The first I heard of the burning of my childhood home, where I spent the first 10 years of my life, was in an e-mail from Mom:
“Hi all, as you may have heard, we burned down the Gerth house on Thursday. Here are a few pics of the event. Sad, but it really needed to be done as the coons had decided that they liked it for their new home. Love you all, mom”
It was surprisingly devastating to view the attached pictures. There was something unsettling about seeing flames dance out of the upstairs windows where I spent countless hours playing with my siblings, sleeping…dreaming. Those walls held so much laughter, joy, singing, dancing. It felt sacrilege to comb over the pictures, as if viewing a corpse.
I always took comfort in the fact that at any moment I could, if I really wanted to, still return to the place where all my memories began. This knowledge provided a sense of security…that if for some reason I couldn’t remember, place alone would be the impetus to spark memory. Perhaps, I fear my memories are now threatened…no longer easily recalled in the framework of actuality, but instead, completely reliant on my own memories or the recollection of others.
Either way, the house is gone.
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