It was January 2003 and my husband, Ronnie, called me at work.
Just before lunch my phone rang and I knew it was serious because he never called me during the day.
But I never expected what came next.
“Marta, this is gonna be a rough one,” he said. “Mem’s house is on fire.”
My grandparents lived on a narrow dirt road in East Penn Township.
They had been napping and awoke to smell smoke. My grandfather somehow managed to get my grandmother out the back door. She walked slowly because of a stroke and a sore leg from diabetes.