June 24, 2002

Burning

Over 331,000 acres burned, with no end in sight, and zero percent containment as of today.

Over 200 homes lost, and entire towns evacuated. Towns. With an "s". 475 square miles, burning.

Lurid photographs and footage on the near-continuous news coverage.

Absolutely, absolutely no rain in sight. For weeks. The rainfall is barely 5% of what is normal, this year. Roosevelt lake is down to 10% of its normal levels. Down TO 10%, not down 10%. Arizona has been on drought emergency status since 1999.

A good portion of Arizona is on fire. Arizona is known for its vast stands of Ponderosa pines. The same pines that were not subject to controlled (CONTROLLED, mind you) clearing. The same forests whose scheduled controlled burns went neglected. The same trees which were allowed to exist among tangling and growing underbrush - fire fodder. The same forests which house thousands of dream homes - retired folks who built little cabins in the woods, summer homes for the industriously busy Phoenix professionals. The trees under which we've spent many nights camping under, hunting among, reveling in the beauty of as we escape the gasping heat of the city and take a full, deep, cleansing breath of the pine scented air.

Ashes and smoke now.

I'm as big a fan of conservation as the next nature lover, but when I'm educated to the fact that the sheer magnitude of this devastation could have been averted had the state implemented - and stuck to - a controlled clearing and burn plan, it makes me sick. Certainly we should preserve the habitat of the thousands of species of animals inhabiting our northern forests. We can do that *and* maintain the forest levels such that they are not such a tinderbox, dying and wilting under these drought conditions. Because now? Those fleeing animals are so much worse off than they would have been. 331,000 acres, as opposed to perhaps a thousand or two or three. Not to mention the homes lost, the businesses lost, the people displaced.

I'm grateful that the town of Sedona has decided to close State Route 89A through Oak Creek because of the fire danger. That drive is by far the prettiest I've ever seen, and the homes that dwell there are stunning. The town of Sedona is so precious and unique that if anything as devastating as a fire swept through there, I would well and truly grieve.

They broadcast on the news that there is a 100% probability that ANY kind of spark - whether it be from a lit cigarette, faulty brakes, a chain dangling from a moving trailer hitch - would start a fire. It's that bad. Calvin told me that the moisture measured in the trees up north registered as 12%. The boards and planks stacked up in Home Depot ready for sale register at 18% humidity.

It's dire, folks. It's so dire.

As I watch the footage, daily, I put myself in the position of these poor folks. Waiting in anticipation, told to leave their homes and belongings behind as they're herded to a shelter to wait. To wonder. To hope that their home is there to return to, and to dread that it won't be. The communities have been on alert for nearly a week - firefighters and police and other public officials driving house to house and warning people that when they're told to evacuate, they'll have as little as fifteen minutes (with generous estimates of one hour) to grab their most precious possessions and hightail it out of there.

And so I wonder what I would grab. What would I stuff into the truck and take with me? What would I leave behind? What kind of difficult choices would I make, in order to choose between this memory and that one?

Material things - furniture, computers, appliances, stereos - they can be replaced.

The puppies would be loaded in first. Then I would grab the box of pictures (they're all in one spot, thankfully) and all of the pictures of the family that we have on the walls. All my old notebook journals come next. Clothes would be dumped into garbage bags - I could clear out the closet and dresser in short order. We'd probably snag the CD carousel which contains our entire collection. And the stack of blankets in Michael's closet. And probably the pistols. All of Marie's most cherished items. And probably my website backup CD's and the digital pictures that I have burned on CD's. I'd definitely grab the bag that holds my grandmother's recipe book, a bunch of pictures of her, and some keepsakes I snagged from her house last August. The box that holds my mother's Hummel figurines and a whole lot of mementos from my childhood (dolls my grandmother made, the ribbons I won in horseback competitions...) would commandeer a spot, too. Finally, we'd probably grab a bunch of toiletries and towels to get us through, and the folder that contains all of our bills, checkbooks, and financial whatnot.

And of course, Calvin would ride the motorcycle to safety.

I'd have to sacrifice the multiple boxes of books stored in the garage, collected over the years. My saddle and boots would have to stay behind, too. Dishes, paintings, cookbooks, doodads and knick-knacks, camping equipment, tools, painting equipment, all would stay behind.

My receipts aren't in order, nor are the insurance policies and whatnot immediately grab-able. A change I plan to enact at the next possible opportunity. Do I have enough coverage on my homeowner's insurance? When was the last time I looked at that? Did I adjust it after building the addition? I should put together a file folder of all important documents - birth certificates, insurance policies, warranties, mortgage documentation, tax documentation, diplomas... life generates so much paperwork that we ignore until all of a sudden - like in a circumstance such as this - it's vitally important.

I'm paranoid of fire, now. Friday night when we went to an outdoor concert, I prompted Calvin *twice* to stomp out the casually-tossed cigarette butt belonging to a man standing in front of us. I was completely incensed that this man could be so casual about tossing a lit cigarette on the kindling-dry grass. I obsessively check to make sure the stove is turned off, the iron is unplugged, the coffee pot is off. The next thing on my list of priorities is to check all the smoke detectors and replace the ones that need it.

I feel like I live in a completely hostile environment - the heat smacks me in the face when I step out of the door, singes my hands on the now-moulten steering wheel in the truck. I resent the heat. It angers me in a way that an inanimate thing has never angered me before. I miss the smell of rain on the grass. I miss how green and clean everything is after a rainstorm. I resent how wilted the poor birds look, hopping along the hot cement of the patio and into the dog's kiddy pool. I'm tired of how tired it makes me to have to deal with 105 degree temperatures and up - going to and from the building at work, dealing with loading and unloading groceries, walking down to the mailbox.

I'm completely horrified and saddened by what is happening. It generates such a helpless feeling in *me*, I can only imagine what the people of Show Low, Pinetop, Heber, and multiple other towns must feel like. The flames are hours away from us, to the northeast. Firefighting in Phoenix suburbia doesn't generate nearly the difficulties that firefighting in those remote northern areas does. Wildfires, as such, aren't as much of a threat. But house fires more than certainly are, and when your memories, hopes, plans, and stability are all tied up in the structure that is your home, it doesn't matter if a wildfire or faulty wiring is what sets it ablaze.

The only thing that matters is that irreplaceable parts of your life are taken away from you, and nothing is ever the same again.

And the irreplaceable parts in life go so far beyond the structures and the things they contain. We'll never again see in our lifetime those vast stands of trees that we worked so carefully to preserve in one respect, and treated so carelessly in another.

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Original content belongs to ME. Exceptions are noted. Stealing really isn't recommended, or necessary.
©Laura Charon 2000 - 2002.