F is for Fire

So about a year and a half ago, Myra moved into an apartment. It’s a better place for her, cheaper to heat, and easier for a lovely 70 year old woman to maintain.

Of course, apartment living has some drawbacks, too. When something needs fixing, you’ve gotta wait for the super or building manager or somebody to do it, and it often takes a long time. Also your neighbors are much closer, and you share common spaces with them, like hallways and exits and sidewalks…you know how it is. And sometimes, they have a fire in their kitchen, and it gets a bit out of control.

Luckily no one was hurt, and Hendrum’s volunteer fire department managed to get the fire out. But the three-story, 12-unit building stinks to high heaven. Myra’s been staying at Jess’ for the last week and a half while the cleaning crews come and her insurance wrangles with the owners of the building to make sure things get cleaned correctly.

ImageThe fire was in the apartment furthest from Myra’s, two floors down and over, but here you can see the soot (from lifting the shampoo bottles in Myra’s shower) that covers every single thing. Below, her newspaper from the hallway, left there because she was out of town the weekend of the fire, and coated in even more soot. ImageI know we should just be grateful no one was hurt, and the that the whole building wasn’t lost, and we are, truly. But it’s still a mess, and a pain in the butt, and so it gets its own blog post.

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About Jennifer

Writer teacher mama sister friend sewist poet trying to stay warm in Minnesota's northwest.
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