Tea Fire

03Dec08

November 13, 5:45pm: A wind-driven wildfire, caused by human ignorance, raged through the hills of Montecito, ultimately consuming 220 houses in my neighborhood, including my home and art studio, burning everything down to the foundation.

I was downtown, racing home after a friend had called me letting me know that there was a huge fire in the foothills. When I arrived home, the fire was still “miles away” but approaching rapidly. I took this last photo in my studio before starting to evacuate…..On the table my engraving in progress of President Obama.

TEA FIRE OF THE NOVEMBER MOON by Shelley Flanders: An eyewitness account:

When my ex-husband called with the distinct warble of fear on his tongue and the harassing sound of soaring Santa Ana wind driven flames in the background on the evening of Thursday November 13th, I grabbed my keys.
Racing against all odds including the voice in my head, up to 306 Sherman Road in Santa Barbara, everyone else in their right mind was heading in the opposite direction. The full moon having earlier risen with such resplendent joy appeared crimson in the smoke filled sky.
The hills behind Dayal’s house held a massive ribbon of furiously raging flames that seemed laden with nefarious intent. He was functioning outside the boundaries of time and space as he searched in vain for boxes with which to place the compilation of invaluable original artwork and scratchboard illustration that comprised the framework of his impressive career. As I carried handfuls of his artistic memorabilia back and forth to the car there was no question that the flames were all too rapidly encroaching.

Having secured his two cats in the bedroom, the last thing Dayal did after the electricity died was to spend too many excruciating minutes looking for his pet carrier. In the pitch dark with the fire magnified between the reality out one window and the reflection bouncing off another and live embers landing at my feet, I was ready to load the cats into the Igloo chest, when Dayal finally returned from the basement with an old Chinchilla cage and those precious souls were transported to the car.

Two boys had been parked out front with their engine running in a weird state of petrified astonishment gazing at the brilliant storm, as if the driver’s feet were on the break and gas simultaneously. Both strapping youths had refused my initial pitch to lend a hand but at the last minute one of them hesitatingly agreed to drive Dayal’s new Smart car, sure to bite the dust or melt into its framework, otherwise. Our Smart hero pressed the panic button by mistake, which caused his horn to emit intermittent reverberating blasts that as he drove along seemed a profound and accurate ode to the tenor of the night. 

For two sleepless nights my imagination traveled back through that house viewing everything that could or should have been retrieved. During the chaos I remembered worrying that Dayal would be upset at the mess I made in the basement looking for boxes. I remembered the mangled cardboard I kicked inside the garage in case an ember landed on its flammable surface causing it alone to burn down the house.

Dayal later told me that he had manually closed the garage door and carefully locked the front door to protect it from looters, that his tongue was literally glued to the roof of his mouth and that his arm hair was singed, and later that evening he remembered leaving behind the forty limited edition Obama posters, one personally signed by Barack Obama thanking him for his wonderful contribution to the campaign as an Artist for Obama.

Yesterday I watched in amazement while my daughter Gibran and her father carefully sifted through the wreckage of what had been their home as if they were archaeologists searching through the past. Each familiar fragment discovered became an object of remembrance and affection, a gift from the aftermath that filled them with a sense of wonder. It was an amazing therapeutic endeavor that helped them forge the reality of completion and assimilation to a way of life now completely annihilated.

Of course, everyone knows that things can always be replaced and nothing material has the value that a loving beating heart contains in its fragile breath upon this earth. Every lesson is a lesson learned of love and gives us the opportunity to feel and experience even more of it. The truth is that beyond measure, the value of Santa Barbara is not its real estate but in the real haven it embodies for the collective heart of the community it serves. Shelley Flanders is a freelance writer in Santa Barbara and can be reached at ShelleyFlanders@hotmail.com

Remaining scrap metal, ready to be recycled – /- The foundation cannot be used, it will have to be demolished…..While we are wondering what’s next.

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