Celebrating Not Dead Day

The house stood firm for over a hundred years. The Formstone fa?ade caused the locals to call it The Old Stone House. Some knew it as the Old Wilkerson Place because Mr. Wilkerson bought the house in the 1930’s but it was built shortly after the turn of the previous century. According to old timers in the area, the wife of the builder designed the coloration of the Formstone with its muted earth tones of brown, green, blue, and a hint of pink. Sitting on the corner where the road leading in turned sharp right but maintained its name because the road that kept straight was added later, the two-story structure became a landmark. You’d hear people giving directions advising travelers to turn at the big stone house. It was rumored to be haunted.

Only descendants of the British Isles owned the property since the keeping of modern records. Perhaps this was why on the night we moved in, my nine-year-old daughter swears to this day, she saw a big black dog with glowing red eyes. Like the Gwyllgi of Welsh legend. He stood at the edge of the shadows, staring at her, before turning to disappear in the darkness. Now, my daughter says he has a big white dog to play with.

The big white dog was our beloved white boxer Matilda, or Matty for short. She was tall for a boxer, able to set her head on a card table and gaze across. Her tongue was so large and always hanging out of her mouth, we asked the vet about it. He felt around in her mouth and determined nothing was wrong, she just had a huge tongue. It would loll out as wide as a spatula when she romped in the yard chasing a ball, one of her favorite activities.

Five years after moving in, with the help of my parents, we had the interior remodeled, replacing the knob-and-tube wiring with the current standard. When the electrician pulled out the stove, he informed us the old wiring was nearly burned through and would have caused a fire within five years. We thanked God he found the problem in time.

Sixteen years later, a portion of the new wiring in the living room wall arced. The fire inspector informed us a fire is common within fifteen years of a remodel because often a wire is damaged during the construction.

Our adult son was the only human in the house. The fire alarm awakened him from a nap. He opened his second-story bedroom door to thick smoke and the glow of flames. Afraid of heights since childhood, he had no choice but to jump from his window. With remarkable presence of mind, he recalled reading about how the paratroopers in WWII were taught to land by falling to the side like a sack of potatoes as soon as one boot touched the ground. His only injury was a bruised foot.

He took off running, then remembered our dog. He ran to the back door and kicked it, breaking the glass in its panes. He peeked through but didn’t see Matty. Since my husband and I had left for the grocery store, she was hooked up at the end of the hall leading from the back door. If she had heard him, she would have run to the end of her lead and been clearly visible to our son.

He ran around to the front door and managed to kick it open, only to be met by dense smoke and the sight of the fire rolling up the living room wall and across the ceiling toward him. He backed out. If Matty had still been alive, she would have been able to step to him.

According to the fire report, the volunteer fire department was alerted at 7:01 p.m. on October 29, 2018. The first unit arrived at 7:10 p.m. They encountered a water shortage and called for support. Units from five other departments deployed, one from twenty-five miles away. All arrived before my husband and I from the grocery store only eight miles distant. Our delay was due to my husband’s cellphone ringing from an unknown number. After the fourth call, he answered to a rescue worker who informed us our house was on fire. My husband stood for a second in shock and we left our basket full of groceries as we rushed home.

We had a camera aimed at Matty so we could see her when were away. With dread, I tried to connect via my phone, but there was nothing to connect to by that point.

We arrived to emergency vehicles lining our rural street, forcing us to park and walk the dark road illumined by the flames. The old house still stood. The glass blown out. The windows stared like eyes of the dead. My husband and I made our way through the tangle of vehicles, red lights flashing to the ambulance sheltering our son. Someone had given him sweatpants and a sweatshirt to cover the boxers and t-shirt he wore when he jumped, along with the pair of tennis shoes he thought to slip on.

We sat in the church next door, stunned. After some time, my husband and I walked to the edge of the driveway gazing at what remained as it continued to burn. The house had collapsed by then. I have since learned it fell moments after we arrived, as though it stood long enough to say goodbye. At this point, only the back porch remained, to succumb as we watched. I jumped and uttered and muffled cry. My husband stood staring. A man of usually guarded emotions wept, hands shaking in mild shock, whispering, “Matty. Matty.”

No one can imagine the devastation of such loss. I’m a writer. Imagination is my trade. I could never have imagined until it happened. I can tell someone to stop the next time they head out on an errand, look back, and envision you are left with only what you have with you at that moment. Because everything behind them still exists, most are unable to fathom the loss.

Now on October 29, we celebrate Not Dead Day. We have a few drinks, laugh, talk, and enjoy our new pup, Phoenix, Nixie for short. She’s a white boxer, like Matty.

And now the big black dog has a big white dog to play with. Run free sweet girl. Until we meet again.