Below the Red Evacuation Line
Two days before the fire tore through my hometown we were arguing about whether to buy a pumpkin at the local Pumpkin Patch or get one at Safeway for what seemed like half the price. At home we were upset with the 13-year-old built-in microwave because the latch that opened it, stuck about fifty percent of the time. It would cost at least $450 to replace. What a waste we thought.
During late evening October 8th, the wind howled like a banshee, knocking over everything in the yard and whipping not so small branches against the window in what seemed like a hurricane but with not a drop of rain. The cat hid under the bed. By early morning October 9th, the fiery trail of destruction and death raged on and everything changed. Everything.
We live about 1/16th of an inch away from where the city drew the evacuation lines on the map. Stand in the middle of the street and you could see dark black smoke rising in the hills on one side, and fumes of white billowy smoke on the other side. How long would it be before the fire came down the hill and turned the flatland group of homes where we lived into ash? I met with a few of the neighbors every two hours. “Should we leave?” was the question. By then the local news was broadcasting the damage and instead of getting better, several more fires had started and evacuation notices sprung up on the phone in what seemed like every hour. My daughter cried on the phone, “Just leave! what are you waiting for?” Many people had already left and said they didn’t want to get stuck on the freeway if everyone decided to go at the same time. My husband who had spent 28 years as a firefighter was 3000 miles away in New York on a trip. “Just wait for the evacuation notice. They’re setting backfires now — that’s the white smoke you’re seeing. And pay attention to the wind. What’s the wind doing?” Leaving meant not knowing. Decide what is valuable to you and perhaps can’t be replaced and load it in the car. Get ready. And so we did. A man walked his dog. We’ve seen him before but never spoke. “Are we going to make it?” he asked almost rhetorically. “I think we are. I hope we are,” I said but inside, a sick feeling of dread washed over me.
The fire never made it down to us. So many friends lost their homes I can’t count. One, a firefighter friend of my husband’s, came by after he toured the flat white foundation of where his home his home had been. “I sifted for two hours and found all my fire badges,” he said holding them in his hand for me to see. They were in terrible shape, distorted and blackened. We talked about how when we die, the ashes of the deceased person are given to the family in an urn. This fire, this no one could stop it death tunnel, took everything that was a part of peoples’ lives and turned it into ash. Even for us, as grateful as we are, everything has changed.
