Fire burns through memories

When the call came over the police scanner, I was sitting in the office at The News and Sun in Dunkirk.
It was a house fire.
Bob Banser and I immediately stopped talking and focused on the radio traffic.
The words came over: “Fully engaged.”
That’s not what you want to hear. The fire had seriously established itself.
And then came the address: “Race and Pleasant streets.”
Sounds like you have a fire to cover, I said to Bob.
Then the radio crackled again: “In Portland.”
And suddenly the tumblers clicked into place. The fire wasn’t in Dunkirk. It was in my neighborhood at home.
As we kept listening, I reviewed the houses at the intersection, trying to figure out which one it was. Finally, there was an address: 503.
“That’s John Lombardo’s house,” I said, heading for the door.
Actually, I thought as I drove back to Portland a little too fast for the speed limit, it’s not just John’s house. It was the home of the late Tom Hunt for years.
And before that — when I was a kid growing up — it was the home of J.K. and Helen Wehrly and their children, Cindy and Jeff.
John had put the house on the market recently, and just the week before I’d been waxing sentimental about the place. I spent a lot of time at the Wehrly house when I was a little guy of about 4 or 5. I remembered playing on the porch. I remembered playing on a landing in the stairway where leaded and stained glass windows sprinkled the carpet with color.
Later, as a teenager, the big attraction was a pool table in the attic of the garage. I wasted innumerable hours there shooting pool with Jeff and other guys in the neighborhood.
I headed for home first, remembering that my camera was on the kitchen table. (Not where it belonged by any means.)
By then, it was already clear that the house would be a total loss. The fire was beginning to come under control, but thick smoke was billowing out of the attic and an ocean of water was being dumped on the place.
I wandered over with a camera, knowing that The CR’s Steve Garbacz had already been on the scene and caught images of the blaze at its peak.
Though I took a few pictures, mostly I just stared in sad disbelief, just like the other few dozen onlookers. All of us remembered the house in its over-the-top Christmas glory, when John would have it decked out with a zillion white lights and countless moveable figures, from reindeer in the front lawn to Santa on the roof.
We remembered the equally over-the-top displays at Easter time and in the days leading up to the Fourth of July and at Halloween.
Sure, they weren’t to everybody’s taste. But they spoke of such enthusiasm, such richness of spirit, that they had to bring a smile to your face.
It was that richness of spirit that John’s neighbors paid tribute to on Sunday night.
Less than a week after the fire, with the house still a ruined hulk, neighbors put out dozens of luminaria, lighting the night in John’s honor and in remembrance for all the joy he brought in Christmases past.
Thanks, John.[[In-content Ad]]