On Aug. 1, ash coated the deck like the merest skiff of snow.
Blackened embers alighted willy-nilly on the garden, gazebo and lawn.
My husband picked one up.
“This looks like part of a page from a ‘Harry Potter’ book,” he said.
Earlier in the day, my friend Carol called.
“Honey, you’re in the Level 2 evacuation zone,” she said.
We’d just returned from a trip to see our grandkids and were looking forward to a relaxing day at home.
Of course, we’d watched the plumes of smoke billowing across the brilliant blue skies, but the air was clear. We knew about the growing Old Trails fire, but hadn’t downloaded any apps. After all, we lived miles from the blaze, and our neighborhood filled with ’70s- and ’80s-era split-level homes and ranchers was safely nestled between two bustling thoroughfares.
I had to Google what Level 2 meant. It indicates “get set” and signifies a serious and immediate threat to your area from a hazard such as a wildfire. You must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice because conditions can worsen rapidly.
Derek was working in the yard.
“We’re at Level 2; we should probably pack something,” I said.
He shrugged.
“I’m watering the garden.”
Worried about my brother and his wife who live in Indian Trail, I checked the evacuation maps. They were in Level 3 “go now.” Likewise, Derek’s two sisters and their families in the Whitworth area.
I lugged photo albums from cupboards while texting everyone. My sisters-in-law decided to stay in their homes and keep watchful eyes on the fire maps. My brother and his wife inched their way down Indian Trail Road with hundreds of others, as planes dropped pink fire retardant and homes blazed around them.
Meanwhile, I discovered we have way too many photo albums. My firstborn’s baby pics alone fill three! The albums are big and heavy. What to pack them in?
I hurried downstairs and fetched my biggest laundry basket and the cat carrier.
Oh no! One carrier – two cats. Since Walter is almost impossible to get into the carrier, I decided we’d put Freya in it and “purrito” wrap Walter in a blanket if we had to go.
Since we travel a bit, our toiletry bags were ready to go. I shoved them in my canvas beach tote with a change of clothes and the cats’ dishes and food.
Grabbing another tote, I stuffed in some pajamas, a pair of tennis shoes, and a box of contacts.
Derek had come inside, so I asked him to get our important documents.
“All of those are replaceable,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
That’s when I realized he couldn’t easily access important documents like the deed to our house, car titles, and our marriage license.
“You need to organize your filing cabinets,” I said.
“Now?” he asked.
Instead, I asked him to get some clothes for our “go-basket.”
He handed me a T-shirt, two pairs of underwear, and two pairs of socks, and put his laptop case next to the basket.
That night, we let the cats sleep with us and kept our phone alerts on.
In the morning, friends checked in. One offered us a place to stay if we had to evacuate, another shared what she’d packed in her go-bag. That’s when I realized I hadn’t packed my wedding rings or any other jewelry.
As Sunday dragged on, the fires blazed, and our evacuation status remained unchanged. Throughout the day, I added and removed items from the basket. The cat food and dishes went back to the kitchen–water bottles and toothbrushes went in the basket. Work documents, recipes and current photos were all backed up somewhere in the cloud.
On Monday, we left our house for the first time since Friday. I drove to the Valley for an appointment and took our go-basket with me. Since Derek’s office is closer to home, he was in charge of grabbing cats and laptops if our situation worsened.
For us, it didn’t. Our family members stayed safe, and so did our homes. We were fortunate, but hundreds in our community were not. And so we grieve alongside them. Find practical ways to help when we can. Share lists of resources. Listen to their stories.
As I write, it’s been a week since Derek called me to the deck to see the ash, to touch the fragile embers, to bear witness to the devastating damage those charred windblown fragments represented.
I’ve emptied our go-basket of everything except the photo albums. I’m not yet ready to tuck them back into cupboards.
It’s amazing how small your idea of what you need becomes when faced with the enormity of your community’s catastrophic loss.
Cindy Hval 