Those that have known me for years recall the not-so-great fire of 1996 at my mom’s.   Home alone, in a blizzard, I took a shower after a long day at school.   After the shower, I found the house full of smoke. So I did what any normal 16 year old would: I opened windows to let smoke out, assuming it was due to the fire in the wood burning stove I’d had earlier.

When I went upstairs, the smoke was much thicker, and I was eventually hit in the face by flames, when I opened the door to my sister’s room.

Eyebrows burnet away, shoeless, and shirtless, I ran back downstairs and made a call.   To mom, at work. She told me to call the fire department, which should have been my first reaction, but I panicked.   Once I got outside, the neighbors began to gather, and watch, as the top floor of our house burnt to a crisp.   Not fun times.

This past Saturday, around 3:30, my mom called me to tell me that her house was on fire again.   Christine and I jumped in the car, and started rushing over there, while Mom was still on her way home from work.

When we got there, we didn’t see a lot of smoke, of flames.   Everything seemed okay, aside from the four cop cars, and three fire engines.

Come to find out, there was an electrical fire that started in the wall, behind her wood burning stove.   The firemen had to pull down most of the ceiling in her living room, and floor and walls in her bedroom upstairs.

When all was said and done, her entire living room and bedroom are going to need to be redone.   Everything’s a mess, and stinks like fire.   It’ll be a while before she can live in the house again, she her and Walter are staying with us for the time being.   I put up some images at Christine and my site (link here) of the damage and whatnot.