“An 88-year-old woman had to be helped out of her Vienna home after a huge Red Oak Tree came crashing down on it on Monday afternoon.”-Roy Chavez, Fox News

We’ve all seen stories like this before, sounding so antiseptic and dry, focusing only on the most basic of facts. Working at the Washington Post Express, we see literally dozens of stories just like it every day. When I asked our metro reporter why this particular story didn’t leap out at him, he said simply, “When I saw that nobody died, I moved on to the next one.” Callous maybe, and he prefaced his statement warning as much-but true. Nobody died, not really that much of a story, sorry.

But that’s because the story doesn’t convey what it’s like to hear that a tree fell on your Grandmother’s bedroom, caving in the roof, crashing through the attic, and sending debris down to crush her bed. It doesn’t talk about the relief her family felt when they heard she happened to be in the Den, less than 20 feet away, watching television when the Oak came tumbling down. It failed relate to the reader at all the first impression of walking through the wrecked house days after the event, looking up at the ceiling, and peeking at the sky through the shredded remains of the roof.

It’s an odd feeling, seeing the house your father was raised in with his brother and sister, ripped out from the inside, insulation and drywall laying on the floor in clumps. The inspectors from the county had to look at the structure of the walls, you see. They had to be sure that the building wouldn’t come crashing down on us as we worked to salvage my Grandmother’s belongings.  As I walked among the remains of the place with my aunt, an insurance adjuster appeared to check on the progress of the men carrying out the larger pieces of furniture.

Apparently there is a disagreement on wether or not the property is a total loss or not. Never mind the fact that there are cracks in the foundation, never mind the fact that the house is 70 years old, never mind the fact that the three construction companies that have come through the house just since my arrival have all declared it unsalvageable-and that both construction standards and building materials have changed. Never mind that. The insurance company is reluctant to call the place a total loss, probably because that means a larger payout.

But we don’t care about money. My grandmother wants her home back. She particularly wants to be back by Christmas, though I doubt that is going to happen. I just want her to be safe, and happy. She’s an 88-year-old spitfire to be sure, but she still carries with her the thought that the last time her brother was taken from his home, he never came back. We tell her there’s nothing to worry about, and that yes-while we all eventually leave the house and don’t come back, that doesn’t necessarily mean that this is the time it will happen to her.

After the asbestos shingles, fiberglass insulation, dust, and the unsettled floating residue of 50 years worth of smoking started leeching into my lungs, leading to coughing and sneezing fits, I was sent outside for a break. Walking around the house, it was easier to see the full scope of the damage of done by the tree. No small sapling, the Oak tree was itself over 50 years old. According to the story my uncle related to reporters, more than 50 years ago my father saved the sapling from being pulled out by my Grandmother. It was as much a part of the home as the house, and now it too is lying in pieces.

Eventually the remains of the tree will be carted off, and the house will be reconstructed. It will be shiny and new, and better serve the needs of its physically disabled occupant. But the home where my father was born and raised is gone. The halls he ran through with my aunt and uncle are broken and uneven. The windows that looked in on so many family Christmases are now cracked and falling. It is a passing. Not nearly as bad as it could have been,  should Gran have been in her room, but a passing none-the-less.