This is Joey making a "guest" entry.
I awoke the morning of June 8, 2010, at about 4:00 AM, to a siren blast and screeching tires. We were sleeping in the "toy room" in my parents' house in Las Vegas, which has a window that faces the street. I opened my eyes to the distinctive sight of flashing lights caused by an emergency vehicle. Pulling back the shade, I could see a fire engine parked on the adjacent street and two firefighters walking toward my parents' house.
I got up and started walking downstairs, detecting the smell of smoke. The smell became stronger and stronger the closer I got to the front door, but there was no other evidence of fire. I opened the front door and found myself face-to-face with a firefighter. "Sir, your garage is on fire!"
I instantly went into panic mode, with all of the stupidity that includes. I turned tail and ran to the garage as the firefighter yelled out, "Is there another entry to the garage?" "Yes!" I shouted, running to the door. I placed my hand on the door handle leading to the garage and started to turn it. "Don't open it!" shouted the firefighter. That snapped me out of my idiocy. What was I going to do about the fire anyway?
"How many people are in the house?" Great question. "I don't know! Lots! Maybe thirteen!" I ran to the den and woke up my brother Rob and his wife Sara first. "There's a fire in the garage! Get out!" Then upstairs to wake my mom and dad, then my sisters Jennie and Liz in Jennie's room, then Jennie's friend Jordan in Liz's room, and finally my precious wife and two children back in the toy room. Ashley had been sleeping without pants (a pregnancy thing, surely) and was struggling to put some on. "Come on!" I yelled. "I can't go out there like this!" was the reply. Oh, yes, you can. But she didn't. I grabbed Georgie and bolted for the front door.
Outside, I was directed by firefighters to the south wall of my parents' front yard, where the eleven of us (not thirteen) huddled. Well, ten initially. When I woke everyone up with the news, I didn't specify that the fire department was already present, so my father had grabbed a hose and was spraying water through the door leading to the garage. The firefighters soon put a stop to his eager but unnecessary assistance. They had already smashed through one of the vents in the garage door and soaked the inside of the garage.
Suddenly, a power tool was turned on and sparks began flying from the garage door. I became very upset at this for some reason. "They're ruining the garage door!" I'm sure that firefighters deal with irate or upset residents on a regular basis as they smash or cut through your home in an attempt to save it. The paramedic came over to do a medical check. No one was hurt or injured. No one had inhaled smoke. Everyone was fine.
What happened? There was a lot of speculation initially, but as the day progressed we pieced the story together. My dad had a garbage can, his
favorite garbage can, that he kept under his work bench in the garage. The night before, several greasy rags had been thrown away in that garbage can. I can remember in some junior high science class learning about "spontaneous combustion" occurring if oily rags are kept in a poorly ventilated area, but this is certainly not something that I thought about frequently. None of us did. Now we will.
The firefighters informed us that the fire had probably started to the right of the welding machine, which is where the garbage can was kept. The fumes had probably been building up all night, for about eight hours or so. This morning, a man in the neighborhood was going on his daily walk when he noticed smoke coming from my parents' garage. A man driving by had a cell phone and called 911. The 911 transcript reads: "See a lot of smoke inside house. Smoke throughout house. Windows now breaking. No one came to the door. Two cars parked outside."
A female neighbor called 911 reporting that she thought she heard gunshots. Probably my dad's cans of compressed refrigerant exploding. The firefighters arrived and banged on the door with no response from us. They were preparing to smash the front door in when I opened it. The firefighter I encountered was Billy, whose kids had taken swimming lessons from my mom and whose wife I apparently went to school with at some point. When he heard the address he thought, "That's near Rosie Merback's house." When he arrived, he thought, "That
is Rosie's house."
My dad had an old 1950s smoke alarm in the garage. It was a wind up alarm, no battery required, that clanged when it detected heat. None of us heard it. None of us heard the neighbor at the door, or the compressed cans exploding, or the firefighters at the door. Probably because we were all up late talking the night before.
Outside on the grass, we started laughing about our situation. "Mom, make sure you tell the firefighters that we don't all live here!" There I am, with my pregnant wife and two kids, apparently still living with my parents. As are my married brother and sister-in-law, and my sister and her "guy" friend. "Do you think they noticed the Oklahoma license plate on our van? Surely they realize we are here on vacation!" The firefighters were great. They brought over stuffed animals and stickers for the kids, as well as bottled water and sports drinks for everyone. Thank you to all of the emergency personnel that are ready and waiting at all hours of the day and night.
After about an hour, they let us back in the house. My heart broke for my dad. You have to understand some things about my father. He built that part of the garage, which is an extension of the old, smaller garage. He built that work bench. Above and under that bench, he kept many of his most valued tools. His right-angle drill, his construction stapler, his "saws-all" mechanical saw, his welder, his air compressor. All of those things are partly made of plastic. Plastic which melted like butter in the heat of the fire. All of those tools and machines are gone. Not to mention his
favorite garbage can, which was a brown and black puddle stuck to the floor.
My mother kept her Suburban in the garage. Despite Rob and Liz's best efforts, the windows are still smoke damaged and foggy. The paint is yellow all over and missing in some places. The work bench is burnt, though still structurally sound. The plastic cases my dad kept his odds and ends in are melted. The rolls of tape and tubes of caulk are ruined. The ceiling in the garage is blackened, the garage door is in pieces, and the whole house reeks of smoke.
But we are all alive and healthy, and the rest of the house is fine. The drywall behind the bench is toast, but the studs are untouched. Many tools were in metal cases and survived without a scratch. Even some tools in plastic cases made it, despite some melting of the cases themselves. We were all awake and wired for a few hours, cleaning up, talking, and eating. Then, at about seven or eight o'clock, we started to crash. After 3-4 hour naps, we were all feeling much better.
I know that the aftermath has been pretty hard on some of my family members. I hope that they can focus on the positive and not get too bogged down with anxiety and negative thoughts. In ten years, it will be nothing but a great story to tell.
