Out of ashes

The gunshots rang out at 4:16 in the morning. I remember the exact time, because the minute I was startled awake I looked at the clock. But I really wasn’t sure about the shots. One pop after another. Even in my fog, I thought, “Why would someone be hunting in February? And why in the middle of the night?”

The pops continued, almost rhythmically – pop, pop, pop. I noticed a glow outside my bedroom window. I got out of bed, and stumbled in slow motion to look outside, as if I were sleepwalking.

I stared for what seemed like several minutes, frozen, not shaken into action as I should have been. The barn – not 40 yards from my sleeping quarters – was ablaze, flames shooting out of the roof. Miniature explosions – probably from jugs of chemicals – punctuated the night. The metal siding that covered one side of the 100-year-old, red, wooden barn was peeling off like candle wax, flames whipping every which way. It was like I had been transported to the Cineplex, and I was watching this inferno on the large screen.

I should have been running, picking up the phone, doing something. I was transfixed. It was horror and it was theater at the same time. I finally made my legs move, grabbed jeans and a sweatshirt and a parka and found my cell phone, but the first volunteer firefighters were pulling up as I dialed.

Outside, in subzero night, I learned what “surreal” looks and feels and smells like. What to do? Nothing. There is no picture here of the burning barn, because I couldn’t even think to do that.

No one was hurt. Even the three barn cats got to safety. What was lost were two Bobcat tractors, a quarter-ton pickup truck, a 40-foot-motorhome, a brand-new snowmobile, and Dean’s livelihood.

Dean, the owner of the farm where I rent an outbuilding, is the proprietor of a swimming pool and home-heating business that he ran out of the old barn. He stood next to the firefighters and looked helpless – the only time I’d seen him so before or since. His own home, 50 yards the other direction, was in no danger, nor was my hovel, but his business was lost.

Outside, he said stoically, “This isn’t a good night, Steve.”

Inside, an hour later, as his wife made coffee for some of us who stood around trying to lend support, Dean disappeared around the corner and sobbed.

Unlike the death of a living being, whose remains are carried away and tended to, the bed of this fire lay bare and smoldering for days. The stench of smoke entered the houses and cars, and soot was frozen into the ground to await a spring thaw that was weeks away.

But today, that thaw has arrived. Piles of twisted metal have been hauled away. The air smells clear again. Dean has survived through the second stage of his grief: dealing with insurance companies – he spared no colorful vocabulary in telling me, his pastor friend, about how he was robbed.

He found a Wick Building for free elsewhere in the county, disassembled it, reassembled it on the farm, and is converting it into his new office and warehouse – by adding windows, insulation, plumbing and electrical.

He’s back on his Bobcat 14 hours a day.

The future isn’t clear, his business plan is in disarray, his losses are known only to him, but he has purpose again. He suffered, but he didn’t wallow. He’s doing what he’s always done: work hard, be kind to other people, and make use of every moment of available daylight.

I saw him the other day, which happened to be Good Friday, and he was smiling again. I hope he’ll be smiling on Easter, too.