Saturday we were driving through the rural community of Neola, in eastern Utah, looking for the Houston home. The day before, George Houston and his son Tracy died (along with Roger Roberson) when a wildfire swept through a hay field. We were looking for family members, hoping they will be willing to tell us about these two men. Who were they? And what has this community lost in their passing?
We finally get close and were pointed toward the right house. It’s off down a dirt lane from the road, like a hundred places you’ve seen in the movies, with a mailbox out at the main road and Forrest Gump running down the lane. The reporter asks if we should drive down the dirt road, but I want to walk it. Walking the road sends a message but more than that, I feel like we have to walk. Others are walking ahead of us, holding hands and comforting each other. I put one camera and two lenses into a bag, latch it shut, and start walking.
At the house there are family members with teary red eyes on the front porch. Others stand on the lawn and watch the massive fire off in the distance, still burning and sending enormous clouds of smoke into the air. A steady stream of guests brings those offering embraces, food, and comfort to the two women who lost their husbands yesterday.
We are introduced to Margie Houston, who lost her husband of 44 years as well as one of her sons. JaLynn Houston joins us, Tracy’s wife. They tell us about these two men, who worked their entire lives to provide for their ten children. Margie’s granddaughter Marlise sits down and grips her grandmother’s hand. Only then do I pull the camera out of my bag.
As we sit and listen, I’m constantly aware of the need to show respect to these people who have lost so much. Looking around at the family who have gathered to listen, I feel an enormous responsibility to tell their story. I put my camera on single-shot and click off a frame or two of Margie and Marlise’s clasped hands, with Margie’s wedding ring visible. It’s a powerful detail, but also my way of easing the camera into the situation. Move slowly, and start with a detail. Let them know that I’m trying to share their story, not exploit it.
As we continue, the emotions rise and fall. Marlise leans in and gives her grandmother a hug. I raise the camera and take one frame. A moment later the situation repeats and I take one more.
I look on the camera’s LCD to confirm that I captured the moment. And then I just sit and listen. If another moment appears, I’ll be ready. But otherwise, the camera will stay in my lap.
Duane Houston, 11 years old, was in the hay field with his father and grandfather when the fire came. His grandfather yelled at him, telling him to run. Duane ran for it, as fast as he could through the trees and over two fences. He escaped, covered in soot.
I asked the family if I could photograph Duane. His siblings and cousins were hopping into the back of a pickup. Duane stood for the photograph and then ran off to climb in the truck with the other kids.
Once I left the Houston family, my mind turned back to my own superficial life with its trivial concerns, like what podcast should I listen to and where should I eat dinner. I drove into town and edited and sent my photos over dinner with my colleague, Tribune photographer Danny Chan La. Then I drove home, listening to music, returning to my family.
My sons called as I drove. The house was too hot and they wanted to sleep outside in the backyard. But they were scared to do it alone. They would only do it if I would join them.
I thought of how tired I was from the long day of driving and work. I thought of the early appointments I had the next day and how little sleep I would get if I was outside on the ground in a sleeping bag.
Then I thought of Duane, his father, and his grandfather.
“Of course I’ll sleep outside with you guys,” I said.
