Caution: Contents Are Perishable

On an October Sunday morning about 12 years ago, I drove home from the McCant's track and found my house on fire. Firemen, ladder trucks and police cars were already on the scene and I remember thinking, "But I haven't been gone that long."

A newspaper reporter found me on the sidewalk and said, "People are usually crying and screaming when they see their houses on fire. Why are you so calm?"

I shook my head and shrugged, "What else can I do?"

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If you've never had a house fire it might be hard to imagine how it feels once the police have finished their reports, after the firemen have rolled up their hoses and headed back to the station, after the gawkers have stopped staring, lost interest and wandered off hoping they caught good something in their cameras.

You're left alone with what used to be your stuff.

It's not just the crushing sense of helplessness, of being overwhelmed by the fierce suddenness of events or even the pity-provoking barbs like, "Why me?"

There's also a numbing awareness that Today, I Am the Other Guy ... and that so far as all the people watching the story on tonight's local news are concerned, your fire and its aftermath only lasts as long as it takes for the screen to blink with the next big tragic story.

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Having fire insurance is great when you need it, but "Full Content Coverage" only works on paper ... because who's gonna pay for emotional repairs and replacements? What amount can replace all the things that, only a day before, had seemed irreplaceable? What amount can change me back from being The Other Guy?

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If I had a point when I started, it's gone now and I can't remember what it was. Except perhaps that a fire has a profoundly painful, permanent way of re-ordering your priorities and outlook.

And not to trust or rely upon the security or pursuit of material possessions ever again.