. With certain health issues, I know she needed a lot of care (probably explains the snarl), but there was also a meanness simmering under the surface. Both their adult children still lived with them, one openly and admittedly on drugs, the other living with her boyfriend in her parents’ house with no desire for a job or income. A younger son, maybe 10ish, seemed to just get lost in the mix. The older two kids were always polite to us, but I couldn't help but notice that they needed care themselves and not just physically either.  The house was overflowing with cats and dogs with all their accompanying messes and aromas, but they invited us in and were cautiously amicable to sit and talk with us, as we played with their litter of pups, trying to decide which one we'd take home. Nice people on the surface but hurting underneath, with everyday lives singed by the kind of chaos people just get used to. (And don’t get me wrong, I’ve got my own chaos I trail along with me, like Pigpen and his accompanying dust cloud. I’ve come to the point that I believe any one of us is capable of just about anything if pushed far enough. I think that’s why this experience was so moving and convicting, too.) I used to call Gary one of my "peripherals" because he was one of the people in my life who I somehow saw all the time but who I didn't really know, someone who felt like an unlikely kind of social constant at the time. Driving down the street, getting a latte, stopped on the side of the road or what not, I saw him everywhere and thought, a little sadly, "Hm. That Gary... He's a nice guy."

So when I saw their house was destroyed, I was sad for what I didn’t know of them and for the little I did know. I also immediately turned inward and wondered what my own house might look like if it were a physical reflection of the emotional and spiritual lives and relationships inside. Would it be clean, pleasant, safe? Would it have that breathe-easy kind of curb appeal that makes a person feel at ease walking up the front path? Would it radiate hospitality and welcome, a fire in the hearth, smoke wisping from the chimney, the fragrance of stew and bread wafting from the wintry kitchen, a candle burning on the table? Or would it be in ruin or disrepair from too many years of damage and neglect, mold and mildew in every crevice? Would the very air you breathe as you walk through the door be toxic and bitter to the taste?

I'm not saying it was as directly tied for this family as it probably seems like I’m suggesting. I just get floored easily by symbols and patterns. I’m sure they had times together of happiness and peace, at least I hope they did, and as I said, they were nice enough. But it just made me think about all the things people say and do behind closed doors, the way we act when others aren't around. Guess it's a bit like Jesus' "white-washed tombs." I don't want that for my life. Or my home or family.

In the end we had to get rid of the puppy, too, Valentino. Ended up being too aggressive to have around toddlers, though I cried many tears and blamed myself even though the vet swore up and down it wasn’t my fault. Talking to that same less than helpful neighbor later who’d I’d asked about the house fire, he quickly commented at random one day that their dogs always ran feral around the neighborhood in packs, that he and others were scared of them. Made me feel better about our choice to surrender that pup but made me even more curious about the renters who had moved on. I hope they found a new home and each other.