I’ll never forget the date of May 9, 1940. I know I’ve shared this story with you before, but memories have a way of resurfacing from time to time. Be they good or bad, they are there always.

This date, of course, was the day my family lost a bit of its history. In just a few minutes, a raging fire completely destroyed more than a century of hard work – our family home, which had been built by my grandfather, John Pitts Felder.

I remember the sound of the fire as it took everything our family owned. It was a chilly night, and as my father, mother, two sisters and I huddled together, I remember my father saying we would just move into the store building – not realizing at the moment that we no longer had anything to move. Everything had been destroyed.

A blaze such as a house burning could be seen for miles, and before too long neighbors began to arrive. They first asked if everyone was safe.

All of my family have now gone on to their reward except for myself. And since May 9 is upon us, my memory bank is once again flooded with things not so good. No one will ever know what caused this terrible tragedy. There was a lot of speculation. What caused the fire, however, doesn’t really matter. We had no insurance, probably because the crops had not been good enough to pay the premiums.

It amazes me how much I remember about the old place. For instance, I recall exactly where the old incubator was that would hatch out hundreds of chicks. In one small room upstairs, there was a fine collection of fishing equipment, much of it handmade by my grandfather.

One blessing came from all of this. I believe it reminded us of the fact that the things we hold so dearly to our hearts are just borrowed for a while.

The 1940s was a time of recovering from the Great Depression. However, within a short period of time our neighborhood had rallied with enough makeshift furniture for my family to keep on keeping on. One lady gave my mother her old sewing machine because she said she never sewed anymore.

From time to time since, I have imagined that I heard the sickening sound of a fire out of control. I do not remember just how long it was before we moved to a new home or where we stayed in the meantime. But I do remember the heaven-sent love we were shown by our friends and neighbors.

Lest we forget ...

T&D Columnist Rinehart Chewning is a longtime resident of Holly Hill. Discuss this and other stories online at TheTandD.com.

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