Note to Self: Talk to Strangers More Often

This afternoon after work, I drove over to Rancho Bernardo early (we have vespers at church at 6pm) so that I could get a look at the aftermath of the fires. As I drove up West Bernardo Drive, I expected the familiar green surroundings to disappear and be replaced by a wasteland of charred tree stumps and debris, but that wasn't the case at all. The fire came in and burned through so fast, it had no time to linger and lay wast the entire landscape. Instead, you would see several houses all in a row, completely untouched by the fires, then one lone house completely gone, such that you wondered if it were just a vacant lot sitting there. In a completely random fashion, the fires would destroy two adjacent homes and would leave the homes flanking the edges untouched.


I turn onto Aguamiel Rd and go up the street, seeing people on both sides of the street sift through the rubble and ash of what used to be their homes. I want to somehow connect myself to them, but I am at at a loss as to how to do it. I want to take pictures to cement this experience as a memory, but I hesitate to intrusively photograph someone else's deep experience.

Walking down the street with my camera, I pass a group of people in sooty work clothes and flimsy filter masks, standing in the front yard of one of the pristine, untouched homes. One women is holding a tray of small sandwiches, while the rest eat and talk, and occasionally erupt in short bursts of laughter together. I am painfully aware that I am an outsider here, and don't belong. I sally forth anyhow. As I approach the group of people, the woman with the tray looks at me, "Would you like a sandwich?" she asks with a smile. "No thank you, I'm good," I tell her with a warm smile, and continue walking toward the row of three houses that are completely gone. The third house is the one I want the picture of, because of the sign out front that laughs in the face of the tragedy: "Finally! No termites!"



I approach a woman who is dusty with ash and sipping a beer, "Um, is this your place?" I ask, indication the empty space where there used to be a house.
"Yes, who are you? You're not a reporter are you?"
"Oh, no, I go to church at St John of Damascus across the 15. I just wanted to see how you guys were doing and... well, see if you need any spare hands tomorrow. Who clears all this away?"

She warms up and we chat briefly about the cleanup. The city of San Diego wants all the metal to be gathered separately and large appliances to be picked up by the city, so that they don't go into a landfill. I survey the scene around me, and see people with the same attitude I saw before: "It is what it is. Let's get to work."



Deciding I should move along, I head back up the street. As I pass a few of San Diego's bravest, I hesitate, then go with my instinct. I ask the firefighter, "Are you with San Diego, or are you from out of town?"
"San Diego," he answers me.
I smile a tight-lipped smile, and reach out to give him a hug, which he returns as I tell him, "Thank you."
"Oh, sure," he replies, as if I had just thanked him for picking up my dry cleaning or something. I turn to his buddy next to him, reach out to hug him as well and tell him thank you. By now, tears are welling in my eyes. By the time I hug the thrid firefighter there, I'm visibly choked up.
"Are you alright?" one asks me.
"Oh, I'm fine," I laugh. "I am doing so well. Thank you."
"Well, how's your house? Where do you live? Were you guys OK?" another asks me.
"We are all fine. We live on the northwest side of Bonita. It was tense, but we never had to leave..." I pause, "thanks to you guys," I say as my voice trails off.
"You're sure you're OK?" he asks me, as he puts a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I laugh. "I'm just really hyper-sensitive, and probably in sensory overload right now. Haha. I just wanted to say thanks, that's all," and I smile again, then turn to go.

I would think they would be used to emotional females randomly giving them hugs by now.

I continue up the street and decide to drive past Judi and Bernie's house, just to look at how lovely it is, and make the report that they received no damage real to me. I don't have time to eat anything before church, and know Judy wouldn't let me off easy if I stop, so I just drive by. They house is of course as lovely and inviting as it ever was.

At the top of the hill, I see a large motorhome with news letters (I forget all the initials) on the side and a dish on the top. Two vacant lots with piles of rubble and ash top the hill. I'm intrigued by the palm trees, and want to photograph it, so I park my car and walk up the hill towards the burned-out homes.

As I approach, I see a man sitting on a metal cover of some kind, taking a break after a long difficult day. He's covered in dust and ash, and has his filter mask hanging loosely around his neck. He looks strong, but weary. I have no idea what to say. It seems impolite just to ask if I can photograph his missing home. When our eyes meet, I ask, "So, is this your place?"
"Yes, it is," he says with a sigh.
Suddenly, I abandon my plan. The photo really means very little to me. I look at his slumped shoulders and dusty face, and reach towards him to give him a hug, and tell him, "God bless you. You're going to make it through this." I don't know why I say this, it just comes out.
He swallows hard. "Thank you. Yes, we will make it through this."

He begins to telling me about receiving the reverse 911 call with 5 minutes to evacuate, how they had no time to collect anything but themselves...
I sit down next to him, as he continues telling me about the hasty evacuation with several pets, how they lost everything, but how they all got out.

I recount to him part of the pep talk to myself, that I might lose the trophies, but I would always have the achievements, and that while I might lose the photos, I would always have the memories, that nothing can take that away from you...

He cocks his head, then nods. "That's right," he agrees.

It turns out he was a Navy chaplain, and we probably have acquaintances in common. As I stand up to leave, he asks my name, and we introduce ourselves. He thanks me for walking up the hill. I tell him that I have friends just down the hill, and that I look forward to seeing his new house in all it's splendor very soon.

I get back in my car and glance at my watch. I'm going to be late for church if I delay much longer. I head down the hill, and out onto West Bernardo Drive. Just before the turn to go under the 15, I see five National Guard humvees parked in an alley, as if awaiting orders to move out. It flashes across my mind to stop and run hug them too, and tell them how much I appreciate them being there. I would perhaps not go to such an extreme as leaving my running car on the side of a busy road as I run to hug strangers, but I've been acting impulsively for the past hour, and impulsive momentum is driving me.

I pull to the side of the road, jump out of the car, run towards the humvees, scanning the people I approach. Most of the National Guardsmen are sitting in the vehicles, and I only see two people standing idly by. I head for them, a man and a woman in Army fatigues. I figure I'll hug the woman first, and as she looks up to see me run towards her, I smile and tell her thank you, then embrace her and tell her again. She laughs, and hugs me like an old friend.
I turn to the man now, and the words, "Thank you for being here" are out of my mouth before I look into his face and see that it's my mountain bike riding friend Armando. "No way! What are you doing here?! I didn't know you were in the National Guard!"
Armando laughs, "Yeah! What are you doing here?"
"I go to church in RB," I tell him.
He nods, "So how do you know each other?" he indicates me and the other girl.
She and I laugh, "We don't! I saw your vehicles, and just wanted to say thank for being here, and so I left my car running - hope it's still there - Oh wow. This is so funny to see you here!"
"So you didn't even know it was me?"
"I had no idea..."
Armando shakes his head, "Now that's funny..."


Having no more time to chat, I hug him again and dash back to my car. San Diego is a small town once again, or maybe I just never stop talking to strangers...

PS. Thanks Mom, for always encouraging us as kids to hug the Vietnam veterans coming home, and thank the people who fight for us.

Friday evening

from http://sosdfireblog.blogspot.com/

Friday, October 26, 2007
No more fire threat to city of San Diego
Matt Hall and Sherry Saavedra, staff writers
Posted by Union-Tribune, 2:19 PM

San Diego Fire Chief Tracy Jarman said this afternoon there's no longer a fire threat to the city of San Diego.

However, Ron Lane, director of the county's Office of Emergency Services, said parts of the county are still very much at risk.

"There is still danger out there," Lane said at the county's 1 p.m. briefing on the latest fire conditions...

Tonight is quiet, the sky is clear, and a light breeze from the ocean blows cool air on my face as I pull on a fleece cardigan. It almost seems as if I've been transported away from the inferno that was Tuesday and am now someplace much more temperate and far far away. Then again, was it really only Tuesday that I was in the inferno?

There's a surreal quality to living through a crisis, almost as if your mind is conditioned to receive the same basic input on a daily basis and rejects that which is too far off the scale of "normal." You ask yourself if it really happened, and wonder how you are to process all this new and "abnormal" data in your brain. As if your mind can only absorb so much at one time, and needs to push some of the experience to the side, so that you can absorb it later.

In the movie "Courage Under Fire," Meg Ryan is the commander of a downed helicopter who leads her crew of 5 men (including one badly injured) through enemy fire to a safe place in the rocks where they can await evacuation. Everyone is on edge, and suddenly, after a moment of stillness, one of her men glances at her brushing away tears from her cheek and exclaims, "Are you CRYING??!" To which she responds, "This is STRESS, MORON!"

I love that scene.

Throughout the movie, Ryan's character is portrayed as a strong, confident, resourceful, capable woman. They didn't have to include a scene with her crying, but they did. What a great and honest scene. I hate to take my cues from Hollywood, but I need to be reminded that strong women relieve stress by occasionally crying (as opposed to screaming, swearing, breaking things or blowing stuff up in video games).

The past four days, especially Monday and Tuesday, were mentally and emotionally draining, and by Thursday afternoon, it didn't take much for me to burst into tears.

I think I'm still processing the experience of the fires: the smell of smoke inside the house, the ashes falling from the sky, the large plume of grey behind Mt Miguel, the anticipated call to evacuate, the painful waiting that would tell me whether the church would still be there when they re-opened Rancho Bernardo, the tension of wondering where my friends were, and whether they were safe... It's too much information, and I feel I'm still in sensory overload.

So perhaps I'll let myself cry a little bit, chalk it up to stress, and not let myself think that the tears mean I can't hunker down and do what needs to be done. I can do what needs to be done, just give me a tissue and I'll be with you in a minute.

Lyons Valley Trading Post

By Thursday afternoon, much of life where I am has returned to normal. This being one of my regular days off, I sleep in past 8am, then leisurely go for coffee.

Most of my friends have checked in with me and I with them, my mind is at ease that the church is still standing and untouched by the flames in Rancho Bernardo, the fires on San Miguel mountain are under control, and my neighborhood is no longer in danger. But the weight that still remains on my heart is at Lyons Peak.

Wednesday night the fires spread back to the east, out toward Honey Springs Road and the Skyline Truck Trail, where I take one of my favorite road rides.

Periodically on Thursday, I scan the forums and blogs, looking for information about the Lyons Valley general store, knowing they battled a fierce fire battle the night before, but I find nothing. I had stopped by Rohr Park after getting coffee to ask Dave and Dana if they had any news from there. No, they hadn't heard anything, but knew the fires had swept through there and consumed most of it. Yes, I had heard that too.

Then late Thursday afternoon, I come across this article...

'This store is the heart of the community'

Posted @ 4:18 PM

In the midst of the Harris fire chaos a little thing like the reopening of the Lyons Valley Trading Post brings back a sense of normalcy to this small community.

As soon as the locks came off the trading post and the doors were thrown open it was a calming sense for Teresa Arden. Arden is one of the valley's residents who did not leave in the face of the fire.

The trading post is her lifeline. It is where she shops, but more importantly, in the days of fires and evacuations, it is where she gets her news.

"This store is the heart of the community," she said, moments after store owner Bob Johnston popped open the locks.

Arden immediately grabbed an energy drink, settled into the store and started talking with friends.

Just behind Arden were firefighters and a handful of residents who eagerly scooped up drinks and snacks.

It pleased Johnston to see his neighbors … and to lend a helping hand.

"I couldn't keep the store closed," he said. "People have to have a place to come for news and for each other."

-- David Hasemyer

I can't believe it. I read it again. And suddenly much of the stress and emotion that I had kept bottled up within me bursts, and I sink into my chair and collapse in heaving sobs. It is still there. They made it.

With tears streaming down my face, such that I can hardly see, I post a comment to the blog:

Thank you for posting this. When I first moved to San Diego in Jan 04, I began training for a triathlon. One of the rides we would take was from Eastlake to Honey Springs to Lyons Valley, back to the 94. How many times have I been climbing Honey Springs Rd, knowing that if I could just make it to Four Corners, then to the store, I would make the ride. It became not only a destination, but a physical representation of determination.

I've been watching the news so closely... wanting to know it were still there, asking anyone I knew for updates on Lyons Peak, and fearing the worst.

Knowing the store is still there, still thriving... well, it's like finding out the friend you thought might have perished is still there waiting for you. I'm a mess for all the tears running down my face in relief. And as soon as I can, I'll be back there on my bike. :)

May God bless and protect the firefighters and all of you. Thank you. Thank you so much.

October 25, 2007 5:12 PM

Only after I post do I notice the date of the report, not just the time. It was from Wednesday, the day before the fires swept over Lyons Peak. Crestfallen, but still optimistic, I contact one of the editors of signonsandiego.com, and ask him to please find out if the store is still there. It would be just too painful to leave my comments up if it were gone.

I hear back from him in just moments via email.

Hi Laura,

I just spoke with a reporter who stopped by the store today.

It is open for business and survived the fires.

I breathe, and cry again.

Writing all of this now, I'm shaken with doubt again, because I know the fire was really intense up there. Just to verify, I google them and send an email. I hope to hear from them soon.

Till I can transfer the ride report to this site, here is my ride report on Ridemonkey.com.

Qualcomm - evacuation central

This was one of the truly remarkable aspect of the San Diego County fires: the scenes from Qualcomm Stadium of evacuees, volunteers, and county officials.

Almost as soon as the call when out, people waited in lines up to 2 hours just to drop off the bottles of water and juice and bags of dog food, etc, that they had purchased at CostCo and taken to the evacuees. Volunteersandiego.org had to issue a statement that there were more volunteers available to work than there were opportunities to volunteer. By Wednesday afternoon, county officials were asking people NOT to bring any more supplies, because they were full to capacity, and had no place to store things.

What is most remarkable to me about the photos of the overflowing supplies at Qualcomm is that none of it was supplied by the government - it was all the citizenry taking care of its own. I love this town.