We moved to the Santa Cruz mountains in 2004. Lise came up with a great way to explain living in the woods to people who aren’t familiar with the American West: “Is this the year my house burns down?” For fifteen years, it wasn’t, although it got iffy a couple times. 2020 is the year the fire won.
Everyone has been effusive in their compassion, reaching out to offer help and solace. I really appreciate it. We are safe, our animals are safe, and our stuff is gone. Those bagpipes I was thinking of selling? Gone. The suit I wore to the opera? Gone. The swell art that we had in the living room, the lovely curios in the library, all the books, all the clothes, all the maps on the walls and the comfy couch and the nice table, all are gone. But it’s stuff.
So yeah, it’s hard. Hard to live in a place that’s not *ours*. Hard to think of what I’m doing and think, “Oh, I’ll use…” and then stop and realize that the thing I was going to reach for isn’t there. But really, stuff is replaceable. That’s what insurance is for. We’ll recover. We’ll rebuild. We, fundamentally, are okay. Sad, but okay. So if I’m abrupt or distant, I’m sorry. I really do appreciate the expressions of caring that are coming from everyone.