"You Can't Take it With You"

My oldest brother Alan texted me a picture he'd taken from one of his favorite spots on a lovely beach in Maui. A picture of puffy white clouds reflecting onto the still waters of an infinity pool near the beach. In turn I texted him back a picture I'd taken the day before while Dave and I were out on our usual Sunday drive to the top of the mountain. He typed back, "As above...so it is below. That which has been, will return again. As if Heaven so on this Earth!" A slightly different exchange than the memes we've sent each other lately. The election season is upon us and it's good to blow off a little steam with fun banter about things that are completely out of our control albeit casting a vote with a wish and a prayer.

As children that grew up in National Parks, we find solace and peace mostly when we're away from the city. Be it in the mountains or on a beach, it serves the same purpose.

A little over a month ago, we'd had a cold snap with temps dipping low enough to give us an early dusting of snow. On a early Saturday morning, we sat down on the couch to eat our breakfast; we decided to take the chill off the air just while we ate and Dave stood back up to turn on the heater. By the time we finished saying the prayer over the food and before taking a second bite of our pancakes, we smelled something, but couldn't quite place what it was. It definitely wasn't that slightly burnt dirt smell that running a furnace the first time often smells like. This was almost a chemical smell. Dave quickly got back up and turned the furnace off. But now there was visible smoke starting to billow out from behind the brick wall. He immediately went to grab the fire extinguisher and I immediately went to hunt for Freya. He found was he was looking for, but I did not.

Seeing the smoke become rapidly heavier, I asked "Should I call 9-1-1?!" "Yes, right now." Where had I put my phone? Where was the cat? Panic started to rise in my chest. Calling the cat while looking for the phone, I finally found it and pressed the numbers. Dispatch assured me they were on their way. Dave had gone outside to try and find the source of the smoke, and I ran upstairs to try and find a now very much hiding cat. My throat was starting to burn. I ran back downstairs and got a washcloth wet to cover my face and ran back up to call for her. The smoke was now so bad, I could hardly see the other side of our tiny A-frame loft. I could hear sirens approaching. Still no cat. As several fire-fighters came through the door, they directed me to wait outside and assured me they would look for the cat, but that of course they first had to stop whatever was burning.

Dave took them to the location of the furnace and I stood out in the driveway in my robe but still shaking with cold; thinking the worst. I heard footsteps behind me; I slowly turned around. Monica. Our neighbor just up the hill from us. I don't remember what she said or asked. I only remember that she put her arm around my shoulders and stood right next to me while I cried. It wasn't until a few weeks later I learned that day was her birthday.

The furnace was definitely on fire and it was put out after being sawed in half and blasted with a fire-hose. The fire was dead. The furnace was now dead. The firefighters spent several minutes searching for a small black cat with no luck. I braced myself that she might also be dead. After checking the air quality with some sort of air quality checking gizmo, we were given the go-ahead to go inside and look for her ourselves. I called her name. I got yogurt out of the refrigerator (her absolute favorite) and opened the lid; and almost guarantee to summon her from the darkest corner of wherever she might be. Nothing. Zip. Nada. No los gatto. "Dave! Her lungs are probably only the size of almonds! She going to be lyng dead somewhere from smoke inhalation!" He went outside to see if maybe she'd escaped while the door was left open.

"Freeeeeyyyyyaaaa!!!!" Still nothing. I finally did what I'm pretty good at, at this point in my life. I started to weep. Begging her to show herself. I went back upstairs, calling and crying. And then, finally, I saw her little ears pop up from behind the mattress that had been overturned..

She doesn't like when I cry. I don't like when she hides. I scooped her up and kissed her face too many times. "You smell like you've been smoking cigarettes for thirty years!" Firefighters driving off and Monica generously offering to let us stay in their extra room as she gave me a quick hug before walking back up the hill, I took our smoky kitty straight to the bathroom and gave her a quick bath. She didn't even fight me. Now that she smelled like Herbal Essence shampoo, I wrapped her up in a towel and took her outside onto the deck to dry in the sunshine.

For the next three days we stayed in our small RV. We licked our emotional wounds while Freya licked her fur. Dave started meeting with insurance adjusters and disaster recovery crews. I started writing on a piece of notebook paper.

In the mid-70's our family was living in New Mexico where my father worked as a National Park ranger at Bandelier National Monument about forty miles from Santa Fe. We lived in family government housing that was located in an almost dream-like setting. Surrounded by Pinon pine and juniper trees, Native American ruins to explore, and trails to hike. To say it was magical would be an understatement.

One day, after the school bus dropped my little brother Joel and me off at our house, we walked through the front door and saw our mother hurriedly packing a suit-case. "The forest fire is getting too close, we're being told to evacuate so quickly go grab some clothes, underwear and your toothbrushes, we're staying with friends in town." When you're a young child and told to grab things most precious to you, it often means a favorite toy or stuffed animal or pet. At that time I had no clue what my mother must have been thinking/feeling. True to her nature, her voice remained calm and matter-of-fact with a twist of "it'll be an adventure!".

A couple of days into our "adventure", Mama presented me with a spiral note-book. I want you to write down what we've experienced this week. I don't remember much about that week, but I do remember writing with my no. 2 school pencil about a half-sheet of paper's worth my little girl thoughts about a forest fire and the possibility of losing our home and everything that we had left behind.

Once in a while when I come across my box of girl-hood treasures, I find that piece of paper and re-read it. The childish handwriting bringing me instantly back to that moment in time. I'm grateful she insisted I do it. When our family moved away from New Mexico to Arizona in 1977, and we unloaded all our boxes of belongings into our new home there was only one thing missing that was never to be found or seen again. An old metal ammunitions box of 8 mm reel films. Every home movie my parents had ever taken from their early marriage on had somehow completely vanished. Movies that had captured precious moments of generational groupings of great-grandparents to new babies. My toddler sister in Hawaii, parading in her Halloween princess costume. Young shirtless levi's wearing brothers playing cowboy and Indians with cap-guns and wearing ketchup for blood. Five siblings gathered on the green grass of our maternal great-grandparents lawn, old enough for us to understand we were being filmed and pretending to eat worms and flex biceps, my sister bouncing my baby brother on her knees. Home movies. Not lost to fire. Just simply lost forever.

Dave and I spent three nights in the RV with the cat. The insurance adjuster finally gave us the go-ahead to check into a hotel. I think I took a three-hour hot bath that first night. Freya stayed back at the RV so she could keep an eye on things for us; along with the fact that I guess cats are too good to stay in hotels. I drove back to the cabin each day and I worked from the RV, while simultaneously trying to convince the poor kitty that fire-fighters are our friends and that it would be okay if she and I sit together on the porch for a little bit each day.

After nearly three weeks of hotel-life and endless restaurant, we were both beyond ready to move back even though it was now carpet-less, window-covering-less, and somewhat wall-less. The peace of the mountain is unmatched by any fancy hotel. We set up air-mattresses and brought back enough kitchen supplies so we could finally get back to some sense of normalcy.

I nearly cried while chopping up meat and vegetables for dinner. It was the one thing that finally felt normal. I was so filled with gratitude for our safety and to have plenty of food in our freezer. So grateful for family and friends that continually checked on us and offered us meals and lodging. I am so keenly aware that what little bit we suffered pales in comparison to so much tragedy near and far. We were beyond lucky. It's just stuff. I know this.

Maybe all those years ago, my mother knew the fragility of this life. "You can't take it with you." It seems trite to say or to hear those words. But ultimately it's the hard truth. The things we cling to. The stuff. It can vanish, and sometimes does. But what remains are the words we've spoken or written. The hugs we've given. The wisdom passed on. Standing with your arm around your neighbor while they weep and offering shelter and food. These are the things that last eternally.

Next week the weather will turn to winter temperatures. I had a discussion with Freya and told her that she better come sit with me on the porch and not waste this beautiful Indian Summer day hanging out in the house. I scooped her up and we sat down on the rocking chair in the sunshine. She sniffed the air for a bit, and then finally curled up onto my lap and closed her eyes. I tipped my head back and closed my own eyes just long enough to feel my face get warm. Eventually we both got too hot and went back inside.

All of our clothes are finally back from the laundromat. Four huge bags. I explained to Dave that this amount of clothing is nothing compared to what lots of ladies have in their walk-in-closets. He is kind and patient and gently suggests maybe I could go through the bags before putting the clothes away, and make sure there's nothing I no longer want or need. I start with the bag of blue-jeans. First pair I pull out, a Levi-Strauss straight-leg. A classic. No way can I get rid of these. They're timeless. A go-to for lots of occasions. For sure keeping. I look over at the cat. She's judging me I know it. "What about the 'You can't take it with you' business?"

Maybe the Egyptians were onto something.