Fires are raging through California again this month.  Today marks the 10 year anniversary of the Witch Creek fire which turned lives upside down, ours included.  It amazes me how emotional this still is for us and how profoundly our lives have changed because of this event.  It seems appropriate to post my article which was published in San Diego Woman's magazine a few years ago for anyone interested.

REARVIEW MIRROR

A hot August sun browns the tall, dry grasses of the nearby hills, an ominous reminder that it’s fire season once again.  Four years ago the Witch Creek Fire of 2007 burned more than a thousand homes and turned our world upside down.  

The phone rang at 4:30 on an October morning, a reverse 911 call, demanding we evacuate our home immediately. The voice was loud and insistent, echoing through the halls of our quiet home, jolting my family into sudden urgency.  A raging wildfire was headed our way and we needed to leave now.  

We stumbled into the hallway, wondering what to take with us.  How do you choose from lifetimes of memories?   Our house was filled with photo albums, journals, books, art work, and irreplaceable treasures spanning three generations.  In our panic and confusion, we focused on getting our children and pets to safety, certain we would be back soon.  

Our house was huge and solid and felt safe.  We had lived there for over fourteen years and I still remember the realtor’s emphatic words: “and it is BUILT…TO…LAST.”  We had hosted numerous parties there and even a wedding.  It was our haven and the only home our two children had ever known.

My artist father created many beautiful paintings of oceans, Indian pueblos, and family portraits to decorate our walls.  Dad and I shared a love of John Wayne and he had given me a framed picture of “The Duke” to hang in our entry way.  He typed the words “Well howdy, Pilgrim!” and stuck them in the bottom of the frame.  Fragile chalk drawings of my ancestors were carefully framed and also held a special place on our walls.

In the dark hours before the wakeup call, the winds, an unsettling 100 miles per hour, were blowing hard and our wind chimes thrashed and clanged loudly. I heard the patio furniture slide across the balcony, the roaring wind, and then a subtle voice in my head:  get up and pack your jewelry and some clothes.    Later on I would realize these suggestions were meant to guide me – get up and get your things together!  but I ignored them, rationalizing I just needed to sleep and we would be fine.  

Tossing and turning a short time later, I stole a glance out the bedroom window and gasped at the sight of tall orange columns marching relentlessly down the side of the mountain like avenging warriors.   I felt a wave of terror crawl up my spine at this spectacular sight, though I was sure the fire was too distant to harm us.  Then came the reverse 911 call.  Now everyone was up and trying to function.  My mind was still stuck in a thick fog of uncertainty and confusion.  

I stood stupidly in my closet, unable to think.  I left clothes, jewelry, everything behind and only took an extra shirt, thinking we would just be gone a few hours.   

I stood uncertainly in our entryway as another wave of fear crept into my foggy brain.  Would this be the last time I looked at these walls?  My father’s beautiful paintings seemed to beckon to me.  Framed pictures of ancestors stared down at me.  Take me with you.  No, I thought.  All these wonderful things will be ruined in the car which was already full with kids and pets.  This is just a precaution and we will be back in a few hours.  My husband hugged me and said nervously, “Sure hope we don’t lose our house.”

We backed out of the driveway and headed up the hill, unaware that our lives were about to be changed forever.

We evacuated to a nearby high school parking lot and wondered what to do next.  A blood red sun rose ominously over the horizon, shrouded by dark clouds.  As the sun rose higher in the sky, the temperatures soared into the 90’s and we were sweating and choking in the smoke filled air.  

Realizing we could no longer stay there, we headed north to a nearby town.  A few minutes later, we were shocked to see towering flames and billowing black smoke lurching over the freeway, forcing all cars to exit and find alternate routes.  We drove slowly and impatiently on freeways and back roads clogged with traffic.  What should have been a 40 minute drive seemed to last forever.  In fact, it took us over 5 hours.   

We were exhausted when we arrived at the hotel around 9:30 PM.  We dragged our dogs, birds and bunnies into the lobby, past a big sign which clearly stated SORRY NO PETS.  Everyone understood.  We had become refugees.

We were unable to return to our home until four days later.  Driving down the freeway we could see the fires had scarred almost everything within sight.  The hills on both sides were charred black and many homes were missing, some still smoldering.  We stopped at the top of our driveway and got out of the car.  Our grand “built to last” home was gone, replaced by a pile of rubble.  In disbelief, we walked down the driveway among blackened 80 foot palm trees.  A couple of hot spots on the hill still smoldered.  A wall or two still stood, but the beautiful red tile roof from two stories above lay in broken shards where the floor should have been. A sundial on the front patio, an anniversary present, with the words “Grow old with me.  The best is yet to come” had melted away with all our hopes and dreams.  

 Stumbling through the piles in disbelief, we found nothing of value, but my daughter found something very unusual.  The fire burned so hot it melted columns, pillars, metal, but, somewhere in the vicinity of her bedroom, one lonely sheet of paper fluttered in the breeze.  It was a page from a book I had enjoyed reading to my children years ago.  What are the odds that a piece of paper would survive?  The edges were charred and only the middle of each sentence legible, but on both sides was, oddly enough, a description of a fire.  I took the page with us and placed it in an acrylic frame, a symbol of survival.  

A friend listened to me lament how I couldn’t stop thinking about all I’d left behind, and she recited a German proverb: “If you’re always looking in the rearview mirror when you’re driving, you will never get very far”.  I knew this was good advice but found it impossible not to stare longingly into the rearview mirror of my life. 

I am tortured with imagery of fire burning all the things I cherished.  I see flames illuminated on the faces of my favorite dolls, stuffed animals, the chalk faces of my ancestors.  I imagine fire licking at my father’s painting of the ocean, the Indians in the Taos pueblo, John Wayne.  I see those towering flames roaring up the beautiful tile stairway, engulfing the sturdy pillars, devouring clothes, jewelry, books, our whole magnificent house, and turning it all into ash and rubble. 

Our home, family life, everything we once knew, was turned to dust by the flames.  It seemed the fire was a catalyst for a series of unfortunate events which tumbled us down like dominoes.   Plans for rebuilding and moving forward fell apart as relationships started to unravel.  We no longer had the luxury of leaning on each other for comfort as our family split apart, wandering in different directions.  

As I scrabble to pick up the pieces of my life, I search for the meaning in all of this.  What lessons am I meant to learn?

 I know it’s important to be grateful.  I thank my daughter for cleverly packing some photos in spite of my objections that “we can’t take all of them”.  I’m grateful for my sensitive young son who said to me afterwards, “Mom, I’m really sad I lost all my books, but I think you and Dad lost a lot more.”  I realize how lucky we are to be safe and unharmed.  The fire has cruelly robbed us, but can’t take away our memories.

I try to stay focused on the present and not worry about the future because there are no guarantees.   Relationships dissolve and structures collapse, dispelling the illusion of security.  It’s so easy to let possessions define who we are, but they can disappear without warning.  The house that was built to last was destroyed in minutes.  

I’m not sure I’ll ever stop missing all we’ve lost but I have to move on just like anyone else who’s suffered.  So  I move forward into an uncertain future, brushing off my demons of fear that grasp and pull at me.  It’s a constant effort to focus on the present and not dwell on the past, something I must be mindful of every day.   After all, if I keep looking in the rearview mirror, I’ll never get very far.