Stuyvesant High School Students Raise Funds for Red Cross

 

On Wednesday, Sept. 3, students from Manhattan's Stuyvesant High School who live in Queens presented a check for $5,000 to the American Red Cross in Greater New York to support disaster response operations. The students held a benefit concert in June with donations going to the Red Cross. This is the sixth consecutive year the school has raised funds for Greater New York. The check presentation was held in the office of Congressional Member Grace Meng.

Rep. Meng thanked the students for their continued commitment to their community and to the Red Cross for its continued service to New York City and her district.

Several of the students in the music program are also members of the Stuyvesant High School Red Cross Club, which is the largest student club at the school.

Photo: Rep. Grace Meng (left) with students from Stuyvesant High School and Alex Lutz, senior regional director, Community Relations, American Red Cross. Photo credit: Jeehoon Chun from the Korean Times

Where Were You During Blackout 2003?

By Agatha Kereere

Anita Salzberg, American Red Cross Greater NY editorial manager, was home with her husband in their Queens, N.Y., apartment on Thursday, August 14, 2003, when a major outage knocked out power to millions in the northeast U.S. and Canada.

"It was late-afternoon and sunny," Salzberg said. "The air conditioner abruptly cut off and our clocks stopped working. This was about two years after 9/11 so my first thought was—'Terrorism?' I got one of our small transistor radios out of a cabinet, and, within a minute, I knew this was 'just' a blackout."

Salzberg proceeded to collect all the batteries and flashlights in the apartment and dumped them onto the couple's dining room table. She said her husband looked at her with a combination of surprise and amusement. "He didn't know we had these supplies or how I'd thought of them," she said. "And I didn't think it was funny."

Though Salzberg and others felt a sense of relief when the source of the blackout was revealed to have no links to terrorism, that didn't make the situation any less serious. According to news reports, roughly 50 million people were affected by the loss of power.

Technology and social media had yet to make the strides of today; there was no Facebook status to assure loved ones of a person's wellbeing or tweets to provide updates on the situation. Many people weren't sure how to respond to the outage, but perhaps some, like Salzberg, were able to rely on past experiences to dictate how to proceed.

"I remembered the blackout back in 1977 and used that to help me in this situation," Salzberg said. "Having the supplies on hand was instinctive; I just knew what we'd need if the power went down."

Blackout 2003 was 11 years ago today. However, more than a decade later, many New Yorkers still aren't prepared for this kind of emergency. Are you?

Learn Red Cross tips for successfully coping with a power outage.

“The Red Cross was there to help me and I really appreciate it.”

By Dorothy He

For Kaydian Grennan of Far Rockaway, it was a typical morning at her uncle’s two-story house. She and her four young children were enjoying their usual routine of breakfast while watching TV. Without warning, the fire alarm went off, and thick smoke started billowing from the stairwell down into the kitchen.

Kaydian grabbed her kids and looked for an escape. She recalled, “I knew I wasn’t cooking. I smelled something burning, like rubber, and saw a dark, dark smoke. We just ran—we only had on pajamas.”

When the Grennan family had made it safely outside, they used a neighbor’s phone to dial 911. First responders came to put out the fire, which was caused by the air conditioning unit in the house. Unfortunately, the house was destroyed. 

Kaydian was worried. Her uncle and cousin were her only family. She thought, “What am I going to do? I have no clothes, nowhere to go.”

Then, within the hour, the Red Cross arrived on the scene. After speaking with Kaydian, they provided her and her family with a two-night stay at a local hotel and emergency funds for food and clothing.

Having been affected by Hurricane Sandy last year, with no light or power for weeks, Kaydian was especially distraught at the loss of her home. However, having the support of the Red Cross gave her extra reassurance.

Kaydian said, “You don’t know how [relieved] I felt when the Red Cross responder told me, ‘I will place you in a hotel,’ and gave me that card. “The Red Cross was there to help me and I really appreciate it,” Kaydian said. “My kids and I slept comfortably last night.”

Volunteer Profile: Mike Hollis

By Gordon Williams

Mike Hollis of Sunnyside, Queens, has played a great many roles in his five years as a volunteer with the American Red Cross Greater New York region.

His association with the Red Cross actually began in high school with the blood services program in his home state of Connecticut. Later he moved to New York City and over five years with Greater New York has been a responder in disaster services, a member of the Bronx Disaster Action Team (DAT), a DAT lead and, most recently, a shelter supervisor for Mass Care (feeding).

When a rain storm flooded the Mid-Atlantic States late last summer, he was deployed as a shelter manager in Montgomery County, Md. He not only ran the shelter but also helped the Montgomery County officials who staffed the facility learn the ins-and-outs of shelter management—from how to register clients to how to assemble cots.

These days, Hollis has a new and more challenging assignment—one not previously given to a volunteer.

NSS Reporting

Not only is Hollis now a support specialist in the Red Cross National Shelter System (NSS)—the first volunteer to hold the job—but he has also been named as an NSS Trainer—the first one ever for the Greater New York region.

Monica Czwarno, regional manager for Mass Care and Logistics, explained, “Not only can Mike teach NSS nationally through conference call-style classes, but he has taught two different NSS courses as a classroom instructor in New York City.”

If that didn't keep Hollis busy enough (he has a full time job as a database manager for an environmental consulting firm) he has also written a new NSS Pocket Guide.

“It will give volunteers a go-to guide when they need a refresher on how to use the system,” Czwarno said.

So what is the National Shelter System and where does it fit in the Red Cross mission of bringing relief to disaster victims?

Hollis explained that the primary function of NSS is as an analytical tool that collects data from Red Cross shelters while they are in operation. Once collected and analyzed, all the data help tomorrow’s shelter managers and their crews do a better job by learning from the past experiences of others.

Hollis explained that the function of NSS support specialist was created so that shelter reporting is done by specific individuals who are trained to do the job: “This assures that data is reported into the system efficiently, while freeing up shelter managers and staff to fulfill their primary responsibilities.” 

On the job, Hollis and his fellow support specialists contact shelter managers twice a day during operations, collecting such data as shelter populations and feeding it into the NSS system. The function can be performed remotely, from any location that offers internet access. The material is useful in helping the Red Cross understand shelter trends and do post-operation analysis. 

Hollis is one of three NSS Support Specialists for the region—each spending a month on call on a rotation basis.

Superstorm Sandy

Hollis’s NSS experience became even more valuable when Sandy hit the East Coast. For five days after the storm hit, Hollis worked out of the Emergency Operations Center as shelter coordinator for the region before returning to his job. That entailed everything from NSS reporting to troubleshooting issues ranging from a need for basic resources, such as blankets, to helping to find a safe haven for pets belonging to evacuees, to coordinating visits to Red Cross shelters by elected officials. 

“It was a very intense experience, but incredibly rewarding,” he said. “A side of the Red Cross I hadn’t experienced. I think we were able to keep things really organized for the operation.” 

Like so many Red Cross employees and volunteers, each of those four nights, Hollis slept on the building’s fourth floor—when he had time to sleep. NSS reporting needs to occur at 12 hour intervals, so he would be up for a 9 am meeting, spend the morning and afternoon tackling other issues, as well as preparing for the noon and midnight counts.

The following week, Hollis helped with the initial training of new shelter volunteers arriving from across the country to help Sandy evacuees. Then, from end of November to end of January, he remotely handled NSS reporting for the final Sandy shelter reports.

Work-life Balance

Despite his busy Red Cross schedule, Hollis still has time for a personal life. His work involves managing the team that provides research support for environmental consulting projects the firm undertakes. Hollis also coordinates the training program for the firm’s field staff. What free time he has is spent jogging, gardening and reading.

“We were able to keep our dignity”

by Carl Manning

For Hafiz Ahmed, the American Red Cross was the difference between keeping his dignity as family provider and suffering the despair of being without any place to live but the streets.

Ahmed, who makes a living as a New York City taxi driver, arrived in the United States from his native Bangladesh in 1997. For the last year, he has lived with his wife and his 8-year-old son in a basement apartment in the Forest Hills section of Queens.

In March 2012, after dropping his son off at school, Ahmed was working his day shift when he received a frantic phone call from his wife. There was a fire in their apartment building and their home had been flooded with water and smoke. It would be uninhabitable.

When Ahmed arrived home, the police asked if his family had a place to stay. That’s when the reality sank in. He said he was supposed to be the family provider, but at that moment he couldn’t even provide them a place to live.

Ahmed didn’t have the money to stay at a hotel, his father and brother didn’t have room to take the family in and he couldn’t count on the landlord to help out.

“Everybody I know lives in tiny places and it is no good to go there and bother them,” Ahmed said. “Everything was gone. There was water like a shower on my TV, my computer, my mattress. The whole house smelled.”

As he worried about what to do next, Red Cross volunteers showed up at the scene and provided Ahmed and his family with immediate assistance—food, clothing and a place to stay.

“One night I was in my bed and the next night I was in the hotel,” he recalled. “During that time I got a gift from God. We made it. These people helped us … this is really appreciated.”

But the Red Cross assistance didn’t end there.

Ahmed met with caseworkers who helped with his long-term recovery needs. Ahmed said he didn’t realize the Red Cross helped fire victims, and he’s glad they were there when he needed them.

“The most important thing the Red Cross did for me was to assure me that I didn’t have to live on the street,” he said. “We didn’t beg anybody. We were able to keep our dignity.”

"We Can Get Back on Our Feet Now."

Although Edward Gralla and his family evacuated their home in Far Rockaway in advance of Superstorm Sandy last October, they returned to find with six feet of water in the basement.

With their rental now unlivable, Gralla’s wife and four of his children then stayed with relatives. Gralla himself, along with a special-needs child, took refuge in a Red Cross shelter near where they’d lived.

“It was very nice there,” he said. “We had a place to sleep, it was heated, we had Kosher food.”

About three weeks later, the family moved to temporary lodgings in a FEMA hotel.

On April 30, Gralla accepted a check from the Red Cross that will allow the family to move into a brand new rental in Far Rockaway.

“Red Cross helped with the rent, security and moving expenses,” said Gralla. “I thank them very much for that. It’s wonderful, wonderful help. We can get back on our feet now.”

Photo: Superstorm Sandy survivor Edward Gralla accepts a recovery check from Kathy Massar, Red Cross casework supervisor from the Northeast California chapter, and Robert Callender, Manager, Move in Assistance program for Queens, from the Greater Carolinas chapter in Charlotte, N.C.

If you asked me my name, I couldn’t tell you.

Disbelief … shock … sadness.

Sandra Simpson felt all these emotions while watching her basement become engulfed in flames on Labor Day 2012, then watching those flames leap to the first, and then the second, floor of her single-family, three-story home in Cambria Heights, New York.

The fire began when new bars were installed on the house’s basement windows. Without the welders’ knowledge, an errant spark had travelled into the basement, setting it afire. After the welders left, Simpson’s husband, who had gone outside to get the car, called his wife on his cell.

“Do you smell smoke?” he said.

He then spotted the flames, screamed for her to get out of the house, and called 911. (Luckily, their daughter, 19, was staying at her grandparents’ house.)

As they watched the flames spread, the fire department arrived. They quickly put out the blaze, which destroyed the basement and first floor, rendering the house unlivable.

“The Red Cross came maybe within a half hour,” said Simpson. “There were two responders, a brother and sister. Her first question to me was ‘Is everybody safe?” I told her yes. She asked me, ‘What do you need?’ She started to tell me about the Red Cross and all they could provide. She was so giving, so concerned.

“You’re dazed from what happened to you. You don’t know what to do or who to call and she provided such good information: ‘We’re going to get a hotel; if you need food, if you need clothes, we have those things in the van; tomorrow you’ll call the office. They’ll tell you if you need to come in and walk you through everything.’”

Simpson said that before the fire, she associated Red Cross only with CPR and blood donations.

“I had no idea that the Red Cross helped after a fire,” she said. “Before they arrived, I couldn’t think straight—and I’m a nurse. If you asked me my name, I couldn’t tell you. The responders calmed us down.”

After being dropped off at a nearby hotel, Simpson and her husband received many more calls from the Red Cross. “Everyone from the Red Cross who called said, ‘Are you okay?’ ‘You need to come in to see us.’ ‘Do you have food?’ ‘Did you get your debit card?’ I can’t thank the Red Cross enough.”

Sandra Simpson, Queens, N.Y.

“Bad if There’s an Earthquake.”

A few years after my husband and I moved into our Queens, N.Y., apartment two decades ago, my then 12-year-old cousin, Ted, visited from out of town. The kid took one look at the two bookcases in our hallway leading to the master bedroom and scowled.

“Bad in an earthquake,” he declared, shaking his head. “Very, very bad in an earthquake.”
My husband and I thought this was hilarious.

“We really don’t have earthquakes in New York,” I said, recalling that I’d slept through a small earthquake in New York years earlier. “Just tiny ones.”

“You never know,” said Ted, who as you may have guessed was—and still is—living on the West Coast.

Ted had already experienced many earthquakes in his life, including the 1989 San Francisco quake, from which he and his family emerged unscathed.

It’s now almost 20 years later.

I’m reminded of this incident today, because it’s the one-year anniversary of the 5.8 earthquake that struck Virginia—and was felt right here in NYC.

I was at work at Greater New York Red Cross headquarters on 49th Street in Manhattan when a colleague said, “Do you feel that? Do you feel the building shaking?”

The building was gently swaying. It was an unsettling sensation, which happily passed pretty quickly.

Which brings me back to the two bookcases that are still lining the hallway leading to my bedroom: It’s probably time to have our building superintendent secure them to the wall.

You can read Red Cross earthquake preparedness tips here.

Anita Salzberg, Queens, NY

Beauty Is Possible, Even in Brokenness

Pastor Burt Crabbe addresses Red Cross High School Club members

“Profoundly jarring.”

That’s how Bert Crabbe, pastor of True North Community Church in Bohemia, N.Y., described his journey to the Far East six years ago to learn about the sex trafficking of children.

Crabbe was addressing a group of 14 Red Cross High School Club members enrolled in “Exploring Humanitarian Law,” a program designed to help students understand the rules governing war and their impact on human life and dignity.

The program, which is being held at Greater New York Red Cross regional headquarters in Manhattan from July 9 through August 2, also addresses supplementary rules and guidelines regarding armed conflict, such as the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the UN Convention on Genocide and the UN Convention on the rights of the child.

“While human trafficking may most often be a result of poverty, it can also be a result of armed conflict,” said Amanda Crabbe, Greater New York Red Cross youth programs manager and Pastor Crabbe’s cousin. “Bert’s talk set the stage for our students’ knowledge of human trafficking and conveyed a personal account of what sexual slavery actually looks like. We have been referencing his talk throughout the program,” she added, “and applying his examples to instances of sexual slavery during times of conflict.”

On Crabbe’s 2006 trip to Thailand and Cambodia, he accompanied Rob Morris, president of LOVE146, a non-profit international human rights organization working to end child sex trafficking. Crabbe, who had supported the work of LOVE146 through small personal financial donations, now wanted to see the organization’s challenges and programs firsthand.

While waiting in LA for a connecting flight to Thailand, Crabbe and Morris drove through Bel Air, California, passing lavish homes and mansions, and luxury shops.

Right after landing in Bangkok, Thailand, Morris took Crabbe through the Red Light district, where trafficked children—girls and boys—end up. The contrast between Bel Air and Bangkok was a huge shock, said Crabbe.

Sex tourism, he told the students, brings an enormous amount of money into Thailand. He explained that young girls living in the countryside are procured by men who tell the parents that their daughters will earn money waitressing in the city. If that argument fails, they may simply give the parents $100 American in exchange for their daughters.

Crabbe said these stories made him sick to his stomach.

“Then we went to Boys Town,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. “That’s where underage boys work in the sex trade.”

“A little boy tried to lead me to his pimp,” he said. “I just wanted to die. You know intellectually that there are people in the world who have it rough. But you don’t get it until you see it and smell it,” he said. “We saw children living in slums, literally walking through garbage. It was profoundly jarring; the most difficult stuff you’ve never seen.”

Crabbe went on to describe their next destination—Cambodia, a country he called “beautiful and broken.”

He showed slides of lush green countryside, followed by photos of the Tuol Sleng Museum, a former high school in Phnom Penh used as a prison and torture center between 1975 and 1979. There, more than 17,000 Cambodians were said to have been executed by the ruling party, the Khmer Rouge.

Crabbe said when he returned from the Far East, he came close to having a nervous breakdown and had nightmares for a month.

“I realized I am affluent,” he said. “I have first-world problems. If you earn $36,000 a year you are in the top five percent of the world’s wealthy; in fact, your part-time job at Starbucks puts you in the top 10% of the world’s wealthy.”

Crabbe immediately cut a large personal check to LOVE146 and asked Morris what more he could do. Morris said the organization needed $200K to build a facility in the Philippines where rescued trafficked children could get their lives back.

Crabbe approached his parishioners and raised the needed funds.

The Round Home

In 2009, the “Round Home” for rescued girls opened in the Philippines. Its distinctive construction is meant to promote togetherness, with none of the children feeling marginalized by being at the “end” of a corridor. In addition to the main Round Home, there is also a staff house, a Therapy Tree House and a Reflection Room.

“I’m most proud of the chapel we built and a tree house therapy environment,” Crabbe said. “I visited there. I saw that talking to the girls as human beings was a big deal to them. So was simply having fun; dancing.”

Crabbe advised the EHL students: “Walk the earth aware of what’s going on and your reflex will be to be an ‘upstander,’ not a bystander. Live generously and support organizations that help others.”

The students reacted positively to Crabbe’s talk.

“It was profoundly disturbing, but an informative session,” said Tanvir Shahjahan of Brooklyn Tech High School. “I'll never again feel underprivileged and be sure to spread awareness of sex trafficking to those I know and the invaluable efforts of groups such as LOVE146."

Sandra M., who attends high school in Queens, said, “Bert's presentation/story touched my heart and made me realize how fortunate I am to live comfortably, unlike children and teenagers in Cambodia and Thailand who live in poverty and try to survive day-to-day.”

Crabbe concluded his talk on an optimistic note. “I’ve learned,” he said, “that beauty is possible, even in brokenness. If more and more people step up, we’ll see a lot more beauty and a lot less brokenness.”

My Five-Alarm Life: Home

By Aabye-Gayle D. Francis-Favilla

Home—there’s no place like it. But after the fire in our apartment building left us displaced for almost a year, “home” became a moving target. In its stead, we had to find temporary accommodations. For ten months we relied on the generous hospitality of family and friends, wondering all the while when we’d be able to move back into our home again.

We gained a lot through our loss. We learned how to live with just what would fit in my car—how little we really needed to be content and comfortable. We had new and interesting experiences: My husband and I were interviewed for various videos—we even made it on the news. I shared our story at the Red Cross Gala and was completely outfitted for the event by Lord & Taylor. We were inundated with love—the generosity of those around us (friends, family, and even a few strangers) blew us away. My husband and I learned more about each other and ourselves: our limits, our strengths, our hopes. But mostly we learned how to move a lot—and frequently—and often.

We were urban nomads. We made six moves in ten months. There was an oasis of time where we got to stay put for a few months, but mostly we just kept moving. First we moved to my brother-in-law’s. Then two friends took us in for a month. Then we got a moving break when we signed a six-month lease for a temporary apartment. Hoping our home would be ready soon, we returned to our friends’ apartment for another month. Thinking we’d be able to move back “any day now,” we spent our final six weeks of waiting living with my in-laws.

Each of our moves had its blessings and challenges. And I like to think of them in different ways. For example, geographically: Maspeth, Union Square, Long Island City, Union Square, Hollis, Elmhurst (home) or Queens, Manhattan, Queens, Manhattan, Queens, home. There is our relationship to our hosts: family, friends, just us, friends, family, home. And finally, there is where we slept: living room futon, private bedroom, own apartment, private bedroom, twin bed, home.

That’s right, for the last six weeks of our displacement, my husband and I shared a twin bed. And as much as we love each other, that was definitely a challenge. Neither one of is very tall or otherwise large. We’re both fairly average in size. But we’re also both sprawl-style sleepers. While dreaming, we each like to spread out. We manage to get in each other’s way on a queen mattress, so sharing a twin bed gracefully was close to impossible. We tried multiple sleeping configurations and orientations. We tried to sleep while remaining absolutely still. Eventually we gave up, put a sleeping bag on the floor, and took turns.

So when we finally moved back into our renewed apartment, it was a very happy homecoming for us. After ten months of waiting, we had our own space again—space to spread out—space that was ours. We weren’t visitors, guests, temporary residents, or passers through anymore. We were home.

Oddly enough, home took some getting used to. It was familiar and different. The apartment was completely renovated. It was gutted down to the foundations and built up again. The general layout is the same as it was before, but there are some minor differences I had to adjust to. On a daily basis I would reach for light-switches that weren’t where they used to be, but a few inches to the right or left. And even though we’ve been home for months now, there are still some switches I can’t find instinctively in the dark.

There were some other mild inconveniences. Everything wasn’t perfect when we moved in. Our newfangled intercom system was a comedy of errors for many months before it finally worked. Our bedroom furniture couldn’t be delivered right away, so we spent our first few weeks home living out of suitcases and sleeping on an air mattress. Our elevator was out of commission for a month after we moved in. This made buying groceries or doing laundry a form of exercise (or a punishment). And even though our super has “fixed” it countless times, our kitchen sink still leaks. But that’s okay. I don’t care. I’m home.

My Five-Alarm Life: Then and Now

By Aabye-Gayle D. Francis-Favilla

Ever since I was a kid I’ve had an affinity for fire trucks—I found them beautiful in all their loud, bright, red splendor. I had my own toy truck, and I loved it—in fact, I loved everything firefighter-related. I wanted to wear the helmet, boots, and jacket; and I really wanted to slide down one of those poles. I treasured my little red plastic fire helmet, and wore it with pride around the house.

Back then, I probably didn’t fully understand what a firefighter does, but I knew they were helpful and important thanks to “Sesame Street” and “Mr. Rogers.” In fact, the only reason I liked going to the grocery store was because it was down the block from a fire station, and if the firefighters weren’t busy, my parents would take me inside for a visit. I wasn’t allowed to slide down the pole, but I did get to try on a real fireman’s helmet and sometimes stick my little legs into a pair of their giant boots. I liked to imagine sitting behind the wheel of the fire truck, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t.

Other days, we wouldn’t get to go in the firehouse. The alarm would sound, and I’d watch as that bright red truck emerged with its sirens screaming. People and cars would part to make way, and the truck would speed off. I didn’t know or understand where it was going. I didn’t comprehend that every firefighter on that truck was about to risk his or her life. I just thought it was exciting—the truck, the lights, the noise.

Then one day many years later, firefighters were in our home—our apartment building—which stood burning as my husband and I waited on a frigid, snowy December night for the fire trucks to come. We watched helplessly as firefighters climbed through the window of our apartment to put the fire out. Since then, the sight of a firefighter has made me feel grateful—thankful that because of the brave and hardworking men and women that came that night, our building didn’t burn completely to the ground. They fought the wintry elements and the fire, and not a single life was lost.

I still think the fire truck is an amazing vehicle, but now that I’m older, and have seen them come to my home, they look different to me. Now, when I see fire trucks pass by in emergency mode, I wonder where they’re going. Is someone losing their business, their home, or their life in the flames? And if I’m close to my own home at the time, I can’t relax until I see the trucks pass my street without stopping.

That’s one of the things I unexpectedly lost in the fire, a complete sense of security (where fire is concerned). Even after we had returned to our apartment—a beautifully renovated home—there was some residual damage to navigate internally. Fear had crept in and eroded things. Knowing that the person who had accidentally started the fire still lived upstairs left us feeling uneasy.

On one afternoon in particular—not even a full week after we’d moved back in—we were walking home from the store—our shopping cart full of things like paper towels, frozen pizza, and dish soap. We were three or four blocks away from our building when we heard sirens, and then a caravan of fire trucks passed us. We both looked at each other. Neither of us said anything, but we simultaneously picked up the pace. Those trucks weren’t going to our block, let alone our apartment building, but until I was standing on my street corner, seeing with my own eyes that everything was okay, my heart hung heavily.

These are the little damage residuals that always remain in me after an accident or traumatic event. For years after my dog got attacked in the park, I walked with a big stick. After my first car accident, I drove with extra vigilance. And for months after our fire, I worried every time the smoke detector went off in a neighbor’s apartment, or I found myself part of a fire drill. And when smoke filled our hallway one year and one day after our fire (just two months after we’d moved back in), I worried. Was our home going up in flames again?

Turns out someone had fallen asleep with food in the oven and it had burned, producing a lot of smoke. It never got serious (though it could have). And it poked at a wound that was still raw for all of us who had been there one year and one day ago. I could feel a collective tension permeating the building, and I, myself, didn’t stop worrying until the firefighters had finished their inspection and left.

Trauma changes us—it reveals a possible danger and leaves us looking for a repeat. It takes away some of our security. It makes us look at the world (and our place in it) differently. After our building burned, I was certain that fire wasn’t finished with us. That having touched our home once, it now had an open invitation to come again.

With time, those fears have since started to disappear. I no longer get a sinking feeling in my stomach when a fire truck passes by. I don’t get as nervous when I smell smoke. I know that having a fire in our building doesn’t make us any more likely to have another one. But I still double-check that all the stovetop burners are off before I go out.

How and when did we finally get back into our home? All that (and more) in the next installment of “My Five-Alarm Life.”

My Five-Alarm Life: Moving On

By Aabye-Gayle D. Francis-Favilla

Photo: Ian Favilla

They say moving on isn’t easy. Well, they’d be right. My husband and I found ourselves “moving on” quite a lot after the fire in our apartment building. We were effectively nomads for almost a year. Most of our possessions were destroyed and would have to be replaced eventually. But our most pressing need was finding a place to live while our apartment was being rebuilt.

Finding a temporary home was difficult enough, but finding one that could accommodate our indefinite timeline was even more daunting. In fact, we didn’t find one, not just one anyway. It would take four temporary homes (and five moves between them) to fill the time between the fire and our return home.

First we moved in with my brother-in-law who lived walking distance from our Elmhurst, Queens apartment. We stayed with him for just the first two or three nights after the fire. Then we were taken in by two friends in a Union Square, Manhattan apartment with an extra bedroom for a month. And then, just as our time in Union Square was ending, through a friend of a friend, we found a place we could stay in for a few months—a beautiful one-bedroom apartment in Long Island City, Queens. It was time to move again.

With this next move, we got a bit creative. New York City had been inundated with snow, and as a result a good parking spot was hard to find. With alternate side of the street parking rules suspended, I could leave my car parked where it was indefinitely, so I devised a plan to move without moving my car—a plan that would remove the pressure and time-consumption of repeatedly looking for a convenient parking space in a snow-coated city. I decided to leave the car in Union Square until the final leg of the move.

Never underestimate the efficacy of public transportation. That’s how I made the majority of move three: Union Square to Long Island City (LIC). Instead of driving, I took the subway. I packed our stuff into a large, thick garbage bag to keep things clean and dry on the slushy streets, and then I put everything into a shopping cart.

Thankfully, both the Union Square and LIC train stations were a very short walk from their respective apartments. And I didn’t have to negotiate any stairs, because both stations were equipped with elevators. Once on the train I could relax and read for the thirty-minute (or less) ride (instead of dealing with NYC traffic—or drivers), and when I arrived at my destination, I didn’t have to spend time looking for a parking spot. The shopping cart was pretty big, but it still could only hold so much (much less than a carful). So, I had to make a lot of trips back and forth—but thank goodness for unlimited MetroCards!

What an odd first impression we must have made. I can only imagine what the doormen at the LIC apartment thought of us given how we moved in. On day one, they saw me coming in every hour or two with a full garbage bag-lined shopping cart. I must have made at least six or seven trips like that. I imagine I looked like a persistent hobo to them.

That weekend, they saw my husband and me bringing in closetful after closetful of dry-cleaning—everything from suits to undershirts to bed sheets. What they must have thought of that! And in the weeks (and months) that followed, they witnessed us receiving as many as four or five boxes of deliveries on a regular (almost daily) basis. Odder still, they didn’t see us bring in a single piece of furniture until we’d already been there for a month.

The apartment was already furnished with everything but a bed when we moved in. Our insurance company provided us with one, but it took a month for the logistics of that to be resolved. We slept on an air mattress that first month.

It was only later that we befriended the now understandably quizzical doormen and shared our situation: that there had been a fire in our building, that we were living nomadically until our apartment was rebuilt, that almost all of our clothes had gone to the dry-cleaners not because we were pretentious or lazy, but because they had a special process to remove the soot stains and smoke smell, and that all of the deliveries were due to us trying to replace as much as we could—everything from sneakers to shower curtain rings to books.

That Long Island City apartment was an oasis in our nomadic journey. It is where we spent the most time. We were able to grow roots there—however shallow. It almost felt like home. In fact, we thought we were almost home. That it would only be a short matter of time. Oh how wrong we were, but we didn’t know it then. Instead, we moved to Long Island City confident that this was our penultimate stop, and that our next move would take us back home.

As was our time in Union Square, our stay in Long Island City was full of blessings. First and foremost was that we could stay there for almost six months. Having such a long stretch of time there made our lives as a whole feel much less temporary and uncertain. We were able to build a routine and treat it as home—a home we didn’t have to share with anyone. Thanks to the generosity of our renter’s insurance policy, this was an apartment we wouldn’t ordinarily have been able to afford. We enjoyed the amenities that were luxuries to us: a doorman, a balcony, a gym, a view. There were also unexpected sources of entertainment: the pool table in the rec room and the impossible to ignore fights between the couple living next door.

All in all, we were happy. After the fire, everything had felt like it was happening in fast forward. Decisions had to be made, forms had to be filled out, we moved three times in the first two months. But with six months to get comfortable, it felt as though someone had benevolently pressed pause. Now we could find a reasonably paced routine for our lives and just live. We didn’t feel so much like victims anymore. We weren’t home yet, but we were closer. And that proximity made us feel more normal.

Some of our losses were intangible and took a bit longer to recognize, I’ll reflect on those in the next installment of “My Five-Alarm Life.”



“The Red Cross was like a guardian angel.”

Diana Perez

by Laura Steifman

Diana Perez is the matriarch of a 12-person extended family that lives together on the second floor apartment of a private house in Queens, New York. One day about noon, Perez’s 23-year old son came upstairs from doing laundry and reported smelling smoke.

Though the five family members who were home at the time couldn’t immediately see the smoke, they could smell it, so they vacated the apartment and called the fire department.

Firefighters broke into the first floor of the house and found smoke coming from the wall. They determined the fire to be electrical, extinguished it, and gave the family clearance to go back upstairs.

A short time later, however, the family discovered more smoke issuing from the attic.

“It was seeping through the walls, the stairs, the closet, and up to the roof,” said Perez.

Once again, the family fled the house and called 911. This time, they were not so lucky.

“We watched from the front of the house as the building burned,” Perez said. “I cried. I was so scared because we don’t have any other family to go to; it’s just us living together.”

Although the family’s second floor apartment was destroyed, “The Red Cross was like a guardian angel,” Perez said. “If it weren’t for them we would have to stay on the street. God bless that Red Cross responder. She helped calm me down and told me how to explain it to the kids.”

The Red Cross provided the Perez family with emergency housing in a hotel, as well as financial assistance for basic needs.

“And now they are helping us figure out what to do next,” said Perez. “I never knew the Red Cross did this. We thought it was just for big disasters or the blood bank. Now I have a better understanding of the Red Cross. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Diana Perez, Queens, N.Y.

I Know How That Feels

By Anita Salzberg, Editorial Manager/Staff Writer

I’ve watched Red Cross responders help people after a house fire or a vacate order numerous times since joining the organization back in 2005.

I’ve heard them talk with those affected by these emergencies with kindness and compassion. I’ve seen them offer clients a cold drink to quench their thirst and a warm shoulder to lean on. And I’ve understood something of the satisfaction our responders feel in helping others in need.

What I didn’t understand was how it feels to be the one helped. I learned something of that a year after I started working for the Red Cross.

In the fall of 2006 my husband, Allen, and I were driving from New York City to Maryland to visit family. I took the wheel at our home in Queens. About an hour and a half into the trip, somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike, I began to feel fatigued. We stopped for gas and I asked Allen to drive.

As it happens, it had been at least a year since he’d driven (don’t ask), and he was a little rusty.
Allen fired up the car to 65 mph, the speed of the road, driving in the right hand lane. (This will be important, trust me.)

Before starting the car, Allen had rolled down his window. The temperature was in the low 50s, and cold air rushed in around us. After a minute or two, I begged Allen to close the window.

Here’s what happened: It’s an older car with a crank window. Allen reached for the crank with his left hand. At the same moment, he turned his right hand, which was on the wheel, to the left, towards the window.

And just like that, we’d moved into the middle lane.

In the nanosecond it took me to realize that we had switched lanes, I also understood that (a) we were still in one piece and (b) there had been no screeching of breaks behind us—because there had been no car behind us.

In that same nanosecond, Allen, realizing (a), but not (b), drove back into the right hand lane. But he overcompensated. The car swerved sharply to the right.

We were now out of control and headed off the road, onto the shoulder and beyond.

We were lucky. This happened on one of the few stretches of the New Jersey Turnpike with a large expanse of grass right off the shoulder, as opposed to a barricade of towering trees.

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, as he braked, Allen aimed the car at a group of four-foot-tall bushes at the edge of the grass. I had time to think, “How much is this going to hurt?” before we drove right into them. Amazingly, the bushes (along with the breaking) stopped us.

Here’s the point of the story: Within seconds, before we could orient ourselves, realize we were totally unscathed and only a tiny bit shaken up, at least four people were beside the car, asking if we were okay.

Not only had the driver of the car behind us parked on the shoulder and rushed over, so had a number of people driving north on the turnpike. They had actually climbed over the barrier between the north and southbound lanes and walked across three lanes of traffic to reach us.

Most of them probably thought they’d be pulling bodies out of our car. One man was dressed in army fatigues. He undoubtedly knew—and was prepared to use—CPR on us. All asked how they could help.

Were we all right? Was anything broken? Was there damage to the car? (Literally, the only damage turned out to be to the front license plate, which got a little bent.) Did we need something to drink? Could they call anyone for us? All this before we’d even gotten out of the car.

Someone had dialed 911, and a New Jersey highway patrol officer showed up minutes later. To my surprise, almost everyone who’d come to our aid waited with us until a tow truck, called by the highway patrol officer, arrived to pull our car out of the bushes and get us back on the road.

As we all stood together on the grass, talking softly about what had happened, I realized: This is what it must feel like to have the Red Cross show up to help you during a disaster.

You’re standing on the street watching your home burn, in your pajamas, in the middle of the night. You’re scared, disoriented , distraught. At the very least, you’re wondering what to do next.

Red Cross relief workers are there, in that very moment, handing you water or coffee, a blanket or a sweat suit, offering you emotional support, and telling you that everything will be okay and they will help you to move forward.

You feel immensely reassured and grateful to these strangers who have come to help you in any way they can.

That was how I felt as we waited for the tow—enormous relief that we were unhurt, and enormous gratitude towards everyone who stopped. I will always remember their kindness towards us. They were simply the best—as are our Red Cross responders.

There is a short coda to this story. The car was in good enough shape to drive, which I did, back to New York and straight to our mechanic. That night, I caught The Bourne Identity on TV. As Matt Damon and his leading lady, Franka Potente, wildly swerved in and out of traffic and bounced down a flight of steps in a VW bug during a chase scene, I thought: I know how that feels, too.

My Five-Alarm Life: Our Few Minutes of Fame

by Aabye-Gayle D. Francis-Favilla

Screen Capture from NY1 Report

Having a fire in your home is (in some ways) like having a birthday: Even though it’s a big deal for you, most of the world is oblivious. The fire in our building was so violent, so destructive, and so long-lived (it took hours for the firefighters to get it under control), we were certain it would be the leading news story on every channel. It wasn’t. If it was mentioned at all, it was as a small tangential aside to what was considered the bigger story, the recent city-crippling snowstorm.

That’s the thing with fires—even though they can be highly destructive events, they only affect a small proportion of the population. That fire was the most violent and frightening event we had ever experienced, but few of our fellow New Yorkers would ever hear about it. Why? Well, first of all, it wouldn’t affect many of them. Secondly, fires happen often. To be considered newsworthy, a fire has to be more than just a fire. It has to take lives or be otherwise exceptional. It is a traumatic, but largely private, event.

When my husband and I arrived at the Red Cross to meet with our case manager, we met another family in the waiting room. At first I assumed they were from our building. It never occurred to me that ours hadn’t been the only fire that week—let alone that very night. In fact, there had been a number of fires in New York the same week as ours. (The Red Cross says it responds to approximately six private residence fires every day in New York City.)

There’s another way having a fire is like having a birthday. A part of you wants everyone you encounter to know. This devastating thing has happened to you, but most of the world is going on as though everything is normal—because everything is normal—for them. But for you, life has been shaken like a snow globe. Everything has been thrown into confusion, and you’re still waiting to see how all of the fractured pieces settle. So, like on your birthday, you want everyone to know about the momentous occasion and be especially nice to you. You’re sad and raw and a bit afraid. And it would be helpful if everyone knew what you were going through so that they’d be sensitive and patient and understanding—even if they’re a stranger.

I needed a lot of patience and sensitivity in the weeks after the fire. My emotions were still in recovery mode. I was sleep-deprived, and as a result my brain was under-functioning. I was easily confused (sarcasm was lost on me), distracted (mostly by a litany of worries on repeat), forgetful (how old was I again?), and acting like a narcoleptic during the day—even mid-conversation. My inability to get good rest was also aggravating a serious cold. I was not just mentally weak, but physically compromised as well.

Aside from our closest friends, family and neighbors, most people had no idea what we were going through—or why we smelled like smoke. Fortunately, our story was not anonymous or faceless in the eyes of the Red Cross. We weren’t just case numbers on a crisis conveyor belt. We were seen as individuals in a specific situation. We were treated with compassion and patience. We were heard. On the day we met with our case manager, we were also encouraged to share our story. A Red Cross staff writer interviewed us for this very blog so that others could be made more aware of how the Red Cross serves the community. (You can see that story here) We were also later asked to be part of a Red Cross fundraising video.

However, most exciting for us, was being interviewed for NY1 about a week later. They wanted to do a story about our building’s fire. We couldn’t believe it; we were going to be on television! The circumstances were by no means enviable, but this would be our five minutes of fame—well, 1:29 minutes of “fame” (to be exact). We appreciated having another opportunity to share about what had happened and how the Red Cross had helped us. It was fun calling friends and family and telling them to look out for us on the news. (You can see the story here.)

In the aftermath of the most devastating event we’d ever faced as a couple, my husband and I were grateful for each opportunity we were given to have our loss acknowledged. With our story on the Red Cross blog and our little NY1 television debut, more people would know about what had happened, and, hopefully, they would learn a few things along with us: don’t be careless with your space heaters (as our neighbor had been); when evacuating (time permitting) take some form of identification with you (and your car keys); never ignore smoke or screams; and if you rent, invest in renter’s insurance—right now.

More about renter’s insurance (and everything else we were grateful for after the fire) in the next installment of “My Five-Alarm Life.”

My Five-Alarm Life: Residual Damage

 by Aabye-Gayle D. Francis-Favilla

Corduroy, the teddy bear Aabye had since birth, survived the fire.

 The days immediately following the fire were full of challenges. First we had to answer the questions of our most basic needs: Where would we live? What would we wear? How would we eat? Thankfully, with the help of the Red Cross and our community of family and friends, we found our answers.

Those first few nights after the fire, we could have stayed at the Red Cross shelter, but instead we stayed in my brother-in-law’s small basement apartment. We had friends living upstairs, and they included us in their meals. (We ate extremely well those first few post-fire nights.) Staying with friends and family so nearby was extremely comforting. They helped us with practical things like lending us socks, shirts and sweaters. They also gave us the moral support we needed.

We might have stayed in this first temporary home longer, but one of the landlords complained about us being there, so we scrambled to find another place to stay after just two nights. Where would we go now?

The challenge in finding a place to stay was that we had no idea how long we’d be displaced from our apartment. We were given the option of breaking our lease, but we decided to wait for the reconstruction. We had our reasons for waiting: Our rent was affordable, and we loved our spacious apartment, helpful superintendent and vibrant neighborhood. Finding all of those things within our price range hadn’t been easy, and we didn’t want to give any of them up.

Two friends came to our rescue. They were living in a three-bedroom apartment in Union Square, and offered us the third bedroom for a month (rent free!). They would have let us stay there longer, but they are frequent generous hosts, using the bedroom to house out-of-town guests on a regular basis. I’d always wanted to live in Manhattan. And having a month to live with friends (rent free!) while we searched for long-term temporary housing lifted a great weight of worry off of our shoulders.We accepted their generous offer happily.

Then came the hard part: A day or two later, it was time to assess the damage to our home. As we approached our building for the first time since the fire, we had no idea what to expect. From the street we could see that the roof over our portion of the building was riddled with holes or completely missing. The lobby was a lagoon; water dripped from the ceiling and ran down the walls. The air was heavy with smoke, and everything was tinted gray or black. There was no heat and there was no electricity.

We cautiously walked the five flights of stairs to our apartment, and our super let us in. My husband and I stood in the threshold, awestruck. It was a sad scene to behold. The apartment that had been full of warmth and twinkling Christmas lights just a few days earlier was now cold and dark. All the windows were either open or missing; and they were our only source of light. We started to make our way around the apartment—trying (in vain) to avoid getting dripped on by the water still coming through our ceiling.

Fortunately, the fire had not reached our apartment, but the water damage was extensive—bad enough that everything would have to be completely gutted and rebuilt. Fire hoses had been trained on our apartment (and those above it) for hours during the blaze—thousands upon thousands of gallons of water at high pressure had drenched everything. Firefighters had needed to break through parts of our walls and ceilings. Everywhere we looked there were holes.

It was so disheartening to see what our home had become. Just days before we’d been lounging on our coach, but now that couch was soaked, moldy and covered in rubble. Our laptops sat in a puddle on the coffee table. Unopened Christmas presents lay soggy under the tree. But we still knew we were lucky. We would be able to save things like pots, pans, silverware and dishes—anything that could get wet (really, really wet). But our neighbors in apartments where the fire had raged wouldn’t be able to salvage anything.

We packed up our soggy, sooty clothes and began a massive dry-cleaning and laundry campaign. (In about two weeks we were wearing our own clothes again.) Everything I touched was heavy, laden with icy cold water, and my fingers grew raw. The smaller things that we could carry, and expected to need in the short term, we took with us (like metropolitan nomads) every time we moved. Friends and family members offered up their basements and closet space to some our stuff. But the bulk of it we left to the professionals. We hired a company that could come the very next day, pack everything up, and take it away to be stored. So while our hearts remained here in New York, most of our stuff ended up in Newark.

In the end we were rather fortunate, we primarily lost stuff that's relatively easy (literally and emotionally) to replace: furniture, appliances, shoes, clothing and accessories, fridge and pantry items, and books. We lost a lot, but most of the sentimental things I would have been broken-hearted to loose, survived: Corduroy (the teddy bear I’ve had since birth); the toy chest my parents bought and painted for me when I was three; the wood-mounted photo of my parents on their wedding day; photos that were taken before the digital age; my mother's wedding ring.

I am so grateful for everything that survived the fire. Things are just things in the face of having one’s health or life, but some things are so entrenched in fond memories, that losing them is like having an emotional amputation. I am grateful for every photograph (especially those of my late mother). I cherish every item from my childhood. I have renewed appreciation for the mementos from our wedding (like the poster our friends and family signed at the reception). All the things that we didn’t loose are even more special to me now; they’re mini miracles—survivors, like us.

In the next installment of “My Five-Alarm Life,” I’ll tell you about our five minutes of fame (one minute and twenty-nine seconds, to be exact).

My Five-Alarm Life: We Didn’t Start the Fire

by Aabye-Gayle D. Francis-Favilla

This is what became of the apartment directly above ours.

 Isn’t it amazing how a flame that starts off small enough to fit on the wick of a candle, can become large enough to destroy a house? I distinctly remember standing in the snow with my husband watching the fire grow—first consuming this apartment, then the next, and ultimately the roof. I remember closing my eyes for long intervals of time and willing it all to not be real anymore. I suppose that’s shock. Even as I witnessed it, I just couldn’t believe this fire was destroying our home.

I remember being keenly aware of the people watching from their apartment windows in the building across the street from ours. I didn’t know who they were, but I envied them. I was jealous of every passerby who could shake their head saying, “Oh, what a terrible shame,” and then walk home to normalcy. And those teenagers gawking and uttering their thoughtless jokes as if this destruction had no victims…I wanted to scream at them. Instead, I held my tongue and continued to watch.

Part of me was silently praying (pleading) for this fire to be put out—cheering the firefighters on—hoping for their victory over a fire whose severity was being compounded by the high winds and the recent snowstorm. Another part of me was wondering how much worse it could get—how much more of our home would burn. Because even though putting out a fire is hard enough, these firefighters had to work in the aftermath of a storm that had brought New York City to its knees. Fire hydrants were frozen or simply broken, roads were impassible because they hadn’t been plowed and drivers had abandoned their cars in the middle of them. And apparently the person living in the apartment where the fire started had left the building without warning anyone. So on top of everything, the fire had gotten a big head start.

As I stood there watching helplessly, I knew I should be grateful that my husband and I had escaped with our lives—completely uninjured. In fact, no one in our building lost his or her life in that fire; no one suffered more than a few minor injuries. I didn’t fully understand the significance of that until later when a fireman told me about a fire that had broken out elsewhere the same week as ours. That fire had been smaller and less severe, but it had claimed the life of a young girl. So for a five-alarm fire to burn in a building with 66 apartments, and for everyone (young, old, and handicapped) to make it out safely, was something of a miracle.

We were grateful to be safe and alive, but then other thoughts and feelings started to surface. Questions, worries, and concerns began to bubble up in our minds. Had anything survived? We had left all of our earthly possessions behind. I began to tally and mourn all the irreplaceable things I might never see again—priceless because of their sentimental weight. What were we supposed to do now? Our home was effectively gone. A soggy, singed shell remained, but it could take months—possibly even a year—before it would be inhabitable again. One question, however, pressed its way to the forefront of our minds: How could this possibly have happened?

Our answer to that final question came a few days later when our building’s management company hosted a tenants’ meeting. In attendance were representatives from various city agencies, the fire department, and the Red Cross. My husband and I went for information. We wanted to know how the fire had started and when we might be able to return to our home. Sadly, most of the other tenants were there to blame and complain. And before too long, the meeting devolved into a verbal assault—various tenants throwing their angry accusations, threats, and demands like stones.

Sadly, there were no easy answers for any of us. First of all, the fire had been an accident. There was no one to punish. It wasn’t the result of negligence on the building’s part, or an electrician’s fault-ridden job. It wasn’t the work of an arsonist. No one that could be held accountable had screwed up. An older tenant had left her space heater too close to her bed; the sheets and mattress ignited, and the fire spread to the nearby curtains and beyond (or perhaps the curtains caught first and then the fire spread to the bed—I forget which now).

Secondly, even though the residents in the north wing of the building were able to return home just days after the fire, they wouldn’t be comfortable at first. The gas had to be shut off indefinitely, so the building’s management company gave tenants hot plates to cook on. The elevator was out of commission—effectively making our building a six-story walk-up. While this meant unwanted exercise for some, it was a prohibitive obstacle for those tenants with mobility limitations. Adding to the discomfort, every apartment had some level of water damage and was subject to smoky air and mold growth.

But the news was even worse for those of us in the most damaged apartments—those closest to the nexus of the fire. While the rest of the building’s residents would be moved back in on a rolling basis as their apartments were dried out, patched up, and brought up to code, our apartments would need to be gutted and completely rebuilt before we could return. And before any of that could happen, the roof over our part of the building (which the fire had devoured) would have to be rebuilt. No one could even venture a ballpark estimate as to how long all of that would take. Without even a worst-case scenario to hold on to, I felt some of my hope dissipate.

So what options did we have if we couldn’t go home? When we met with Marjorie, our Red Cross caseworker, she answered that question and our many (many, many) others. Talking to her was like talking to a friend who knows the ropes. She immediately reduced our burden. Rather than having to navigate though a confusing sea of paperwork and options, we were given clear and actionable steps tailored to our specific situation and resources. Marjorie guided us through every process and saved us the countless hours of time we would have otherwise spent trying to figure things out on our own. And while I won’t speak for my husband’s mental state, I was in no shape to do much thinking on my own. My brain was overloaded—full of sadness and worry—still tallying our loss. Plus, I had insomnia; I was emotionally depleted and physically exhausted.

But whereas I was frazzled and mentally distraught, our caseworker was patient, compassionate and knowledgeable. The guidance she gave us was timesaving and invaluable, but I also appreciated the stuff. My hands were full of papers I had to fill out, but I didn’t have anything to put them in—I hadn’t grabbed a bag when we evacuated. Marjorie put all the paperwork from the Red Cross in a folder, and that folder became our makeshift filing “cabinet.” Every piece of paper we acquired due to the fire went inside it. She also gave me a bag. When I asked her for one, I was expecting a simple plastic grocery bag, or at most a nice paper one, but she brought me a durable canvas tote with a zipper closure. That bag meant a lot to me. Now that I had something to carry my things in, I felt a lot less desperate—I felt less like a crazy vagabond. That bag was one of the first signs that our lives were moving out of chaos and towards order.

By the time my husband and I left Red Cross headquarters, we’d managed to muster up more than a modicum of hope. I now had a bag, a toothbrush and tissues (which I needed because I was also getting a cold). We left the Red Cross with more than we’d gone in with—in terms of stuff as well as direction. It felt good to have a plan—to know what we should do next. The fire was still a devastating loss, but we weren’t as disoriented now. We didn’t have a home, but we did have hope.

Where did we end up living? Were we able to salvage anything from our apartment? All that (and more) to come in the next installment of “My Five-Alarm Life.”