Tribute
Adding my tribute to the rest …
Home
The first night home after eleven days of evacuation. I sink into the bath. Beyond the closed door I can hear the murmur of voices and the clanking of dishes. How easily we fall back into our daily routines. One son is doing his chores, the other is playing video games, and my husband is off on his nightly bike ride, the last of which was almost two weeks ago.
On his nighttime rides, he normally pushes 1.5 miles up the road from our house into Armstrong Woods, huffing fresh air while pedaling through the quiet, cool-dark park of whispering trees, sometimes dodging raccoons as well as potholes. But tonight he’s cycling down through the smoke-filled dusk, N-95 mask fastened to his face, stopping within half a mile of the park at the road closure to chat with responder crews about the fire still burning along the forest floor. Though he asks politely, they will not let him pass. So he turns around and races home along the rural two-lane thoroughfare lined with redwoods and houses, absent the usual pulse of pedestrians, cyclists, and speeding motorists.
As evacuation orders are lifted, people are trickling back into the area and settling in, but town and its constituent parts remain quiet (and some still empty) as the fire continues to burn down the road and over the ridge just a few miles away. I imagine how eerily still it must have been in some places during evacuation for those who stayed back. Those who, by choice or design, helped keep watch over our neighborhoods, protected our homes and town from fire, fed our animals, watered our plants, and sent us near constant, boots-on-the-ground texts and social media updates about the reality of what was happening in our community—none of which we could truly imagine despite the words and pictures. Simply put, our community’s losses would have been far greater if not for this scouting, bulldozing, indefatigable collective of neighbors, friends, and badass motherfuckers.
We were one of the last three local zones still evacuated to be allowed home yesterday. I expected traffic and checkpoints on the way back into town to herald our return (or impede it), but we sailed right in behind several cars through Pocket Canyon—or, as our friend’s toddler dubbed it years ago and we still affectionately call it, the Curly Way. As we turned onto Main Street, there was Jerry Knight kicking back on his barstool across from his theater, a comforting harbinger of normalcy, his presence one of those constants you’ve come to expect as you drive into town—him and his big, pink elephant.
We turn right down Armstrong Woods Road, roll past the propane yard and boon hotel + spa, then turn left onto the main vein into our neighborhood, and go up the hill to our house. Bits of the fire’s reality greet us upon return: A dusting of cinder-snow lining the street all the way around the block, the same thin layer of white, gray, and black speckled ash also covering our driveway, mailbox, patio furniture, decking, trash cans, and gardens. Several burn marks on our front deck where smoldering pieces landed but didn’t persist. Black and blistered bay leaves, dark brittle crisps of poison oak, and small chunks of charred redwood bark littered around our property, down the block, and landed amongst the dry grasses of our neighbor’s apple orchard.
And this morning, as I write this, the sky is still rosy-gold with smoke, maintaining an apocalyptic filter over our valley, where bulldozers and long-trailered harvest trucks have been lumbering and crashing along the roads all night—it is, after all, Crush Season. Amidst the continued fire efforts, there is a noticeable rush amongst the long swathe of land below where Korbel’s vineyard abuts our hill.
Other sounds down in the valley breathe life and familiarity back into the day as we settle into this next phase of not-quite normal—the crowing of a rooster, the braying of a donkey, the snorting and stomping hooves of horses, the chit-chat of people walking their dogs.
I also notice how strong the wind moves through the trees, jump slightly every time my phone dings with a text alert, and run outside every time a helicopter flies by. And each of us still has a bag packed.Just in case.
Evacuation
During our time “abroad,” we were, at all times, safe, well cared for, and with people we deeply loved and enjoyed. And yet, the visits feel a little different when improvised and unexpected—despite all the creature comforts and the grace with which we were received, we were not anticipated guests nor were we on vacation. We had been forced to flee what had been our one and only sanctuary during these last five months to become part of a diaspora now navigating a public world of germs as well as the anxiety, uncertainty, and general preoccupation that comes along with displacement and the fear of losing one’s home, neighborhood, and community to uncontrollable flames.
Add to that getting both kids online for their first days of school, managing two senior dogs, maintaining work, canceling classes, rearranging schedules, two national political conventions, plus two five-hour car rides between home-away-from-home A and home-away-from-home B, and we were, at times, a bit frazzled. But at the end of the proverbial day, there was not much more to do but breathe and be patient. So we mustered grit, attempted grace, and, despite a few non-mood-matching moments, managed just fine amidst the good fortune with which we were blessed.
And we were indeed blessed: With hugs (COVID, be damned). With hot food and warm beds. With bottomless cups of coffee. With a Baskin-Robbins sundae bar "for the kids." With groceries, home-baked goods, and hometown barbecue. With the company of people we hadn’t seen in countless months (including other evacuees). With sympathy and invitations of community from strangers. With humor, play, and laughter. With cable TV and internet connectivity. … May this be a firm warning to those of you who have welcomed us back ... it may not be that easy to get rid of us next time.
A special shout-out to my hubby Chris who curled up in a tent every night we were away from home to sleep with our dogs in one of two different backyards while the rest of us slept scattered throughout whichever house was gracious enough to have us at the time. Who then got up in the morning, sometimes after a near-sleepless night, to sit at his computer and do his job, trying to do very important things under very chaotic and uncertain circumstances. Every. Single. Day. Thanks, babe. You are our family’s very own unsung hero. I love you. We made it! Again.
Fire, Flood + Fealty
For many residents these past years, if it’s not ash, it’s mud; because if it’s not fire, it’s flood. Guerneville has become synonymous with both, but it’s the diversity and resiliency of our people that make it what it is:
If you don’t already know it … Guerneville, Sonoma County, California, population 4,534, is where Northern Exposure meets the Village People. Where gun-toting, truck-driving country folk live alongside peace-loving, weed-growing hippies and proud, rainbow-flag flying gay peeps. Where there is usually no more than one degree of separation, if any, between you and the person in line behind you at Safeway. Where your neighbors are your coworkers are your best friends are your kids’ teachers are your family. Where no matter your politics, your clothes, or your crazy, there is a place for you to fit in. Even for the guy with the boom box who dances on the railing in front of the B of A building. Especially that guy. Everyone belongs.
Tucked into a winding valley, flanked by the Russian River and the redwoods of Armstrong state park, Guerneville is everything—a rustic paradise of dense forest, deep trails, green treetops, and pebbled beaches, sun-washed with the sheen of summer or wrapped in clouds of fog. It’s a dynamic populace of settler generations, longtime locals, retirees, immigrants, weekenders, and passers through. Of essential workers, business owners, families, and freaks—all proudly self-proclaimed River Rats. All still with a place to call home.
That we are grateful for this place and all of its people is an understatement. That we are grateful to have a home to return to here is also an understatement. But after 11 days of evacuation, that’s what we are—home and grateful. I will still get a little wary when the wind picks up. I will still wonder if each text notification is from Nixle. But I will sleep well knowing that this community and its people have our backs (and that one of our local fire captains lives right down the block—a shout out and thanks to you, Rob, and everyone at the RRFPD!).
We fully extend our hearts and gratitude:
To the firefighters, first responders, law enforcement officers, elected officials, and local heroes whose efforts and sacrifices made it possible for us to evacuate, remain informed, and come home.
To our friends and family who gave us shelter, sustenance, comfort, and compassion during evacuation.
To our awesome neighbors on and near the knoll who kept vigilant watch over our house and created a constant web of communication and support.
To everyone who extended their words and prayers of love and protection. Our love and solidarity right back at you!
We will keep on keepin’ on. We are #riverstrong. We are #sonomastrong.
