Fog Eyes

 Swirls of white mist surround and disorient me.  I could be on the highway, on one of my favourite country roads, or in the middle of a field; white walls press in on me so closely that I have no idea where I am or how far I’ve come.

It sounds like the setting for a nightmare or a horror movie but in reality it’s the description of my drive to work this past Thursday.  I had been driving at least ten minutes, I estimated, but had not seen a single landmark to verify my progress.  I thought I knew what I should be seeing at this point, if only as a ghostly shape looming briefly out of the mist, but I had seen nothing but a white wall.  Occasionally another vehicle loomed alarmingly close out of the mist and was gone before I could focus on its presence. 

 The fog was so thick and impenetrable that my perceptions were altered.  As my eyes strained for glimpse of the road’s edge, I had no idea of the speed at which I was traveling.  A glance at the speedometer shocked me; I was speeding blind at 110 km an hour, yet it felt much slower.

As I eased my foot off the gas pedal and resolved to keep a closer eye on the gauge, I searched for the road’s edge, convinced I should be nearing a major curve.  Was I in the curve… or had I navigated it moments ago and should now be in a long straight stretch?  I truly was disoriented in time and space.

Meteorologically speaking, fog is merely a very low stratus cloud that may even touch ground.  The cloud consists of tiny water droplets, light enough to remain suspended in the air.  The droplets cause any light present to be reflected in different directions, causing the impenetrable white vale that we call fog.

 

The scientific explanation, however, doesn’t remedy my disorientation as I glide through a dreamscape.  My eyes actually hurt from the continual collision of my gaze with the impenetrability of the wall immediately outside the windshield.  I have prairie eyes, used to gazing long distances towards the horizon, whereas seeing in fog requires mountain eyes, accustomed to being brought up short repeatedly against walls of rock.

My last eye exam confirmed that I am far-sighted; hence the irritation when I can’t see distance.  My eyes are most comfortable seeing well ahead, and I need corrective glasses to accommodate the times when I must look closely at something nearby.  Come to think of it, that’s not a bad metaphor for how to live well.  We need both the ability to look ahead at where we are going and to keep an eye on the place where we are right now.  We may have to correct one or the other as we move through life, to keep a healthy perspective.

Ah, the fog lifts for a second and my eyes revel in the ability to see at least a short distance ahead of the hood of my car.  I’m nearly at my destination and suddenly it’s time to emerge from my reflective fog and get on with the day’s work.

Evacuated!

Have you ever had a conversation with a friend or family member where you ask, "If a fire threatened your home, and you had only a few minutes to get out, what would you take with you?"  I recall conversations of that nature, usually after reading about an evacuation order in some other community or of a place where fire not only threatened but actually claimed many homes.  In conversations I've had about the topic, I've usually made a comment to the effect of, "I can't even imagine what would go through my mind if I were faced with that situation."

Well, now I no longer need to imagine; exactly that, an order to Evacuate, Now! is what we faced on the evening of Friday, October 7.   We'd had a busy day, preparing to celebrate Thanksgiving here with our children, grandchildren, and my mother-in-law on Saturday.  It was going to be very special because we were also planning to celebrate the October birthdays of my son, my grandson, my daughter-in-law, and my mother-in-law.  I was thawing a turkey, making coleslaw and veggie platters, and still needed to peel potatoes and prepare the stuffing for the bird the next morning.

All at once, just before 6:00 pm, the power went out.  We'd had some flickers earlier in the afternoon and I'd held my breath each time until it came back on and I knew I could continue cooking and preparing.  High winds for the last two days, gusting to over 90 kilometers an hour on Friday afternoon, combined with tinder dry conditions as a result of unseasonably hot weather in the week, over 30 degrees Celsius on Thursday, had set the stage for several serious fires burning in our corner of the province.  

I had read on Thursday about an evacuation of residents in Stuartburn and was relieved when I read on Friday morning that the fire there was now under control.  But that was before Friday's windstorm whipped things up again.  An hour or so after we lost power, we were hunting about for candles and my husband decided to set up the emergency generator so that, if we needed it later, he wouldn't have to fumble with it by flashlight.

So, when our local municipal councillor rode up our driveway on his quad, we were expecting him to comment on the power failure.  In stead he told us to evacuate, now!  He pointed out to us the eerie red-orange glow in the sky to the south of us, a glow that was not visible only moments earlier when I opened the bedroom curtains to get as much light as possible into the room so that I could return piles of recently folded laundry to the right dresser drawers.  In the few minutes between the time I opened the curtains and decided to set out some candles that fire was driven several kilometers closer to our community and was now threatening all our homes.

“We have to evacuate, now!” my husband burst in and ran straight to the basement for our biggest suitcase.  I went into “autopilot” mode.  Call Jenn, I thought, and ask if we can come with three adults and the dogs for … well, however long it might be.  Jenn didn’t answer; I left a message.  We’re coming, I thought, whether anyone’s ready or not!

Surprised that I was still thinking clearly, I scooped up much of the laundry I’d just returned to the dresser and tossed it into the suitcase.  Medications… toiletries… warm clothes… clothes for work, in case we weren’t back by Tuesday… extra shoes…. jackets.  I checked them off my mental list as my husband gathered leashes, collars, dog food, and hustled our nervous, whining dogs into my car.

Working by flashlight, tripping over bags, and nearly falling down the stairs, I hurried to Kate’s room to gather her diabetic supplies, work clothes, and other essentials.  I realized that Kate, at work a half hour away, didn’t know what was happening, didn't know that she shouldn’t come home.  Another phone call; Kate’s cell phone was off.  I hope someone stops her before she gets here, I thought, imagining roadblocks to prevent local residents from returning to their homes.

Then, all at once, it was time.  I didn’t want to get into my car and drive away.  Now came the thought that I was about to leave everything behind, possibly to be consumed by fire, that I might come back and find none of it here anymore.  The house I love so much; the beautiful artwork painted by my mother; my favourite blanket for snuggling on the couch; that special spot on the deck where I love to sit and overlook the forest; my journals; my Bible … how do I leave it, how do I decide what to save and what to abandon?

Suddenly everything was worth saving … and nothing was worth saving.  The turkey, thawed and ready to be stuffed; my wedding gift china and crystal; boxes of baby pictures; beloved books …how do I choose?  In the end, I grabbed only three more things: my Bible; my grandmother’s bracelet; and my e-reader, because I knew I’d need to read for distraction.  Then, into the car as my husband flung in the suitcase and some boxes and bags, and drive! Now!

Lord, it’s all yours, anyway, I thought, backing out of the garage and heading down the driveway without looking back.  Half of our village was in darkness but all was bright and confusing near the highway.  Emergency vehicles and flashing lights, vehicles parked at the side of the highway, leaves and small branches striking my car and swirling about, clouds of blowing dust so dense I thought it was smoke – we crept towards my daughter's home at only 60 kilometers an hour. 

 the view from the highway as I drove by

I saw a huge red, angry glow filling the sky to the south; it appeared to be just across the field next to the highway.  It’s that close, I thought; my whole life, everything familiar, really could go up in flames.  As my husband said later, it wasn’t the monetary value of what we might lose that was so hard to think about; it was the familiarity, the comfort.  It was this chair where I always work at the computer, or that old sweater I snuggle into in the evening; it was the million and one little things that define and shape a life. 

As the wind buffeted my car and flying debris slid periodically across its roof, the dogs whined uneasily in the backseat.  It was stifling inside with their hot, anxious panting and it reeked of smells that only nervous dogs can produce.  I opened all four windows a little and set the air conditioning on high.  Within seconds grit was in my eyes and between my teeth as the frenzied wind hurled dust and gravel into my car.  I strained to see where I drove, blinded by continual glare from opposing headlights.  I tried to pray, Lord, have mercy on us. Baxter, lie down! It’s okay, Lady, that’s a good girl. Lord, have… Baxter, no!

It was a long, slow trip to Jenn’s home.  I knew my husband would arrive later as he had to register in the nearest community to ours that our home was evacuated and where we had gone.  Now I know how refugees feel, I thought, arriving gratefully at Jenn’s and waiting for the others to arrive.  It's true; when it happens to others, you imagine you know what they must feel, but you can’t really know until it happens to you.

Our story ended happily; before morning we knew our home would be safe.  Because Hydro crews weren’t allowed in sooner, our power wasn’t restored in time for Thanksgiving dinner as planned.  Instead, we moved everything to Jenn’s, phoned all those who were coming, and had our Thanksgiving feast there.  We were exhausted, relieved, and truly thankful for how we had been blessed.  As my son-in-law said grace, I breathed a “thank you” of my own, caught Garry’s eye, and smiled, knowing that at the end of this day we were going home.

A Nice Round Number

 Sixty is a wonderful age.  At sixty you’re old enough to know yourself well, to be comfortable with the sum total of your faults, flaws, strengths and talents.  A sixty year-old person can say, “This is who I am”, with out having to apologize for it or explain why.  It used to be that people were old at sixty but that’s no longer true for most sixty year-olds.

But the number sixty does still imply many years lived, knowledge learned, and most importantly, wisdom gained.  Once you’ve lived sixty years, you can take pride in the contribution you’ve made to the world.  You have the right to choose to continue contributing through the workplace or to retire.  And retirement doesn’t have to be an ending.  These days it’s considered a beginning to other adventures, skills, and possibilities.

You’re old enough, at sixty, to live comfortably where you’re planted but young enough to dream of new roots and new challenges.  You’re old enough to know that making a living is not the most important thing; rather it’s how you lived the life you made that counts when you turn sixty.  And you know that there’s still enough time to change the things that didn’t work out the way you’d hoped.

At sixty you’ve loved and raised your children and fallen in love with your grandchildren, maybe even a great-grandchild or two.  You’re a person with memories of the “old days” to share and you have the right to start sentences with “when I was young”. 

You feel your body differently than before but your doctor assures you that change is desirable and still possible.  You can eat what you want but you’re smart enough to want what’s good for you.  You take an interest in your health while you can still enjoy it and you finally learn to discipline yourself. 

And all of that makes it possible to attain a certain level of comfort with yourself, just as you are, as well as with the idea of aging.  When you were young the idea of getting older was not attractive; when you turn sixty you understand that slowing down and aging are rewards for the hard work and dedication of the younger years. 

Now, you realize, you’re free to explore long neglected interests and choose dedication to something other than work and routine.   More of your time is your own and, while you want more than ever to spend it wisely, you finally understand that rest, self-care, and attention to family and friends really are wise and rewarding uses of your time.

This article sounds like I’ve just turned sixty.  No, I’m a few years away from that milestone yet and I really have no idea how I’ll feel when I get there.  These musings about that magical age were inspired by reflections when my husband turned sixty recently.  Maybe I’m preparing myself now so that when my turn comes it will be a smooth passage.