The news of the tragedy of the hurricanes has been so devastating.
It sparks in me memories of surviving our own disaster, The Tubbs Fire, that happened exactly seven years ago today.
May we hold onto what is truly important, try to love one another,
and may we all try to see a glimpse of ourselves in our neighbor’s face.
For years I had wanted it,
as countless times I’d driven that stretch of road.
I had wanted time to just stop for a minute and take a picture of the way the view from that specific point looked,
but time was always ticking.
Racing against the clock to get the kids to school.
Run, run, run
as fast as you can…
There just wasn’t time to pull the car over and run across the road to snap the photo
of the way that the look back across the laguna towards home appeared in the morning light.
I just appreciated it as we flew:
The way the hills rolled dusty green,
the way the fog lingered still,
the sun now rising,
the hot air balloon floating.
Every day that view struck me, and made me inhale the scent of my home.
Every morning I got to the top of that hill, looked to the left, and thought about how blessed I was to live in this place.
I told myself one day I would stop and take the picture,
But then I just kept driving.
However, one day, with emotions from the Las Vegas shooting still new,
I was hit with how things can change in an instant – A resolve that this time
I’d actually DO it.
I would take the picture that meant that I,
Kerri Green, was
chasing beauty, appreciating life.
I had thoughts that I would write about just how “important it was to do the things we feel pressed to do.”
To find the beauty, and then to follow it.
Instead of driving on and just re-wishing my wish, this time I would leave extra early.
I would make room for my dream!
That morning everyone in my house looked at me sideways like I was crazy as I pushed them out of the house, telling them I had a picture to take.
“Don’t tell Daddy we ate cereal in the car.”
Their big eyes proved they recognized we had never left so promptly.
As we rounded that turn I felt excited to be finally DOING the thing.
My kids yelled for me to watch out for cars as I parked and ran across the two-lane road for the shot.
I was elated.
The hot air balloon was even there!
I returned to the car.
I drove on again with a sense of accomplishment inside.
That thing I’d always wanted to do was now done!
How was I even to know the real reason I’d stopped there that day, and that my original thoughts on the story it would make would be completely off from the one that I would tell?
How was I to know that mere days later, I would look from the top of that very same spot as our car sped past fleeing the largest fire in California history that was now devouring the city, and possibly our home as well?
The view had gone from idyllic to terrifying in days.
That look back would never be the same.
When I clasp the picture now, I think,
“What you see here is my HOME,”
Just beyond that grazed laguna,
the city where I first moved out,
where I met my love,
where all of my children were born.
This post card view is my late night cricket song,
My pair of kicked off shoes,
My familiar Christmas lights.
This view holds friends and so much laughter,
games played around a table,
cheers on New Year’s Eve.
This city is my “Good morning.”
This city is “Good night.”
It is the background of most of my photos,
my peaceful night of sleep.
Here, my beloved church lifts up its praises,
my children swing on swing sets,
my friends spread like a constellation,
my weather app is automatic,
my pets know to return there,
and MY HEART WILL EVER LOVE IT.
That day on that crest with my camera pointed towards those hills,
I did not yet know that I would be about to capture my very last picture of “before” it happened.
Before the view I loved was marred by the massive fire.
Before 3000 homes were taken.
Before our lives forever changed.
I didn’t know that the view that morning would live on as a postcard in my mind
of all the beauty that lies
in The Looking Back on beloved places;
In cherishing the moments when you have them, and they are still just over your left shoulder.
In taking the time to pull to the side of the road, even on a hectic day.
On one hand I can’t believe it’s already been seven years since it happened.
On another hand, it feels like a lifetime ago.
I’ll never forget the smell of the smoke.
I thought it seemed early for a neighbor to have lit their fireplace.
The wind felt eerie.
The light outside seemed off.
All the girls were long in bed before my oldest called to ask if I could come get her.
The car that she had been driving had died at her friend’s house in Coffey Park.
The 3 minute drive to get where she was was like a movie scene.
Tree branches lay in the road.
Dust swirled.
The traffic lights looked orange.
We decided to just leave the car.
By the time we got home the reports were popping up on my phone:
A large fire we’d thought was far enough away was heading directly our way at an alarming rate.
Panic was starting to kick in.
I started packing things before we were even warned to.
What do you grab in that moment?
We’ve all thought about that scenario before, but when it comes you just kind-of go blank.
For some reason, I left important papers, but took a wet-hair comb.
Wake the kids.
Try not to scare them.
Tell them this is just a precaution.
Don’t forget their lovies.
They’ll need them if…
Well, you know…
Within a half hour we had 7 people and 5 pets crammed into the van ready to go.
But where would we go?
It was hard to think straight.
We drove with the sound of explosions behind us.
“Mommy, What was that?!”
“Honey, I don’t know, but I’ll keep you safe.
The only thing I care about in this world is keeping you safe.”
Those moments show you what you love,
and you forget about hate.
We drove looking back at our city,
now just a big orange glow.
We drove thinking surely we could never go back.
Not when it looked like that.
Surely, there would be nothing left for us.
For 10 days we were evacuated,
lungs burning from the smoke,
tears stinging our eyes and leaving streaks in our ash powdered faces.
Debris from burned paper landed on the lawn of the house we fled to the next town away causing the grass to look like it had snowed.
I used to love the snow…
I remember that all that I wanted was to hug all my people;
To touch them, and to know that yes,
they were all still there.
Countless friends were now homeless.
I didn’t know how we would all ever move on.
I remember how we huddled together,
how we looked deep into one another’s eyes, and truly cared to know how each other were doing,
how we gave,
and showed up,
and went out of our way to help,
and to heal.
I remember loving my husband more.
I remember loving things less.
Seven years later and we are forever changed.
Time exists as either before the fire,
or after.
We are stronger now, strengthened by the knowledge that we faced something bigger than we’d ever had to face, and still
we came out standing together.
A year after the fire, an errand led my husband and I back through Coffey Park that had been right at the heart of everything.
Signs of rebirth were springing up all around.
I cried as I still do every time that I’m there, because I will never forget it as it was before,
or how it was during.
The sight of it is like a dark, thick scar I cannot help but trace.
We drove, and I thought about the fire, and all the time in between;
All the people who have ever gone through something that feels the same.
I had watched as it forged us,
and how from ashes we rose.
My heart longs for what was once my city.
My heart stands and waits for it at the top of that hill in my heart every day,
but I will never forget seeing that it
wasn’t so much about what we lost when looking back on it,
but it was about
all that we became.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
