Red Hot

On our way home tonight from a ward potluck, we were stopped halfway up the canyon we live in. Three teenage boys, all spiffed up for the evening--two in all black and white ties and one in all white with a black tie--were huddled with hunched shoulders on the side of the road, silhouetted by a flaming car parked in flaming grass. We pulled up beside them, nervous. One was on a cell, the others had their hands jammed in their pockets. They had already called the fire department.

What we should have done:

Had Andy jumped out and helped extinguish, and me drive up to our house.

OR

Turned around so we wouldn't be stuck up the canyon if the fire really did block us off. (Except, with Grandma and Duke up at the house, we would have vetoed that option if we'd thought of it anyway.)

Instead, we quickly decided to drive past and risk being blown up if the car exploded. I craned my neck around to keep watching, and saw a man leap off his ATV and slip down the bank, spraying a little fire extinguisher. When we got home, I hauled Scout out of the car and Andy ran to get our two extinguishers. I had already started mentally gathering our most vital possessions, beyond us and Duke.

Actually, I could almost call this a passtime considering the number of afternoons I've spent thinking about what would happen if there were a Gibson Jack fire. But I'd always counted on the fire coming down the canyon from the National Forest. I'd never thought about what would happen if the fire were to come UP Gibson Jack, and we couldn't load the car and skeeddadle. (Um, that's a word, right?) So, for sure our CPU, my journals, our photos, and a couple folders out of the filing cabinet. . .

Ten minutes later Andy was rushing in the door ordering Grandma off the phone in case we need it or we get the evacuation call, and saying, "The whole field's on fire! I've got my phone, I'm with the Bishop."

Aye.

When we had pulled into the driveway, we imagined out loud to each other, "So if things got really bad, I guess we go stand in the field next door, right? Or would we turn on the sprinklers and sit on the lawn? Stand in the road maybe?" With Andy's announcement, I tried to be casual but focussed and started moving boxes of photos and stacks of journals from nether rooms in the basement to the bottom of the stairs, wondering how I'd get them and my four-month old AND my 92-year-old grandmother all over the river and through the woods to safety in a field or anywhere else. I pulled open the file cabinet drawer and plucked out the one labeled "Important Papers." It contained copies of records, licenses, certificates and diplomas and . . . every love letter I've ever written Andy.

When 15 minutes had gone by and I couldn't take the suspense any longer, I called Andy's cell. "Looks like it's going to be ok," he said. I could feel the adreneline hush up some in my blood. "What happened?" I asked him when he got in, not long later. He figured he had come back the first time just as a juniper was exploding. His two household extinguishers seemed silly, and the fire looked huge. In the dark, it's easy to mistake a fire's size. When he returned the second time, the city fire department was there, and had extinguished all the flames.

The property owner's grumble: "I could have done it myself if three or four guys had been willing to stop instead of just driving by."

My take-home message: As for me and my house, we are not ready for an emergency. Thinking about it doesn't cut it. So my plan is to give myself goals and deadlines, like, 72-hour backpacks for each of us and one for the dog by October 15th. Also, food storage and firewise landscaping. It might also be time for another love letter.