At my dad’s small law firm in Central New York, the Thursday before Labor Day, 2016 came and went like most of the twenty some I’d worked there. For my father, same as the forty plus years of his career spent coming and going from his building.
In the library, the smell still strong of old law books dating back to the 1800s, now obsolete, but a treasured collection started by my great-grandfather. Piles of pink message slips strewn about desks, stacks of folders with work still to get to — some to be completed before the holiday weekend.
In the storefront next to us — a ladies’ beauty shop — men talked or read the paper, waiting for their ladies of a certain age who would exit with freshly set curls.
And on the second floor, two apartments housed two distinct tenants. Ultimately, each one leaving opposite impacts on our lives.
One who proudly contributed to the upkeep of our mid-1800s building for his four years of tenancy; a true gentleman who lived more than 80 years. He was a loyal friend to my father, appreciative for each favor in return for all the time and attention given to our relic of a building. He was an avid reader, a father and grandfather. A man who became a part of our daily life when he’d pop by on visits to and from the library, to the doctor, to the park.
The other resident is unworthy of naming, except to say his choice of company led to our building’s demise, and the tragic passing of my father’s friend.
The 2 bedroom apartment itself was more worthy of mention, with its soaring ceilings covered in tin, its walls of plaster and lath. Giant windows overlooked a quaint Main Street and provided views of the stately old bank building across from it.
This was my first rented home when I left home. It housed many a family member over the years when they found it their only option, turning to Dad as landlord. But there was no family living in it on this day.
That Thursday, on my desk in the law office sat a dish garden filled with lush green leaves, sunflowers and fresh dirt, a gift from my sister for completing the writing of my first novel the month before.
I’d written the manuscript in my spare time while working full time and doing all things working moms with busy families do.
At six-thirty Friday morning Mom called, saddled with being the bearer of horrible news.
An explosion from the intended production of crystal meth upstairs set the entire structure on fire. As the owner of the building, my father had been called. He’d been on the scene since three a.m., wondering if his friend would be okay, watching as our local heroes fought the blaze.
Though several people in the perpetrator’s company escaped, our friend did not.
To us, this was the most devastating loss (and still is).
Not the family history. Not the work that would still be there anyway, with or without paper to back it up. Not my vibrant dish garden that symbolized one of my life’s best accomplishments.
It was the loss of life, of someone who gave everything to something that he was lost within.
Our family’s cottage at a nearby lake was the intended location where we’d spend Labor Day weekend, another place of cherished history in our family for over 90 years. Kids would complain about returning to school as adults rejoiced. One last swim, one last barbecue. Our extended family would arrive today from all over, ready to celebrate the end of a season.
Instead, my father spent Friday observing the scene, while I worked. I attended a real estate closing in a nearby county on his behalf. He insisted there was nothing to see, that I could — and should — stay away.
But after work was done, I went. Arriving, devastation and shock dominated, though the fire had long been put out, the sun shining on a bright day.
We huddled across the street as investigators worked the scene. Friends and colleagues in the community helped us in whatever way they could that weekend and well beyond.
Saturday we grieved at our camp, surrounded by our family for support. Sunday, once time had been spent for recovery of our departed friend and professionals cleared the way, we spent the day sifting through a pile of rubble in search of anything salvageable. Indeed, we were surprised at the amount of paper items we did recover, given the building was a total loss.
A crane crawled through the debris and carried away my great-grandfather’s antique safes (too heavy for ten humans to lift) to a flatbed.
We were excited when pending files were found, ecstatic to find mementos reminding us of happier days or the meaningful possessions of our friend that could be returned to his family.
I worked from my cell phone for a few days, still taking cases even if it was from the driver’s seat of my car. We wandered around the town we’d worked in for decades feeling displaced. We had a growing amount of work to do and nowhere to do it.
We secured office space across the street in that old bank building that week. We couldn’t bear renting a 2nd floor suite overlooking the scene of the fire — what was, by then, a hole in the ground surrounded by only crumbling foundation walls. Instead, we rented the two small suites at the rear of the building, facing away from ghosts.
And somehow, mindset shifted.
While clients are as important as ever, new cases are more carefully accepted. For both of us, more time was spent with family and friends, recovering and reflecting.
Thinking about what might be next.
For me, what came next was writing.
I completed edits on that first novel and published it two months later.
I wrote and published two more novels to complete the trilogy before the following November (2017).
It’s been nearly two years, the tragedy still seeming more like a movie script than reality.
Our office marches on. We have the same phone number we’ve had for 40 plus years, and it doesn’t stop ringing.
But more time is now spent with my muse than with file folders and message slips and emails.
I have two new novels in the works that will release this summer.
Anyone who will listen now hears that I’m an author.
Perhaps in part because of that tragic day, this is what I do.