You are all so very kind, and I appreciate all the check-ins and love more than you know. With the heaviest of hearts, I must let you know that Mom and Dad’s house cannot be saved. Tom and I are flying down tomorrow to help salvage what can be and to say goodbye to the rest.

Many of you have asked if I grew up in the house. No, I didn’t. But the history is one of love.

Mom and Dad met as Tulane undergraduates. He was a year older and shy as could be, but he liked her legs and could, and still can, dance like a pro. She was unsure about the shyness but loved the joyful dancing, and the rest is history. He started med school in Augusta, GA, and after she graduated, they got married, and she joined him there. They did NOT love Augusta, but there they lived in the former servants’ quarters of an old manor house of sorts; the son of the owners was an architect with whom they became friends. They talked dreams, I was born, they moved to Mobile for Dad’s residency, they stayed in touch, my sister was born, they moved to Lake Charles, my dad got a job, and they saved enough to afford blueprints. Plans for the home they’d long dreamed of, designed by the architect they now called a friend.

That roll of plans stayed in a tube for years. While they saved and bought a piece of land, saved some more and built a wharf and boathouse, saved some more until finally I was 16 and a high school junior and they broke ground on the house. That was 26 years ago.

Mom was the general contractor for all intents and purposes, and while I begrudged her then, as a high school senior angsty about everything, she brought their dreams to fruition in a magical way that I now, as I try to maintain an identity beyond Mom, draw on to set limits when I need and want to work. She kept the schedule running such that we moved in the month of my senior prom and Mom and Dad hosted a dinner for a dozen of us on the back porch.

In the years after, I had my wedding reception in the backyard, brought my babies there, served as maid of honor when my sister had her wedding reception there, and have sent my boys there for memorable Big Boys Weeks almost every summer since Jack was 4. My Nanny is buried not far away, the bayou that runs behind the house is always a balm, Mr. Egret always fishes for his dinner before gliding away gracefully as we rock and rock.

It is all gone now, or will be soon. A life’s dream and work rendered largely moot in a few hours. I am devastated for my parents and for my sons. I suppose at some point it will hit me that Home is gone, that perhaps when I fly away this coming Friday, it will be for the last time.

I can’t deal with that now, so I organized because that, I can do. Look for the helpers, they always say. I am humbled to say that my family has been inundated with the most loving of helpers, and a small army will tomorrow descend on Lake Charles. Loaded with bubble wrap and bottled water, gasoline and chainsaws, packing tape and duct tape, sandwiches and sweat equity, they are coming from all over Texas and Louisiana and even Tennessee, and together, because of love, we will save what we can and try to start ushering my parents, who have given so much to so many, into their next phase. Lake Charles is without running water, electricity, gas stations, and many cell towers, and yet we will make things work with great care.

Essentially, such communion is all we have. If we paid attention to that, we’d tend the earth, disregard lies and craven political strategy, one-upmanship, bigotry. But we are human, and we are so challenged, and I guess that’s what makes the coming-together that I witnessed today and will witness this next week so very special. I will never forget all the kindness and generosity and love bestowed on my family, and I know that in part, all that is because my parents, and my grandparents, have always been helpers. It’s coming back to them when they need it most, and I am grateful.

Be well.