Column: Life with Logan

If my house was on fire, I know exactly what I would save.

I only have minutes before the flames collapse the building, and every second spent inside the inferno will leave me with burns of varying degrees.

I must sprint as quickly as possible and retrieve only my most treasured possession. I won’t have time to snatch anything else. Only I know its precise location.

It’s one-of-a-kind, and it sits patiently in my bedroom awaiting rescue. 

Thankfully, my family escaped; my only concern is myself. The only obstacle between me and my prize is a raging ball of fury.

“The Floor is Lava” was a fun, childhood game, so I’m confident in my flame-dodging abilities. Maybe that game helped me train for this exact moment — the moment of truth. I inhale one last breath of clean oxygen before beginning my quest.

Like a superhero from that really popular action movie everyone’s talking about, I viciously kick down my front door. Smoke plugs the air, but I still find my bearings. My living room furniture — containing a piano, several bookshelves and a long, sectional sofa — all elicit unique burning sounds pertinent to their structure.

The wooden floor screams beneath my feet as I dash toward the basement door. (Before you judge me for living in my parents’ basement, know that I feel absolutely no shame). Parents are fantastic, irreplaceable gifts; learn from them, help them and live with them as long as possible (within reason of course).

Now, where was I? Oh yes, the basement door.

The basement door is tucked at the end of a narrow hallway. I reach for the door handle, but I quickly retreat my hand from its searing heat. I rip my shirt off, then wrap it around my arm to shield the temperature. 

The door swings open, but then it cracks off its hinges. Before me are 12 carpet covered stairs leading to the basement. I feel like Gandalf from the “Lord of the Rings,” who led the Fellowship of the Ring through the Mines of Moria. That scene with the tumbling staircase is great entertainment, but I’m hoping my fate in this situation doesn’t parallel the Grey Wizard’s.

With each descending step, I fear instability. Falling would mean “game over.”

I reach the bottom. Our basement contains more than it should. Bookshelves, overflowing with literature of every kind, hide most of the walls. My sister’s room is to the left, mine to the right. My drum kit, symbols and all, haven’t been touched yet. My PS4 cost me a pretty penny, but that doesn’t matter. Even my Magic: The Gathering cards, cumulatively worth thousands of dollars, cannot compete with the relic I’m trying to save.    

Fortunately, the flames haven’t affected my room; the fire evidently started upstairs.

I run to my nightstand, thankful to have gotten this far. The cabinet compartment of my nightstand holds the secrets of my past. Photos, souvenirs and thousands of words from my childhood cram between its pages. Behold, the journal I created as a
high school senior. 

Possessions say a lot about an individual, and some, like journals, say much more than others. My inspiration to journal came from “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” and “Sleeping Freshman Never Lie,” two of the most inspirational books to ever see shelves.   

If your house was on fire, what would you save? 

Decide quickly. The fire starts now.