For my recent birthday a friend gave me this delightful pottery plate. She'd seen it on line and immediately thought of me because she knows I lost a home to fire when I was a kid. 

When the day arrived to give me the plate she wondered whether or not it was a good idea; maybe it would provoke tears or unearth unexamined sadness. So before she let me open it she offered a trigger warning.

It turns out I was tickled by her gesture and the plate, too. (Thanks Lee!) I love handmade pottery and the image certainly is meaningful to me.

Losing a home to fire was a significant life event but it would be untrue to say the experience was traumatic. My siblings agree.

In fact, a few years ago when my sister marked the 50th anniversary of the fire with a facebook post, we found ourselves having to reassure friends, in the thread of comments that followed, it wasn’t nearly as bad as they’d imagined.

I don’t know why the expressions of sympathy and sadness in the comments were such a surprise for me. After all, it reads like a harrowing experience. It's late at night, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of winter. Four young children without their parents are running from a burning home, seeking shelter, barefoot and wearing only pyjamas.

But it wasn't a horrible ordeal and I’ve yet to discover any lasting nasty effects. It wouldn’t even occur to me to categorize it as a sad event. It changed the trajectory of our lives for sure but I can’t say we were traumatized. We ended up moving from our rural community and into a nice town, to a brand new bungalow in a quiet neighbourhood with great neighbours, where we made lifelong friends.

Overwhelmingly, my thoughts and feelings about the experience are of the people who shielded us: Agnes, the babysitter. My parents. The neighbours, relatives and generous people who caught wind of our bad luck and responded with kindness.  As my sister wrote, "I am sure it was horrible for my parents and I'm not saying it was a pleasant experience. I remember a lot of things about that time but I don't ever remember being afraid. I felt very safe and loved."

If we need to assign trauma to anyone that night surely it would be the babysitter. Poor Agnes! What a random and dramatic thing to happen to a 14 year old. Surely high on the list of a babysitter's worst nightmare. It was an electrical problem that sparked the flame that burned our house to the ground so at least she knew it wasn't her fault. Just bad luck.

Sometimes my siblings and I might end up laughing if the night of the fire comes up in conversation.

My wonderful aunt Betty, who answered the door in the middle of the night and took us in, made a place on her brand new couch for my sisters to sleep. Moira ended up peeing in her sleep! 

My sister says peeing on aunt Betty's new couch was the real traumatic event. Far more harrowing than running for our lives.