As I sit here exhausted, tearful and overcome by the smell of smoke, I need to write this to my family.
The same thing happened again tonight that’s occurred so many times to keep track of over the past 27 years as a journalist.
I call home tonight, just like I’ve done many other nights.
Just leaving the office, I tell them. I will be home in time for dinner for sure. I promise.
As I stand up to walk out the door of the newsroom, I hear word of a major structure fire over the scanner. I can’t ignore it.
While I was there, I watched a husband and wife react as they watch their home go up in flames, a place they’ve lived in since 1966. She mourned the loss of her two dogs, presumed to be victims of the fire.
I was there when family members heard a rustle in the bushes. It was one of the scared dogs looking for its owners. It was an honor to document the joyful reunion.
So I apologize for missing yet another dinner and showing up hours later than I said I would. Thank you, family, for sacrificing so I could help document this story.
You’ve watched with me as my trade teeters precariously off the edge of the cliff. You’ve heard my worries and my complaints.
But thanks for understanding as people like your dad and husband tell these stories for as long as we can.