Column: To A House Fire In Samantha

*This is an opinion column*

SAMANTHA, AL — I've made the drive from Northport to Mormon Road more times than I would ever be able to keep track of. It's one of the most beautiful stretches of road in all of Tuscaloosa County, cutting through the green and relatively untamed countryside that has been occupied by my kinfolk for well over a century.

But as I drove over 70 mph along the winding and sparsely populated county road Wednesday afternoon, past the hay fields and rolling hills of northern Tuscaloosa, the trek seemed to take longer than it ever had.

The only thing I slowed down to see along the way was the cemetery at Phillips Chapel Baptist Church, where my grandparents are buried. But I didn't stop.

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When I pulled up to the bottom of the hill, just across the road from the red dirt of Lester Patterson Road, the view of my grandparents' old house at the top was blocked by emergency vehicles as the setting sun glinted off shiny red firetrucks manned by the good folks of the Samantha Volunteer Fire Department.

I could already see and smell the smoke, along with the acrid stench of mud from all of the water being pumped. But as I climbed the steep grassy hill where we would once hunt for Easter eggs hidden by my Granddaddy Joe, the house came in to full focus.

It was a total loss — with little else remaining apart from a smoldering brick frame and its foundation. My heart sank to the soles of my feet. It was an ineffable feeling, as confusion melded with heartbreak to twist my gut into tight knots.

My grandparents on my Dad's side have been gone now for some time and we miss them terribly, but never in my life did I think my own eyes would see their home destroyed in such a violent way as the sun shined off in the distance.

The day was simply too beautiful for a house fire. In a way, that made it hurt that much more.

Fortunately, no one was injured or actively living in the house. But that provides little comfort when considering the total loss of a home where multiple generations of my family made memories. While the most important family artifacts were salvaged long ago, such as my grandmother's ash tray, there is likely no audit that would give us a true idea of what we lost to the flames this afternoon.

After finally summoning the nerve to walk close to the house, the charred, brown grass crunched under foot and hot spots were still visible as volunteer firefighters remained diligent on the offensive with their hoses. Walking past my Grandmother's fig trees around to the back of the house, I was able to peer inside through the back porch, into the black mass that was once a dining room where countless family reunions, holiday meals and suppers were enjoyed. Through the faint crackles and sound of dripping water, I could almost hear my granddaddy's full-bellied laughter and see my brother as a curly-head kid holding his plate as he asked for seconds of my Grandmother's dirt cake.

But after I made my way back around to the front of the house, I stood in my Grandmother's overgrown old flower bed to look in through the front entrance. I was then taken back to the years just before she died, when I would cross the threshold to find her to the right of the door, sitting in her recliner. She kept an old .22 rifle leaned in the corner that was visible as soon as you came in and, in the years after Granddaddy died, often had her service pistol on her side table in plain sight — a cherished relic from her years on the police force at Bryce Hospital.

While my brother and I had an ideal childhood in that house, my fondest memories are of my visits with my Grandmother after I became an adult. We would smoke cigarettes, watch Westerns and talk about the same handful of country music singers — Johnny Paycheck, Ray Price, Merle Haggard, and her favorite, George Jones.

Even though she lived alone in those last years, she still made the place feel like home, with a warm pot of coffee always ready. Sometimes the conversations would be the same topics we had talked about a dozen times, but that didn't matter — at least not to me.

I miss those days, which overtook me at once like a devastating rogue wave, as I stood there breathing in the noxious smoke from the cinders of my childhood memories.

I've worked in journalism for most of my adult life and lost track years ago of the number of house fires I've reported on. Facing tragedy and running toward heartbreak is nothing new to me as a professional, but Wednesday was a sobering reminder that we can all easily become front page news at a moment's notice, whether we're ready for it or not.

I didn't have to interview anyone to take stock of what was lost. That ledger will no doubt stick with my family and I from here on out and will only grow in length as we still have yet to fully come to terms with a situation that is only hours old.

Thankfully, I do still have both of my parents, a younger brother who is my best friend, one full set of living grandparents and an amazing cast of other family members and friends who will no doubt help us through such a tough time.

While it goes without saying that much more energy will likely be expended in trying to understand what we will never get back, I found myself grateful on the drive back home for what I still had. After all, I was able to hug my Dad and brother both before we parted ways. That's something for which I'm sure many would trade a fortune.

Following the loss of my grandparents' old home Wednesday and all of the heartbreak from violence across Tuscaloosa County over the last few days, I hope your takeaway from this column is the concept of impermanence and the frailty of things we think will last forever.

Never take old haunts and memories for granted. As I learned today, they can be snatched from you before you even realize they're gone.

Have a news tip or suggestion on how I can improve Tuscaloosa Patch? Maybe you're interested in having your business become one of the latest sponsors for Tuscaloosa Patch? Email all inquiries to me at ryan.phillips@patch.com