THE SAME AGONY

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BY JOELLEN COLLINS

JoEllen Collins—a longtime resident of the Wood River Valley, now residing in San Francisco— is an Idaho Press Club award-winning columnist, a teacher, novelist, fabric artist, choir member and proud grandma.

When I lost our first home in a long-ago wildfire after having lived in it for only three weeks, I accepted the consequences of that disaster for our family over the past several decades. I’ve written about it before, but this most ferocious disaster in Southern California has stimulated the memory of my experiences with the necessary recovery we faced.

Three days after the fire, I returned to teaching at Santa Monica Community College in the car that carried me and my 2-year-old daughter to safety. My students asked me what possessions I had saved. There were very few: with the flames nearing, I rushed to find my keys, address book, and a bag to fill with my baby’s sweet little clothes, her “blanky” and soft toy. However, my class could be happy that all of their compositions, still uncorrected, had been left earlier on the backseat of my getaway car. Perhaps I could have been relieved of the correction process had I taken them into my home! There were a few rueful giggles.

We were lucky that we were young enough, in our thirties, to rebuild with a federal disaster loan with only a 3 percent interest, when mortgage loans had spiked into carrying double-digit interests. The loans demanded rebuilding on that parcel of land, as the goal was to restore the abandoned community. I worry a lot now, however, at the massive numbers of lost homes and unhoused former residents who face a more daunting time. Some current commentators have mentioned the idea that people shouldn’t have lived in such perilous zones and now should have the sense not to return to them. It may be easy to forget that these survivors have jobs they need, some of their homes have housed generations of their families, and it isn’t merely a matter of just starting over.

Emotionally, our lives are filled by the memories inextricably connected with the years we spent making those memories and having loving families and neighbors nearby. After realizing that the precious scrapbook my Uncle Doc made for me (out of faded Brownie black and white shots), I wept, but since then I have been filled with gratitude for the love I experienced from him. I was blessed with over 30 years growing up with this wonderful “second daddy.”

This current war zone will face a long period of change, heavy effort, and much courage, but I sense a wonderful, generous response from all the friends and associates of this massive crowd, and that will continue, I am sure. Whether richer or poorer financially, whatever the progress will be for these victims, I can say, from the viewpoint of so many years since my loss, wonderful people and marvelous things will be there to help and remind us of the people we have known whose times with us made up such sweet reminiscences. Our current survivors will eventually be able to be thankful that we enjoyed such blessings and, hopefully, treasure every moment we have with our generous associates and dear friends.