In The Path Of The Fires

Around 10:00 yesterday morning my friend Joe called me. It was a little early for him to be in his office, but his wife Trudy was on her way to a meeting in Seattle, and he had taken her to the airport even earlier. He wanted my boss' phone number for Trudy so she could get a hold of my boss if needed when they all arrived in Seattle. He also wanted my fax number so he could send me a "cut and paste" (literally, not in a word processor) document Trudy had been working on for us. Oh, and by the way, he and Trudy had to leave the house.

What is so startling about this simple statement was the context in which it was made, and Joe's saying it as if it was perfectly ordinary. Joe and Trudy live in San Marcos, just north of San Diego. I stayed with them for a long weekend after a meeting less than two weeks ago. Their neighborhood received evacuation orders early that morning. Joe told me that they'd woken up in the wee hours because they smelled smoke. They woke the neighbors next door, who have an infant child, and then proceeded to pack all their important papers, computer, clothing, and a few other things in the car before they left for the airport. The neighbors called Joe during the airport trip and said the mandatory evacuation notice had come, so he should not come home.

During lunch I looked at news reports online. Everyplace we had been during my visit was under fire watch, being evacuated, already evacuated, burning, or burned. I called Joe just before I left the office last evening. He was in the middle of packing a truck at the church where he and Trudy both work. Del Mar was threatened, and they were packing up the irreplaceable things. He told me he had a place to stay for the night, and he would call me later. This morning my boss called and passed along news from Trudy. They received notice that they could return home, but then another evacuation order went out. Joe had not even bothered to go home because the traffic was so bad.

It is very different watching and reading news of a disaster when people you know are involved--or places you have been. It makes it much more personal. On the train ride home last evening I found myself pondering my own preparedness for a disaster. What if I was given 30 minutes or less to get out of my home? What would I take? What do I consider important or irreplaceable? What could I realistically grab and load into my small car?

There are advantages to living in a small apartment. I do not have many places to stash things, so most of what I own is readily accessible. And with the recent purge, there is a lot less "stuff" to sort through if I had to leave. All of my important papers, files, and family records and pictures are in the three remaining plastic file drawers that sit by the back door of my apartment. My journals are in two archive boxes in the back closet--also close to the back door of my apartment. All of the clothes in my closet could be taken out to the car in two armloads, and those in my dresser could probably be stuffed in one or two of the small suitcases. My flute is usually out because I play it frequently. After that, it would be whatever else I had time to grab and fit in my car.

What I did realize is that I don't have a lot of my important information in one central place. Insurance policy numbers, group medical numbers, bank account numbers, emergency contact numbers, inventory of what is in my safe deposit box, etc. So today I stopped at a local Borders and bought a Moleskine Memo Pockets. I will be transcribing all that information onto index cards to go in the pockets, and it will stay with me.

Tomorrow I will try to call Joe and see what the latest news is. And I will probably again be amazed at his--and Trudy's--matter of fact, almost cheerful, demeanor in the face of the fires. In the meantime, I will pray for him and Trudy, and for all those in the path of the fires.

Peace,
Jeffri