I don’t know what I expected for January, but what I got was a flood of thoughts across the emotional spectrum of joy and sadness.
One cannot help but share an immense sorrow for the California families who, in a matter of hours, lost everything. I can’t stop thinking about the shock to the psyche to be enjoying a cool ocean breeze on your deck with friends one day and have everything gone the next.
Then, my thoughts drift to the 150-year birthday celebration of Evergreen. It reminds me of what a wonderful home we all have here in the Rocky Mountain foothills: the clear blue skies framing rolling tree-covered hills. The occasional vistas of towering fourteeners. The babbling brooks, streams and rivers.
One of the stories out of California talked about two men driving up a canyon to see if one of their homes was still there. Early on, most of the homes had been saved. But, as they wound further up the canyon, more and more homes were gone until, at some point, every home in sight was burned to the ground. Rounding a corner, the home they were looking for was the only one still standing and they rejoiced. Then the one said to the other, “Yeah, this is wonderful, but now you will be the only one here—living in a toxic waste site.”
I have been somewhat surprised at the degree to which some stories focused on lost stuff like precious artwork, record collections, my grandfather’s rocking chair, my childhood home. I suppose, the day after, it’s only natural for your thoughs to go there while stepping through the ashes of your home.
From a thousand miles away, I’m thinking that I must be weird. I’m not at all attached to the stuff in our house. I could pack a go bag in a matter of minutes with my life on slides and a few other documents. But then I didn’t grow up in our home. What should I know?
Actually, I have never been much attached to stuff. For heaven’s sake, I spent most of my adult life living in an old 1920s cabin. I used to joke that the flies could come through the gaps in the old single pane windows without even slowing down. After I finally finished remodeling it, it did cross my mind what a shame it would be for all my work to go up in flames.
What I am attached to is the land. The sweet smell of pine. The 100-year-old trees. The faint little animal trails winding through the woods. The aspen groves. The squirrels screeching to each other about the intruder. The elk wondering who this is who thinks he can just walk among them.
Last summer, on our way back from The Broadmoor, Holly and I drove through the Hayman burn scar. It was really depressing how little has grown back in 22 years.
We need to take every prevention possible to slow down a firestorm like the Palisades. In the meantime, I will go for a walk and love and appreciate what we have not lost.