Originally published: March 5th, 2017
Have you ever seen a house blow up? No? Well, I have.” This was my go-to as a 9-year-old. It was the coolest story I had, because at 9, all I knew was that houses had blown up, and explosions were cool.
Growing up, money wasn’t a big part of my family. This was a typical poor family line in the nineties. It was fine, though, in the community known as Preston Heights, there were others doing far worse. Not that it’s any consolation, but it’s nice not to be the poorest family on the block.
On May 4th, 1997, something happened that shook the entire foundation of Preston Heights, both figuratively - and I’m not a scientist - but likely literally as well.
A family, a block over, was having some domestic issues. Only this situation was different; the dad was unhinged. Reports later came out that the husband had found out his wife was planning on packing up their three kids and leaving him. He decided that the only solution to this problem was to fiddle around with their gas pipes and appliances, hoping for an explosion. Talk about red flags. No wonder this lady was leaving him.
At 2:27 a.m., Ron Campbell successfully blew up his house. In one devastating act, four homes were destroyed, eight had heavy structural damage and had to be condemned, and 52 had exposure damage from concussion.
It was 2:30 a.m. when this situation became real to my family. I woke up to my mother panicked and screaming for me to wake up. I was 9, so I was clearly upset about being woken in the middle of the night. But what I saw when I looked out that window will stick with me for the rest of my life. The sheer size of the fireball lighting the night sky was unlike anything I ever hope to witness again, outside of Hollywood effects.
Mr. Ron Campbell, in an unsuccessful attempt to kill his entire family, had changed the landscape of the neighbourhood in one vicious act of cruelty. The days following were reminiscent of war movies after the war had concluded. The lost look on people’s faces as they wondered what to do next and where to begin. It was eerily similar to the look on the faces of the residents of Pinetree Crescent in the housing development known as Preston Heights. They hadn’t fought a war, but they had survived an attack.
At 9, I had a cool story about how houses had blown up and the fireball I saw in the sky. As I got older, I understood the real story was about how the community banded together and got stronger.