Facing the firing squad

I wake up at 5:45 a.m. to the sound of Paul coughing. He's sick -- perfect timing, the day before we leave for vacation. Eh, might as well get out of bed, I tell myself. No sense just laying here next to the Great Germ Factory.

So I wander to the den, plop my butt on the couch and wearily turn on the TV. It's cold. I'm longing to be back under the covers. The DVR whirs into action: first the audio, then the picture ...

... and then I see it. Fire. A block from my office. The oldest church in Memphis is burning, and the embers apparently -- so the anchors say, at least -- have traveled four blocks and ignited a $45 million, three-building rehab project to bring condos and retail to a thriving Downtown area.

The nausea washes over me. This hits too close to home. I run and wake up Paul. "Hon, I know you don't feel good, but I need you to see something." And, for what seems like hours, we gaze at the TV footage. It's sickening. The national news picks it up.

"If you work Downtown, call ahead and make sure your office is open," one local station advises. "I wouldn't even bother coming Downtown," another says. And then my boss calls. I let the voicemail pick up. Be at work at normal time, she says, sleepily. I guess the news waits for no one, I tell myself.

Paul goes back to bed, too sick to go into work. I get ready and leave the house, stomach in knots. Then I turn around and go back for my inhaler and nebulizer -- want to err on the safe side in case the smoke bothers my lungs. Stupid asthma. Stupid fire. Stupid smoke. But the drive in is easy, and parking's not a problem. My office building is the last before the police/fire barricade.

The building smells like smoke. I pull my inhaler out of my bag -- must be new, since it's still in the box, I think. But the box is empty. I picked up the wrong one. Now I'm 20 miles from home, in a smoky building, and without an inhaler. I order an emergency refill.

An hour passes. I wander from The Closet to a window and watch the smoke rising from the ashes. I question whether its possible for an ember to travel four blocks. Then I grab my keys and head for the pharmacy. Breathing is underrated.

A police car is blocking traffic down the street -- further away from the fire -- so I roll down my window and flag down the policewoman, who's talking to another driver. "If I leave my office, can I get back down here?" She shakes her head slowly. "No guarantees," she says with a thick drawl. Fantastic. I need my medicine, but I might not be able to get back to work. It's a risk I'm willing to take. So I'm not surprised when I return from the pharmacy and see her blocking off the street. I pull the car into a cobblestoned alley and bypass her police car. I'm sure she can write me a ticket, but why bother?

Hours pass; I can't shake the nausea. I was just there yesterday, walking to lunch. I swallow hard. Looking through a window isn't helping. I need to see it in person -- to satisfy my curiosity and put my mind at ease.

So I talk Rosalind into shooting photos. We hike to Court Square. We slowly make our way toward the now-demolished church (shown in the above picture). I hold the camera bag while Ros snaps away. The steeple is gone, the belltower scorched. A half-dozen photographers gather at the edge of the barricade. I sit on a curb to decompress. An elderly lady hobbles over and sits next to me.

"That was my church," she says, distraught. Many members of the 185-year-old congregation are huddled near the building, waiting on the arrival of the bishop from out of town. I point to a window, the only one not blown out by the heat or water pressure (in the photo, it's on the left side of the church). "That was stained glass," she tells me. "It was -- they all were -- beautiful." I look at the brownish fused glass and try to picture Christ in beautiful shades of red and blue. I can't see it.

And after a while, her white-haired husband is helping her stand up. It's time to leave. It's over.

A historian on the radio muses about the fires. It's ironic, she says. The oldest building in Memphis has ignited the second oldest building. The only 19th century structures Downtown are total losses. Already, one architect is giving the Phoenix Rising speech. I can't decide if it's crass or comforting.

And now I'm home, packing for Florida. It's been a long day. Paul's still sick, still coughing. I need to be awake in five and a half hours so I can drive. And yet I can't shake the image of that old woman, voice waivering, speaking of the church as if it were her child.

The TV news loops the footage of the fires. Incredibly, no one is injured, they say. At least not physically, I think. I know a lot of people are hurting tonight, and now I've had a first-hand glimpse why.