This ongoing, collaborative sequence of weekly poems, with editors changing every month, features wonderful work, like that of James Benger, "Blood," this week, monthly editor Ronda Miller. , The poem begins:
Saturday, November 16, 2019
Sunday, November 3, 2019
Denise Low describes evacuation from the Kincade Fire
Dear Friends / Family,
Thank you for good wishes during the
trying time of evacuation from our home during the Kincade
Fire, Oct. 26-Oct.
31. A small fire in the Fitch Mountain neighborhood
in August helped us to mentally prepare for a mandatory evacuation. We saw the local
firefighters in action and how they were quick, had effective defenses, and
worked with helicopters that carry water bins; jets that spew retardant; and impressive
fire trucks. New to firefighting in this region is use of motion camera
surveillance on mountain peaks. Also new is the meteorologists’ experience of
what these Santa Ana-like winds can do in Northern, not just Southern,
California. The fire crews were alert and arrived quickly.
So, when the bleepingly intrusive alarm of
the Kincade Fire came over our phones Saturday noon, Tom and I were somewhat
prepared. We had our legal papers together in a portable file box. We had a
go-bag of food. We had gas in the cars, water, and some cash. But we were still
overwhelmed when we got a 3-hour notice that we should evacuate. The fire was 5
miles away with strong winds blowing toward us. We unplugged appliances, found
our overnight bags, and charged our phones. We then had time to select a second
tier of possessions to pack—finer clothes, family photographs, jewelry,
mementos, a few books and paintings, and the Sabatier knives my brother gave me
in 1972. Wine. I packed a case or so of my winemaker son’s wine from the basement, for barter and for solace.
This process of choice was
a rapid recapitulation of our year of packing for the move to California
last July. The resonance added to the surreal quality of the day. Our home
was dissolving under us, again.
We found someone willing to take us in—our
daughter-in-law Allison’s mother Tami lives in Santa Rosa 15 miles away. We
started the drive through back roads to Tami’s house, and luckily, Tom found a
gas station and topped off the tank. At Tami’s we shared burgers from a local
joint and some of the wine. All seemed normal, except for the layer of smoke to
the north. At nightfall, Tami and her friend decided to leave for another city,
while we stayed and went to sleep. We thought we were set.
We did not really understand the likelihood
of a progression from an evacuation warning to a mandatory evacuation. Nor did we
understand where we were on the map in this new town and how close we were to
the fire. At 4 a.m. the phones made the wretched alarm again, and a neighbor
pounded on the door and told us to evacuate. He affirmed that we were in the
projected path of the fire.
We were loaded and on the road fifteen
minutes later. We headed out the driveway with no clear plan
of where to go—north
to friends in Ashland, Oregon, who would not be awake, or south to be with relatives? Our son was in Petaluma with his in-laws, and he texted that
address, so we decided to join him. We edged onto Highway 101 and joined the stream of trucks, motorcycles, cars, and emergency vehicles. This was the
scariest part of the entire experience. A few drivers were panicky and trying
to weave in and out of the moving wall of cars crammed together. Ambulances
were in the median shoulders because no one would give them room. Nightmarish.
Going south was the right choice, because we found out later that Ashland was only accessible from the south—101 North
closed within minutes.
Two hours later, we turned off 101 onto dark
country roads near Petaluma and managed to find Uncle Bob and Aunt Elaine’s
ranch, thanks to Siri the Omniscient. At 6 am they had coffee ready, good
pour-over coffee. That meant a lot. Then they cooked us a seriously good
breakfast. Our son David advised us, and we mapped directions to Oregon, where
former Lawrence friends Jim Gilkeson and Diane Tegtmeier live. They had been
displaced by the Valley Fire four years ago. They would understand.
We made it as far as Redding that day,
where we spent a tense night in a motel. In the morning, we watched television
news of the fire, miniaturized on the tube into brief, dramatic clips. This odd
echo of our experience, distorted, added a sense of unreality.
Then we traveled to Ashland, by way of
Mount Shasta. We stopped and appreciated this white-topped
eminence. Out of the fire zone, such touristy normalcy was eerie.
By the time we reached Ashland and found
our temporary abode, I was snappish. I was disconnected from my surroundings
and did not register the beautiful colors of an Oregon autumn. Our patient friends
served a lovely dinner, and we contributed wine. Food and drink and talk worked
their magic. Jim and Diane conducted informal therapy with us for the duration—listening,
comparing stories, sharing outcomes. They introduced another survivor of the
Valley Fire, and I listened as she told her story. We were becoming part of a
new fellowship in the evolving pattern of days.
On the 3rd day came the
rescinding of the evacuation order. The narrative that we had been living
would
move toward a “happy” ending, unlike that of our friends, whose workplace had burned
to the ground. Survivor’s guilt is real, but I did not expect a rush of
satisfaction for getting through the difficulties.
We made the long drive home on Halloween,
expecting power outages but happy to have an intact house. When we reached
Healdsburg, we saw burned hills directly above our son David and his wife Allison’s
house. Everything was okay, but oh so close to the upturned Tower of the Tarot deck. Out our back yard, we could see pink fire retardant on hills across from
us and a burned patch. Light ash covered the rose leaves.
And that should have been the jubilant
ending. But the gas was still out. Still is out. At first, this is not such a
problem. The microwave, a single space heater, the refrigerator, even the
washer and dryer work. The coffee pot works. But the stove does not, nor the
hot water heater. This is too many days without a shower and a week
without a shampoo. Nights are very cold.
So, we are still between worlds, in a
suspended time. We can’t leave the house unattended from 8 am
to 10 pm because
the power company might appear. The day revolves around this fact. Grocery
stores are slowly repopulating their shelves. There is a shortage of
mayonnaise. When refrigerators don’t work, everyone throws out the mayonnaise,
so remember to keep an emergency supply. The meat department only had veal and
rack of lamb at first, but very little ground beef or other middle-class cuts. Ice
cream is a distant dream.
We are having unpleasant emotions about Pacific
Gas & Electric, which turned off our gas well after the major threat of
fire. Our insurance company emailed and offered to spray our house with fire
retardant gel 6 hours before we were cleared to return. We declined. After
collecting and totaling receipts, I found our expenses were $50 less than the
deductible. Some things never change.
The power outages and evacuations are all worth
it for one outcome—no fatalities. We will contribute to the relief effort for
Sonoma County evacuees who are less fortunate (our church is taking a collection for undocumented workers), and we will count our blessings.
For now, we are trying to adjust to a new understanding of our environment and
new identities, for we do identify with our surroundings. The water, air, and
local foods circulate in our bodies. The burned scar on the slope opposite us
is a reminder of this time of fragility when our houses and bone-house bodies
were in balance.
After a few weeks, we will have a family
meeting, Tom and I, and maybe a few of the turkey vultures
that circle our
house regularly. We
definitely will make some improvements on our emergency strategies. Until then,
we wait for our town and our region to return to regular, forgettable routines.
We truly appreciate each of you and your kind
words of support. This is my first national disaster, so I have been fortunate
to live this long without a tornado or other catastrophe—just those of my own
making. The gas company might come tomorrow, and Tami has offered her house for
a hot shower. Life in this interstitial space is, well, goodish.
Best to all, Denise
PS, we just had the gas turned on. End of the evacuation saga, part I.
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