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On October 22, I threw a bunch of stuff into my car along with my two kitties and evacuated my house because of “immediate and imminent danger” due to wildfires. Never had I expected that I would be leaving so abruptly.

I had watched wildfires at other places and knew that Colorado was vulnerable. Firefighters had been fighting a fire several miles from my house for several weeks, but we were assured that it was not likely to head our way. The fire we were now evacuating from was a different fire that had blown up, jumped the continental divide, was burning through Rocky Mountain National Park, and was headed for Estes Park.

The sky at the time I was corralling the kitties and jamming some clothes into a suitcase gave a whole new meaning to “burnt orange.” It was that color! I had to turn lights on to see into my dresser drawers to pull out underwear and socks. In retrospect, it was creepy and portentous. I never hope I again have to put my car lights on at 1:00 pm so I can drive.

My evacuation choices easily fit into my car. I paused for a moment to say good-bye to a house I didn’t know if I would ever see again. I joined the hundreds of people in the evacuation lines who were scared, wondering, and hopeful that they would be safe somewhere else with their most prized living and inanimate possessions.

With a couple of friends, we found a hotel about 40 miles away that accepted our animals. It was a tense couple of days as the fire continued to rage toward our little town. Thanks to the fire fighters and Higher Powers, a winter storm halted its spread, and my home was spared.  Others were not so lucky.

While I was an evacuee and since returning home, I have been thinking about “stuff.” If I had more than a half hour to leave my house, and a larger car to load, I don’t think I would have done anything differently.

I had thought about “what if a fire” in abstract terms and made a list of what I needed/wanted to take including my two cats, medications, and a few important documents. I wanted to take my computer because of the photos I had stored on it. Most of my possessions, however, are replaceable.

I did take some things that I felt were unique and irreplaceable including several quilts made by my mother and my sister. My sister could always make me a quilt again, but not the t-shirt quilt that had all my logos from the marathons and other important races I once ran. My deceased mother could not replace the quilts she made years ago. I also had the candles that were at my mom and dad’s memorial services and I didn’t want to lose them. I had a plaque given to my mom and dad as outstanding sheep producers in our county and that was special. I have dozens of my own plaques but none of those matter much to me. My car had plenty of room for other things–I couldn’t think of anything else that was essential.

Now that I am safely home, I continue to think about what is really important. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t have taken anything else except maybe my trumpet, although aside from the sentimental value of all the performances I’ve done, it could be easily replaced. I forgot the litter scooper, toys, and dishes to feed my kitties, but a PetSmart near our hotel was a saving grace. I have stuff that I would miss if it was gone, but overall, now I realize how much I could live without.

I was privileged to safely evacuate and know that my insurance and savings could cover any physical losses. I don’t need much stuff in my life as long as I have family, friends, and animals. I also have been thinking about people who are refugees in this world due to the climate crisis and civil wars, or those leaving home to seek asylum. I cannot begin to imagine those types of threatening evacuation situations.

My experience with this fire was daunting, but I have recovered with heightened gratitude for what I have, and a much greater understanding of the anxiety of imagined and real loss.   

A good friend of mine once remarked that, “We live for the stories we can tell.” I guess people’s lives are really one big story with many vignettes along the way. Some of the stories are funny. Some are sad. Some show lessons that can be learned. Others simply entertain. Most of us love good stories.

These days my time is spent wandering and wondering–thinking about stories in the present and from the past. I wander taking hikes and/or long walks every day. That meandering gives me time to wonder not only about my surroundings but what has influenced my life.

Ever since I retired and moved to Estes Park, I have wanted to share thoughts through some type of personal reflective blog. Although I have plenty of time to do the writing, my insecurity about sharing has kept me from taking the plunge. I think I am now ready to share some stories that may be of interest to others. I’m going to give it a go!

The pandemic of the past few months has reinforced the need to be mindful daily and to stay in the moment. At the same time, I wonder what the future might hold as I reflect on where I have been. My Iowa farm roots as well as a career with abundant opportunities to teach, travel, and write has equipped me to view my world in many ways. Writing has been a way of life for me since I wrote my first (unpublished) novel when I was 6 years old. I consume quantities of information every day, and I want to create some reflections from my reading, my past life, my present reality, and my future world.

I am shooting for one post a week, maybe more and maybe less. I anticipate the pieces to be relatively short (200-1000 words).  I need to write and to think out loud as I tell my stories. I hope my wandering and wondering will make you smile, remember, and/or raise an eyebrow. A writer needs to write and share from time to time. I look forward to connections that I might make through the stories I tell.

People notice other people’s hair fairly quickly.  It’s part of what one sees in recognizing another person. I have been blessed with a good head of hair, thanks to the genes of my mother. I am reminded of my hair often since it seems to get noticed.

Years ago, I was being introduced as a keynote speaker at a conference and the introducer ended her description of my achievements by saying, “And she has a great head of hair.” I was a little taken back by the comment but decided I should just embrace it, and I have ever since.

Last year I was volunteering at Bear Lake on a Sunday morning. It was snowing pretty hard. A smiling man walked across the bridge to the ranger kiosk and said, “You have a lot of snow in your hair.” “I do?” I asked and reached my hand up to shake it off my brown volunteer stocking cap. He said, “Oh no, it’s your lovely white hair.”

A couple weeks later I was sitting in an airline lounge waiting for my flight back to Denver and one of the employees walked up to me and said, “I just want to tell you how beautiful your hair is.” I gladly took that compliment.

I owe my good hair to my mom. She always had thick hair and although I do remember that she colored it when I was younger, she let it go natural fairly early and had the same progression as mine did from a few strands of gray to what is called “salt and pepper” and eventually gray and then white. White is my color now although it was a little hard to suggest that my drivers’ license should say that instead of gray. My little sister also has hair similar to my mom and me. My middle sister does not. We used to tease her that she had inherited our dad’s hair and someday she would be bald like him. Not popular with her! Since she has stopped coloring, her hair has gradually gone gray, but nothing like mom, me, or my other sister.

I have always liked my hair. I might look younger with darker hair, but I think gray/white hair can be a sign of aging gracefully and accepting the potential of wisdom that it brings. I certainly hope so!