In case of fire

Published online on Sunday, Nov. 25, 2007

Watching the devastating Southern California fires and homeowners return to a tragedy last month, I was captivated by the emotional responses. Most were brave, many philosophical about their losses.

The media then ran stories about what one should plan on taking in case of an emergency. A type of hierarchy was described: beginning with family and pets, then important documents, and finally a few priceless objects like a Bible or photo album or family videos.

As people returned to homes, they discovered that the fires were so intense, homes were gutted and flattened, even metal had melted. The loss was complete. I then thought of this question: What would be missed the most?

I'm sure as families combed through the ruins, they thought of many things, assessing the damage, counting their blessings, discovering the fragments of a keepsake, making a list of things they now needed to replace. I felt for them, yet will probably never completely understand their loss. But I kept thinking, what would I miss from our home?

I'd miss books. Not my library and the many books that can be replaced, but books that I have personalized. Some are dog-eared, read and reread. Others are filled with scribbled notes, tagged for future reference. But the books I'd miss the most are those I have used in readings. They are marked with notations and special passages flagged and edited. I've made these books mine. They have traveled with me through the years, joining in my writing journey.

My wife, Marcy, shared an idea: She'd miss her recipe box, the one crammed full of cards she had collected over her lifetime. Most were handwritten, sometimes in her handwriting, other times in the writing of the donor. Marcy felt her cookbooks could be replaced, but not these cards.

(Ironically, these cards had survived a fire, sort of. In the middle of a cooking frenzy, Marcy once left the metal box atop a range and accidentally turned on the wrong burner. In a few minutes, she smelled smoke and discovered her recipe box had become a miniature oven. Fortunately, the tightly packed cards were only singed on the edges, as if smoked to add flavor and a new character).

Korio, our son, said he'd miss some of his running medals. Not to be displayed in a trophy case, I sense his medals carry personal meanings of accomplishment. I believe they help him remember successes in a world that seems to focus on failures.

Our daughter, Nikiko, says she'd miss the collection of kitchen utensils. Some are antiques, others are passed down one or two generations. Most are simple, a rolling pin, a wooden bowl and an old-fashioned hand beater. All have wear signs, places where over the years the wooden spoon has abraded, marks along a handle where generations once held the tool. I can't help but think of the many meals those everyday utensils contributed to. It's that memory I, too, will miss. These were family tools for family meals.

I heard three stories about things people missed following the terrible Oakland fires in 1991. One UC Berkeley literature professor had lost her entire personal library. Her students then made up a list and contacted authors, asking if they'd contribute copies of their works. Many did, shelves were restocked and stories renewed.

I also heard that, as the fire roared down the East Bay hillsides, one wine collector had to act quickly. He would miss his wine collection, but the entire collection was too big to take with him. He tried to think where to store the bottles out of harm's way. Realizing one of the few safe places for these temperature sensitive jewels might be in the swimming pool, he quickly sank his collection; with luck, the heat wouldn't alter the character too much.