40 years of living stuffed into a trash bag

CATHARINE COOPER

Time shifts dimensions in the aftermath of disaster. Possibilities

are slowed to a painful grind, while needs speed beyond an easy

grasp.

The morning of the slide, my mother and I watch repeated images of

Flamingo Road, via newscast cameras. She does not say much, nor does

she want to eat. Finally, she asks if I might wash the clothes she is

wearing, since they are all she has. She has left without purse or

identification. Everything with which she has dressed her life are

trapped in the remains of her home, flashed like a bad soap opera

across the television screen.

My father has gone to the bank with my brother in hopes of

obtaining emergency checks. His mind is filled with immediate needs

-- lodging, transportation, medications, and funds. Their automobiles

are crushed in the fallen and collapsed garage. Checkbooks, bank

statements, and bills -- all neatly piled on his desk -- are

inaccessible. Prescriptions sit in the medicine cabinet, in the

bathroom broken off from the main house.

By afternoon, a friend has loaned them a car, their medications

have been replaced, and a change of clothes has been purchased at

J.C. Penny. I am grateful to have an empty bedroom to offer and

thrilled to keep them close.

The power of the morning weaves its way into the evening. All

humans have been accounted for, though some pets remain missing.

“Happy to be alive” gives ground to the staggering reality --

landslide -- no insurance -- unrecoverable loss. The totality of this

will take weeks to fully seep into the psyche, and a deeper grieving

will surface once the “need to take care of now” list is completed.

Stunned and strained faces fill City Hall. Those evacuated from

greater Bluebird Canyon mingle with those whose homes have been

damaged or destroyed. Capt. Danelle Adams, City Manger Ken Frank and

Mayor Elizabeth Pearson-Schneider convey what is known and what can

be expected. Maps turn the neighborhood into a sea of colors -- red,

red with blue stars, yellow and green. Sadly, mom’s house is simply

red -- no entry; not recoverable.

Reds and yellows are pulled from the larger group and assigned

city officials. The Red Cross offers medication replacement,

clothing, food and shelter. My mother and father are assigned

Detective Joe Torres, a man whose patience and compassion will expand

with the daunting tasks ahead. Surrounded by families whose lives

have been turned upside-down, he calmly outlines a process to salvage

personal belongings from precariously perched and damaged homes.

The group itself prioritizes needs. Pets are given the No.1 vote,

and those with missing animals are given first shot at reentry

attempts. We are told entry will be determined on a case-by-case

basis. Even though we are “red-red,” we hold hope that somehow, my

mother’s purse can be salvaged. We sadly joke that a woman’s life is

indeed inside her purse.

Accompanied by Detective Greg Wallock, Steve and I climb up the

steep hillside, over deep fissures in the ground, toppled and broken

concrete culverts to the front of the house. The climb is too

dangerous for my parents.

At the front of the house, we discover a gap -- 4-feet wide by

30-feet deep -- between the entry threshold and the remains of the

porch. The front door supports the split ceiling, and the bedroom

section of the house has cracked off from the main structure at a

35-degree angle. Without specific blessings from the city, there will

be no entry.

Doug Miller, chief building inspector, evaluates the house over

the course of the next two days, and grants us 30 minutes to retrieve

essentials. Dressed in hardhats, boots, backpacks and headlamps, and

dragging a ladder and plastic bags, we meet Torres and Miller on

site.

My chest tightens as we climb up and in. Ceiling insulation

obscures the floor and blue sky shines through where once there was a

roof. The sense of home as a refuge no longer exists.

This place is anything but safe. It creeks, has large cracks in

the walls and is severed into pieces. Steve heads downstairs for

important papers. I find ceiling slabs to cover holes in the floor,

and make my way gingerly to the bedroom.

Vertigo is immediate with the severe slant of the section. The

sought-after purse has been tossed to the floor, its contents

spilling everywhere. How will I know which items need to be

retrieved? I gather what I can within a sea of tossed books,

photographs and broken glass.

After the purse, mom has requested specific items from a bedside

drawer. I inch toward the drawer and decide to simply empty it into

my backpack. I grab some clothes out of the closet -- things I know

she likes to wear. Steve comes up with the office papers, we pull

valuable artwork off the walls, and move them out of the

weather-vulnerable entry.

I stand back on the crumpled street, three trash bags and two

backpacks of “stuff” as a testament to my parents 40 years in their

home. My momentary sense of victory is replaced by a vague sense of

inadequacy, and a commitment, in whatever way possible, to further

retrieve their belongings. No one is sure if the hillside will

continue to slip or the homes will be further damaged.

Next week : Part 3 : Charlie Williams, the female packing crew and

the amazing support of city staff and battalion Chief Tom

Christopher.