Safe and Sound I’m not going to try to be funny in this installment; I don’t think anyone would appreciate it. Everyone in my family—I, my wife, two kids, a dog and two rabbits made it out safe, and we’re hoping that you and yours did the same. I’m 92 miles away working in the offices of an old friend and business owner who was kind enough to temporarily give me an office space in his building. Unfortunately, the offices are in Escondido in San Diego County, which is about as “safe” as anywhere right now in Southern California. I’ll be back in Crestline as soon as they sound the “all clear.” I don’t know if my house is still standing. It looks very unlikely, since I’m only slightly farther than a stone’s throw from Crest Forest Drive and Skyland. You know, no matter how much you prepare and resign yourself that this kind of thing or something like it could happen here, you never think that one day you’re going to be one of those people you see on T.V. spending some uncertain nights in a Red Cross shelter. I remember, as editor of “Rescue” magazine, living for days in my truck covering both the Loma Prieta Earthquake in San Francisco and the Northridge Earthquake in the Valley. That was exciting, but it was because I was detached. I remember the generosity of people who had lost their homes or who didn’t yet know the fate of their property, especially at the Northridge quake. I was just a reporter, there doing my job, with plenty of cash and food and a warm home to go home to if I wanted. However, every time I pulled into a park to stay with these refugees for the night, these newly homeless people would crowd around this newcomer’s truck and start showering me with food. Even after I explained who I was and what I was doing, they still gave me stuff I visited both the San Bernardino International Airport and Hesperia evacuation centers and found the same thing. People universally wanted to know how you were just in case you were a little worse off than them and they could help you out somehow. I saw people handing out pet food to people who had run out, and people over and over again handing out cell phones to people who did not have them—giving out their own version of “unlimited minutes.” And I saw a lot of people hugging and holding tightly to friends and strangers both who were crying. On Sunday, by virtue of my press credentials, I was able to get back up the mountain to see how things were going, and they weren’t going well, although it did look like we were temporarily dodging the bullet. The few people there were in the unofficial business of helping people out. Mike and Regina Chilson, owners of Mountain Pawn and long-time residents, were on patrol all over the town, driving to and fro, keeping the holdouts apprised of the fire situation and making sure people were O.K. Every once in a while, a resident on an old Harley would ride by, apparently doing the same thing as the Chilsons—giving directions, advice and help to people trying to get out. Somebody said this biker was smoking an expensive Cuban cigar while he made his rounds. Even though that was wrong on a couple of levels, nobody could fault him for his little indulgence, given the situation. Time just stands still in these situations. It’s Monday—less than 48 hours since I first heard the sirens and went up the hill to see what all of the commotion was about. It seems like it has been weeks. No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember what it was that had been planning to do over the weekend. It seems like that all was in a different life, and I’m sure from now on that’s how it will seem. It always seemed a little trite when you would hear one of these people on television with their homes burning in the background saying, “Well, we lost everything, but at least our family got out safely.” It’s not trite—it’s everything. That’s why I can’t say enough for our local officials. If they told me to get out a little too early and I missed a few valuables, they were not being overly cautious—they just wanted to make sure that all of their neighbors got out alive, so they could risk their lives to try and save the secondary things in our lives. I salute them and wish them well. Stay safe. |
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