There are the ones you call friends
There are the ones you call late at night
There are the ones who sweep away your past
With one wave of their hand…
I can hear your voice in the wind
Are you calling to me? Down the long road…
-The Long Road, by Cliff Eberhart
I have an appointment today to meet with my friend Rebecca, to work on my personal property inventory. This is where you make a list of every single thing that you owned that burned up in the fire, so the insurance company can figure out the “replacement value.” You have to list everything – not just “Clothes” and “Furniture” and “Personal Effects,” but every pair of socks, every shirt, every notebook and pencil and paper clip in your whole damn house.
Not only do you have to list everything you owned, but where you bought it, when you bought it, what it cost, what it will cost to replace, and what proof you have that you owned it in the first place. I am not kidding. You have to do this for Every. Single. Thing.
Hey, what about those boxes of daffodil bulbs I had in the refrigerator that I was going to plant in the fall? Put them on the list. Nellie’s dog toys and Halloween costumes? Put ‘em on the list. What about that trunk that I had, with the letters my mom wrote to my dad when they were dating, and my old Park Ranger uniform, and my dad’s enlistment card from World War II, and the graduation robes I wore when I got my PhD? Um, put them on the list? How do I document the when, where, how, and how-much of things like that? Replacement value? There’s no such thing.
The insurance people tell you to do this right away, so that you don’t start to forget what you’ve lost. Forget what you’ve lost – are you kidding?
As I go through my list, I think to myself, “There is no proof of my existence any more.” There are no photographs of me, no artifacts to help understand my own indigenous culture-of-one. Yes, there are digital records of my life, and documents in cyberspace, made of light and air, but there is nothing in my physical world to prove that Andi O’Conor existed, was a child, grew up. There are no diplomas, there are no transcripts. No passports with stamps that show my travels in India, Africa, Asia, Europe, and the Caribbean. No poetry that I wrote in junior high; no small, locked journals from high school where I documented the ups and downs of my First Love.
There is only a birth certificate that shows that I was born in Boston, on this date, at this time. The rest of my life is now a blank. The past is ash; thoroughly and completely gone. Where there were documents, things, objects that showed me my past, there is only space, there is only Now.
We Americans are not that big on Now – we believe in The Future. We are a restless lot, and we love to reinvent ourselves, to start over with a new identity, a clean slate. People in other cultures are shocked at how much we move around. I remember reading something a British journalist wrote years ago, pre-9/11. He said, “Americans jump on airplanes the way Britons get on buses. They are always going somewhere, always looking for something.”
I have reinvented myself many times in my own lifetime, from corporate PR person to Park Ranger to Sign Language Interpreter to Professor, so I know the dance of change all too well. But when I turned fifty, I felt like I had finally found my niche, my place, my work in the world. Last summer, just a few months before the fire, a friend asked me if I wanted to go hit the weekend garage sales, and I said, “You know, I feel like I finally have everything – I can’t think of a thing I need.” I was happy being single, with my friends and neighbors and dog for company. I was heading out to Port Townsend, Washington, to spend August in a carriage house by the sea, working and writing. It was a long-held dream come true, and the pieces of my life had finally fallen into place. Finally.
And then, well, you know. It all Burned Up, and a year later here I am, in a rented house in town, writing. I have a rug on the floor that I got with a gift card from Target, some linens from the Free Store, and a small amount of clothes. The dishes and pots and pans belong to the landlord, as does the silverware and towels and furniture.
I joke to my friend Beth that I am like Jesus, like the Lilies of the Field, that I have only what people have given me. My begging bowl is filled with gifts from passers-by; from strangers, from friends, from the insurance company. Some New Age people say that Jesus was a millionaire, which I find a bit difficult to believe. I prefer to think of him as a refugee, as a Fire Person, as someone who roamed the hot, burning desert, owning only what was given to him, searching, and searching, for that Ultimate Message of Love.
But me? I’m a Modern Human, and I can’t live this way for long. I can’t float along in my little rental, wearing the same three outfits, for the rest of my life. No long white robe and sandals for me; I have to be in the world. So I will write my inventory, and give it to the insurance company, and go shopping, and reinvent myself once again.
The person that I was is gone, burned away. Who is this person now, I wonder. Why does she exist, and for whom? What is the purpose of her life, and what will she accomplish?
The future stretches before me like a wide, open road – expansive, full of light. From here I cannot see where it goes, only that it does go – on and on. And so I brush off the dust and the ash from the fire, and God, I hate to say it, Move On. Down that road, past the suffering and the trauma and the sharp and searing pain, to a new reality, a softer reality, where the worst is, for the moment, behind me. I set off to find new place, a new purpose, a new Great Love. I take a step, and then another, and then I am on my way.
Wishing you sweet dreams, and a safe and peaceful journey. Thanks for walking with me,
Andi
Andi and Nellie on the Old Foundation
Your blog is an inspiration. You manage to sift the gold from the sands passing through your hands. Thanks, Andi, and blessings.
Thank you Linda! Thanks for stopping by and for commenting.
Lovely post! I think my favorite part though, is:
“There are no diplomas, there are no transcripts. No passports with stamps that show my travels in India, Africa, Asia, Europe, and the Caribbean. No poetry that I wrote in junior high; no small, locked journals from high school where I documented the ups and downs of my First Love.”
Last year when there was a possibility of evacuating due to fire, I started packing up the things that mattered. Honestly, other than my laptop and backup files and some jewelry, it was the photos, the letters, and the relics of people and pets long gone that I wanted with me. You just can’t inventory the things that represent different phases of “you.” However, I hope you get fair remuneration for the items you owned and need for the future.
Thank you Laurel. I confess, if I had been home, I would have grabbed… clothes! I had years of work and travel clothes that I just loved, and it feels shallow and odd to miss them almost as much as my journals and family jewelry. But you know, my favorite Power Suit did make me feel powerful. And I had my travel outfits down to a science. And most of what I had isn’t made anymore, so dang. And, I hate to shop. So – I would have grabbed the dog and the papers and journals and jewelry, and then the Ferragamo coat! And the J Peterman duster! And all my CP Shades and Chicos and christmas velvet. And all my shoes! (Boy, now I really sound shallow. Sigh. I admit it. I loved my clothes.)
Thanks for reading and commenting, and take good care. – Andi
I can certainly relate to listing everything [I’ve got 2 posts on it already!]. In my case, the insurance company is pricing everything and then they’ll send it to me to review. I’ve seen some preliminary lists and found a lot missing. It’s not that I’m so materialistic, but it’s going to take some reimbursement money to replace some of those items [and some I just won’t]. I feel your pain!
And a pain it is! Hang in there, Shoshana. And best of luck with your rebuild. I hope it goes smoothly.
Andi,
I feel for you.. From what I learned from my neighbors who lost everything that this was/is the most draining part of the insurance claim. Some of my friends just want to give up as it is overwhelming.. Take your time as it might take weeks to complete but from what I learned is never close your claim as a year or two year later you might remember something that you did not claim..
The City o San Bruno and along with sponsors have put on multiple work shops on dealing with insurance companies and the whole rebuild process. They even opened a Recovery Center that will be ongoing.
Unity Policyholders(non profit organization) has been a very valuable resource to all of my neighbors.. Here is their link http://www.uphelp.org/ as they might have some information to help you or other fire “survivors” out.
Thinking of you,
Marla Shelmadine
San Bruno, CA
Thank you so much Marla. United Policyholders has been out here many times – they are a godsend! So kind and generous. Hey, everyone, send them money! They do great work! http://www.uphelp.org/
Everything we had was destroyed in the San Bruno gas explosion & fire of September 9, 2010. Like you, there was a point in the Spring of 2010 when I said out loud, I really don’t need a thing, my house is done. sigh. . . I miss my home so much my heart still hurts after 11 months.
So much of what you wrote rings true for me too – you are so eloquent in your expression of the feelings that go along with the experience of having absolutely everything taken from you. You appear to be more optimistic than I am at this stage in recovery. I lost my sense of “me” when I lost everything and am having a difficult time getting that back. I find your blogs inspirational, and read certain entries over and over again. . . So! I am putting one foot in front of the other and soon I hope, like you, I will feel that the future is full of light.
Kris, I’m so glad the blog is helping you – it makes my heart feel better to hear that. It’s amazing that your fire was so close to mine – only a few days later. So we have both been “homeless” for nearly a year now.
It is a long road, isn’t it? One thing that helps me is to stop and remind myself of how strong I really am. I sit and try to feel strength flowing through me, pushing up like sap in a tree. And then I get up and face the dreaded To Do List (the bane of all our post-fire existences, isn’t it?) Right after the fire I also decided to focus on “What Is” instead of “What If,” and that has been tremendously helpful.
I have also kind of accepted my overwhelm as my new “normal.” People ask me how I am, and I reply, “Oh, I’m a mess!” and then we laugh. They want me to say I’m “fine.” I don’t really know what “fine” means anymore. Will I ever? Dunno. I’m a mess – who wouldn’t be? But I’m kind of okay with my mess-ness.
A friend of mine also told me to ask for help every single day. I thought, What? I can’t do that! I’m IRISH! I give help; I don’t ask for it. But it’s true- to stay sane after something like this, you have to ask for help every day. A total pain, but also revealing. And humbling. I am learning to receive.
Lastly, you are right – we all lose the “me” we were before the fire. And I think getting that sense back is The Long Road. I am just starting down that road, and I’m so glad you are too. Hang in there. Time is on our side. Next year it will be two years, and we will feel oh so much better. Yes we will!
Take Good Care,
Andi (with wags from Nellie)
Hang in there kiddo!! Inch by inch things will come back to normal. You’re making us proud.
Dear Andi,
On the 24th of August it will be 15 years since our home in Central Oregon burned to the ground in a wildfire that was lightning-caused. I don’t think I will ever forget the “inventory”. Every time we named/listed something it was cause for weeping and wailing (mostly me!). The combination of grief and a linear activity, like listing everything you own, was painful beyond words. Even my daughter, 7 at the time (just graduated from UO this June!) listed things like her marble collection and stuffed animals. My heart ached when she said that she felt like all the stuffed animals had died that day.
All that said, 15 years later, I will share this: You WILL have a life again. It WILL be filled with painful memories but also evidence of your resilience and courage. And, at the end of the day, you will be one step closer to being able to die a “good death” because you already know what it feels like to lose all the “stuff” (albeit not all of the loved ones along with all the stuff!).
My heart goes out to you as you walk this path. I believe in you and your ability to survive and thrive. Know that you belong to a club that most would never voluntarily join but you are not alone. Keep walking and breathing. You will get back Home.
With many blessings and prayers for your peace….Candace