It was the blizzard of '76. I was in college, living in a small attic apartment in Buffalo, New York. My landlord had recently purchased the house and had decided to use the fireplace for the first time on this cold winter night.
All was well, until I woke up to the smell of smoke in the wee hours of the morning. Thinking it was my imagination, I drifted back to sleep, only to awaken a few minutes later wondering if the house could be on fire. No, that only happens in movies, I thought. But rather than go back to sleep, I decided to investigate.
As I opened the door that led to the back staircase and the landlord's part of the house, smoke poured into my room. Unable to see through the smoke to go downstairs, I tried calling out to warn the landlord and his family—but got no response.
