The Night the Sky Burned Bright (or, A Southern Christmas: Fire, Feline Friends, and a Dollhouse)

This post is now available to listen to if, like me, you’re best at absorbing content while you walk, run or drive.

When I was a child and my parents tried to ferret out which one of us was in trouble for a wrong, my dad always told me in his most stern voice not to “tell stories.”

In the deep South that was a polite way of saying “don’t lie.”

I get a kick out of that memory because the South has such a strong and rich tradition of storytelling. I guess the joke is on my dad because I have made my career as a journalist telling the stories of others. Now I would like to tell you a story of my own:

On Christmas Eve when I was 6 years old, my father tiptoed into my bedroom to see if I was still awake because he wanted me to see something. Tired — but still wide awake with anticipation and excited about Santa coming — I rolled out of bed, put on my robe and followed him outside. I was wildly curious about where he was taking me. I thought maybe it was an early Christmas present. It was not.

As we stepped outside to the patio that sat above our sloping hill of a backyard, he pointed to the house just through the woods. It was on fire.