Remember that Friends episode where Phoebe's chest cold gives her a "sexy voice"? My two year-old sounds like that. After four days of fire, we had to get out.
News footage is quick to loop images of sparks blowing across abandoned streets, and the remnants of still-smoking living rooms. My favorite vistas to catch, personally, are the hillsides that look like erupting volcanoes at night. I know those views are inherent with threat, but they are so striking, you have to look. The extreme is captivating.
What's much less exciting to behold are the heavy blankets of smoke that have draped themselves around every inch of our town. Journalists are not broadcasting camera shots that should be clear air, but instead look like a white pillowcase. Those images would be rather dull. But those images contain the reason that so many of my friends who are mothers left home this week. You can keep every door and window shut, but eventually smoke makes makes its way in. On the morning we left, I woke up to my mouth tasting like cigarettes. My two kids, with their tinier lungs and gentler bodies, were enjoying the new levels of monster-growl they could master with their little raspy voices. Fun, yes. Healthy, no.
So now I have joined the scores of other evacuee moms on an impromptu summer vacation. It started with day trips out of town, to give the kids a place to burn some energy. (Who would have thought the Fairfield mall could provide such grand entertainment?) One day, we visited San Francisco's Academy of Sciences, which is welcoming displaced fire families who need distraction for their kids. We may have been in one of California's most densely populated cities, but our visit to the Academy it felt like we were at the grocery store on a Sunday. We recognized neighbors everywhere. Between dinosaur statues and seahorse displays, mothers were chasing toddlers and asking, "Napa or Santa Rosa? How much time did you have? Where are you staying?" Our community is still in tact, just with different meeting grounds.
I admire those from my own Napa tribe who are making the best of an ugly situation. So many are staying close to home so they can aid with harvest or support crews. Others are getting out of the smoke, and out of the way. We have friends who are taking deep breaths of mountain air in Tahoe, picnicking at the beach in Ventura, and soaking in the goofy fun of Santa Cruz. In every case, they are being welcomed by family and even complete strangers who care. We can't wait to return home. In the meantime, might as well take the kids and go.
My own family's day tripping routine is extended until we can breathe in our own house. We're making play dates with other families who are camping out in the suburbs of Sacramento. Back in Napa, friends report doing the same in evacuation shelters. There is no job site to report to, and no school at which we can drop off the kids. Those who can help, do so. The rest of us are biding our time and letting our children binge on goldfish and fruit snacks. (Sorry, Rudolph Steiner; I'll get back to Waldorf-momming when the smoke clears.)
Given the scattered state of our community, I notice the patterns we fall into as we gather. Every harvest season I've known, our conversations in wine country are predictable: "How much more fruit is out there? Are the yields what she expected? What kind of hours is he having to work?" This year, our exchanges still stem from a shared repertoire, but the subject is starkly different. They are similar to those I heard in the Academy of Sciences: "What did you pack? How are you passing the time? What are you telling your kids?" It is the white smoke of the mundane that doesn't make the news, but matters in our day-to-day.
And after the basics, we get down to the more shocking material: "He's crushing fruit in this? Is there a safe route if they need to leave?" Our intentions are the same as they are every harvest season- we need to connect with each other, to find sanity with other friends whose partners' presence is scarce. A sense of urgency underlying that need is something our community is accustomed to, but this year we are depending on wind conditions and flame retardants more than rising brix and falling acids. In the midst of an unplanned summer vacation, we hold tightly to ties that bind us every October. We lean on one another, far and near.