My housemates and I pack up our things. I thought about taking a jar filled with $50 in quarters, nickels and dimes, but I forgot it after my arms fill up with things. I’m not the kind to take a second trip.
As I left, one of my housemates cameout of his room with his snowboard.
“You’re seriously taking that?!” I said, and laughed.
“Thank God for big cars,” he said, talking about his 8-mile-to-the-gallon Dodge Durango. I wondered what he’s going to do with his new black Ducati motorcycle. Geez he has a lot of toys.
“Alright guys,” I said to them. “I’m outa here. Don’t get burned. Hopefully we’ll all be home safe and sound later tonight.”
I got back to my car with my things. The elderly woman was there along with the man. They watched me put my things in my car.
I envied the way they loaf in front of their house, observing the activity as if it were a big circus. I felt silly with my suitcase full of clothes and books, my heavy backpack, and my big guitar case. I wished I were standing next to them, judging everyone for their overreaction.
Now, at 5:46, as the fire moves southeast, away from my home and theirs, I envy them even more. I suppose you can never be too careful. I suppose treading confidently around something as destructive as a fire, or alternatively a hurricane, an earthquake, a tornado, any natural disaster really, is foolish.
But I think there’s something beautiful about standing, loafing in front of a house you’ve lived in for 30 years and saying to the storm, to God, “I’m not moving, though you may kill me, I’m staying right here. Take my things. Take my memories. Take my life if you must. I’m not going anywhere.”
Foolish. But beautiful.
I save my work one last time. I check a few emails and get ready to leave the office. It’s late. I’ll be driving to Carpinteria tonight, where my parents live. I’ll ride out the fire there.
Good night Santa Barbara. I pray that we’ll all be home safe and sound tonight.
