fleeing on foot
what still haunts Grace
is the families fleeing on foot
holding hands
the little children with their flimsy school backpacks
meant for holding little more than a snack
now carrying all that they might come out with
and more than that –
driving past them without stopping –
having no room, no seats
being one more in the long line of cars
passing up those without
Krista Reinoceroferous and the Stone Cold Sober Dog
This poem is inspired by Krista’s post to the 80027 – OhOh27 – The Original OhOh27 Facebook group inviting folks to share their silly (and sweet) stories about what they grabbed while evacuating from the Marshall Fire. Photos by Corey Bee and Joanna Cagan.
Krista invites us to laugh
at our terror-fogged brains
and we do, and go limp with relief
we giggle at all the truly odd odds and ends
that made it into our evacuating cars
and the essentials that unaccountably didn’t
first, the treasured foods:
cherry pie and sumo oranges
a pot of hot soup on a lap in gridlock for hours
and the vegan family’s subsistence bean dip
the frozen pizzas from Chicago
and the precious stored breastmilk
(which every pumping mother totally gets)
and the Brits’ Marmite and the Aussies’ Vegamite
all spared to nurture our senses of humor now
then, the impractical wardrobe essentials:
the cherry red crushed velvet bell bottoms
the toddler’s cast and the single sneaker
lots of uncomfortable bras packed by hopeful husbands
and a surprising quantity of skis and swimsuits
there are the touching tokens of responsibility:
the friend’s borrowed thesis
and tons of library books
the holiday reading log and the science project
the ashes of people and pets not keen on being cremated twice
spare tires and Covid cards
and a healthy number of work computers
intentionally left in the fire’s path
(work-life balance…)
my favorites are the truly inexplicable
like the cowbell or the stapler
the kitchen knives or the TV remote
and especially the Nicki Minaj votive candle
we keep reading not just to laugh
but to be there with all these sweet frantic hurting humans
to treasure that single castle drawing left from years of childhood
to comfort the couple worried about the candle on the Sagamore coffee table
to listen to both sides of the argument
about whether the firebox should have been allowed to fulfill its destiny
to root for the playing of those Beatles 45s someday
we’re all so delightfully flawed
fallible and irrational
quirky and lovable
and so very in need of a good laugh these days
so thankful for the vulnerability and care
and not-taking-oneself-too-seriously in the 0027
and so very proud of each person
who crammed a goat in their Honda Pilot that day
(or the equivalent)
This is in response to a prompt by Peter Rousmaniere, who is coordinating a project about the Marshall Fire involving local writers and photographers. He suggests, “Write down how you learned on December 30, what you did, and what were your very initial thoughts. Try to recall the details, for with details we often store in memory our emotions.” If you’d like to participate, please fill out this form: https://forms.gle/cdD4q1bMyhTkgzgo8. I have posted this photo before, but it is exactly how I learned about the fire.
Learning about the Marshall Fire
the news reached me vacationing in Fairplay
as a text from my sister who lives three blocks from us
a photo of the grey view from her Old Town upstairs
complaining about the smoke saying two fires were burning
too thick to be distant
but too deep into winter to seem threatening
and there not being much else to do in our cabin
I checked the Daily Camera website to see what I could learn
a grass fire in Marshall, fairly unremarkable
until I saw the single line that meant things weren’t okay:
Superior also released a statement
calling for all residents to be evacuated.
(our border is somewhat arbitrary
I’d thought Highway 36 until earlier this fall
when my booster shot appointment at the “Louisville” Walgreens
on McCaslin proved to have a Superior address)
I sent my sister a screenshot
and she texted back What?!?!
I went on Facebook and then Twitter
and found homes had begun to burn
when I saw the post of burning shrubs
at Via Appia and McCaslin
flames already uncomfortably close to Old Town
I called her and said I think you need to leave
How am I supposed to do that? she asked
meaning escape with toddler and four-year old and skittish dog
meaning grab some essentials and safely hustle into the car
meaning manage all the meltdowns and figure out where to go
There are flames at Via Appia and McCaslin
I repeated urgently
you need to get in the car and go.
Come to us in Fairplay, but get out now.
She called from the stalled traffic
and I tried not to think of flames advancing
warned her don’t go west
and 93 is closed
I didn’t take a deep breath until she was safely in Boulder
and then turned my attention to our three Louisville homes:
hers, my mom’s, and ours.
it wasn’t until the next day we learned that all three still stood
my friend recounts evacuating
she needed her mother’s things most:
the inscribed book she gave her every birthday,
all the photos left of the two of them.
not having her mother, she needed what remained.
between the house and the car
the wind tore the stuffed animals
from her daughter’s arms,
sent them tumbling down the street –
just another loss that day,
another tribute claimed by wind.
