Imagine a late October night in the hillside neighborhood called Claraboya in a southern California town called Claremont. When they gazed east at 10 p.m., there was a glow on the horizon as if the sun was rising. The arsonist started in San Bernardino County in some god-forsaken canyon they’d never heard of. Meth head or malcontent? Chemical imbalance or worn down by unfortunate circumstances? Sick or sinister? They did not yet know that arsonists would become news regulars, that wreaking havoc would be considered de rigueur, and that atrocities would become less shocking.
You couldn’t smell it yet, so the winds favored them. Unconcerned, bravado from ignorance rather than wisdom, Larry finished packing for tomorrow’s road trip, a drive up the coast to spend a week in Carmel. He put his suitcase by the door and fell into an untroubled sleep, not noticing the Canary Palms that lined Mountain Avenue were nervous, whispering, gossiping among themselves, but not yet frantic as they would become later, shouting desperately to anyone who would listen.
My bags were by the door as well. I was oblivious this would be the last time I would pack without fearing I was leaving a home I might never come back to, paralyzed with the meagerness of what I could take, overwhelmed with what I was leaving behind.
The bears emerged from their lairs, paused, and chose to forego their pre-hibernation foraging, instead retreating further north into the San Gabriels towards a safer winter habitat. Call it a premonition if you wish, but the bobcats and the foxes chose not to mix with the muggles that night. Safe from all but the most devastating developments, the rattlesnakes chose to burrow deeper.
It eventually burned 70,000 acres. In today’s terms, it wasn’t a big fire, contained in two weeks. However, it was our fire. We had been evacuated before, but, in 2003, the Grand Prix Fire was close and real and only the luck of the drafts saved our house.
It was the oddest thing. It’s not as if the fire was licking at our heels as we ran from the property. But still, merely stepping aside when disaster appeared became a trigger, and every year, in late October, our nighttime ritual includes scanning the horizons before succumbing to slumber, never again trusting the Santa Ana winds.
Over the next decade, every time we anticipated traveling, I would be hostage to pre-trip jitters that would start as soon as I began to coordinate climate and activities, long before embarking on the adventure. I would be disconcerted right up to the last moment of leaving home, the worst having grown into a full-blown panic before a recent tearful departure to Italy. I had phoned Megan an hour earlier, and now my friend was with me in the guest bedroom, the staging area for what went with and what was left behind.
Picture me sitting atop a bulging suitcase, nowhere near capable of closing. Megan was trying to reason, attempting to calm the situation. Larry was standing outside, impatient, hands in pockets, then not, fidgeting, trying not to fume, prioritizing logistics. A driver stood beside an open trunk and stared ahead blankly, not taking sides. ***
Eventually, we made our plane and flew to Milan.
The next day, I found a store that sold the charger cord I hadn’t packed and awaited the DHL delivery of the forgotten prescriptions. I kill time by leisurely riding the escalators of the Rinascente Department Store, finding a combination of peace and exhilaration at seeing so many exquisite designs under one roof: office toys and kitchen accessories that belong in MOMA, clothing designers satisfyingly organized by brand and finally, at the top, the food floor where marzipan masquerades as art, and where there are so many windows and you are so high up that you sit in the top-floor coffee shop, you can lock eyes with the gargoyles guarding the Cathedral next door.
Over a cappuccino, I contemplate what I packed: three pairs of shoes but only one hiking boot and one-bed slipper, four mascara wands but no lip gloss, multiple black turtlenecks, seven scarves, and jewelry galore, but alas, my favorite jeans are AWOL, and I didn’t bring a bathing suit. Isn't it as simple as making a packing list? Perhaps. Knowing the source of the neurosis goes a long way but stops short of a resolution. I know that someday I will regain my passion for travel without being paralyzed by the fear of returning to embers instead of a home, but it will take a while.
I had PTSD for ten years, after being evacuated in the face of a fire. It took me years to identify and understand it and finally let it go. Let's all let go of the things that no longer serve us. As Joni Mitchell says, "think of all the things I could have done, but clouds got in my way." Have a great day and put on your own oxygen mask first. You can't save anyone else with out saving yourself.
This is beautiful, Janice. Love your narration!