On Monday of this week, June fifteenth, Day 94 of lockdown, we added a new crisis to the global-health-economic-meltdown-social-justice list: wildfire.
That afternoon, I’m working in the barn, Jacob’s just finishing his last College for Kids class of the day, Nate’s at soccer camp in AG, and James is at the shop.
Earlier in the afternoon, I hear sirens and walk around the interior of the barn, scanning the sky. I don’t see anything, assume there’s an accident on the freeway, and return to my normal daily Zoom marathon. James calls me at 3:10. I remember the urgency in his voice when I pick up, “Answer your phone.” He says something about fire and getting out. Now. He says our neighbor Lea is headed down the hill. I accidentally hang-up on him as I try to put him on speaker phone and run.
I open the front door of the barn and the sky is filled with brown smoke to the south. There are helicopters and planes over the ocean. A police SUV is stopped crookedly in my driveway as I sprint in flip-flops across the lawn. He’s blaring that loud, deep police horn and yelling at me through a bullhorn. I wave. Lea’s white Tesla is headed down the hill. Jacob and I are in my car in seconds.
Then there’s that moment where the lights come on and it won’t start. What’s wrong? My key fob. I sprint back into the house and find it in my other purse. I grab a pile of face masks.
We fly down the mountain, passing another official on his way up. When we get down to the bottom of the hill, we stop behind a line of neighbors, next to the orchard. Lea comes to my window and holds my hands. I’m shaking. I call James at 3:19. He reminds me that someone needs to get Nate. Normally I leave at 3:30. He volunteers to go and so we follow Lea’s family to the Madonna Inn to get away from the chaos. Jake is crying as we take the freeway. I’ve said the wrong thing about the replaceability of chickens.
Jacob and I enter the Madonna dining room in a daze. We get a socially-distanced table by the window. We’re wearing our masks. I hold him and close my eyes. He’s still shaking. We can see the smoke through the big picture window. Our waitress, bless her, allows us to sit quietly for over two hours. She serves us bottomless root beer and iced tea in colored, cut glass goblets. Mine is purple. Jake’s is green. A big family comes in and orders 4PM pancakes. There may be nothing stranger than being a refugee at the Madonna Inn.
I watch the infrequent media updates as the fire goes from 5 acres to 15 acres to 300 acres in minutes. I’m blessed to receive so many concerned calls and texts at our little makeshift camp. I find one sweatshirt in my car.
After hours on the freeway, James and Nate finally meet us at Mandarin Gourmet. Nate only has soccer cleats on his feet. I have a presentation first thing in the morning. James is able to grab us a few things at home and then meet us in Los Osos for the night. How very fortunate we are to have a safe place to stay at a moment’s notice given the evacuation isn’t lifted until 11:30pm.
As Jake and I sat in the over-embellished pink Swiss chalet, I make a list of what I wished we had. I’ve scanned almost all our pictures to the cloud. Important papers are safely locked-up at work. House videos and an inventory are in Google drive. Attempting to distract myself during a clear moment of clarity I write:
- Baby quilts (precious and irreplaceable)
- Phone charger and a computer power cord (you need one electronic device for your bored, freaked-out refugee child, and one for checking Twitter)
- Sweatshirts (it’s very cold drinking from icy purple goblets)
- Basic toiletries (two presentations scheduled that I wasn’t particularly excited to do in yesterday’s clothes and no mascara)
- And my grandmother’s ring (also precious and irreplaceable)
After this literal fire drill, the go-bag is packed and in my car. We’re so fortunate to be home and safe. We’re so fortunate the wind blew south. We’re so fortunate the firefighters were fast and capable. I’ve braved more natural disasters than most, and one universal truth remains:
Everything is replaceable. Except people. (And if you’re with Jake, add “animals, pets,” and emphasize chickens. Trust me. Just go with it.)