Away

 The day we were evacuated, I was feeling fuzzy headed while preparing to officiate at a wedding. I'd been up in the night, and at 3:30 AM went outside into my front yard and looked to my left. Across the perimeter highway and into the bush, I saw this:

 And I remember thinking, should we still be here? And then I thought, thank goodness the wind is from the South. Maybe everything will be okay. We'd been forewarned about a potential evacuation, and though it had never happened in Flin Flon before, I already had a suitcase packed. 

At four PM the next day, my neighbor burst through my door saying it was time to go. It was more of a shout, really. I shouted something back, though I can't remember what I said. I was halfway inside a dress that was too small when I acknowledged to myself that the wedding wouldn't be happening.

I quickly packed a few more things. Unfortunately, most of it was useless. No socks, no toothbrush, no hairbrush. No comfort items aside from some fruit and water. I had to drive 8 hours south, and yet my brain couldn't come up with anything besides my strangely packed suitcase and  a quilt of my deceased sister's, beautifully made by a friend. 

As the long convoy drove carefully down highway 10, I thought about what it's like to be in shock. From previous experience, I've found the feeling to be a sneaky one. It can camouflage itself. Trick us into thinking we're calm. There's a numbness  that goes along with it, and an inability to understand what is really happening to body and mind. Whenn we were forced to leave our homes, I wasn't the only one thinking things like, 'Who will water my plants? My lawn and garden? I spent so much money on annuals!' Later, I would think things like, 'I'm going to miss my Iris's blooming.'

My friend Lois met me in the Pas, and drove me the rest of the way to Winnipeg. We enjoyed the distraction of a visit, but there was something surreal about it. We were both trying to imagine what it would be like if we didn't get to go home again. 

We reached Winnipeg at 2 AM, and I was so tired, I couldn't sleep. I had family in the city, and they took me in, as families do. All told, over 17,000 people were evacuated from the north. Many took shelter in hotels and arenas.

Soon, we heard the news about Denare Beach, a nearby community. Friends with cameras on their doors watched helplessly as the fire rushed inside, taking everything they owned. I don't know for sure but it sounds like half their community burned down.

Those of us with homes still unscathed could only pray. There was a sense of shame about how we'd handled the leaving...all the items left behind, poor decisions made at the last minute. Father Paul Bringleson from our community spoke a few words on Facebook over a number of evenings, trying to console not just his own parish but the entire community of evacuees. He reminded us that we're only human, and that feeling guilty because our houses survived is a natural reaction. And feeling shame over poor decions made is much the same. But it's impossible not to feel heavy hearted when people you've known all your life have lost their homes.

My Winnipeg family did their best to entertain those of us from the north. Barbeques, bowling parties, suppers...we did it all. Staying busy was a big help. I visited my children in Calgary, too, and it felt so comforting. 

But over that long month, each of us kept thinking about our homes. I'd finally gotten over worrying about the plants and had started feeling nostagic for my collection of precious Christmas ornaments. Even my furniture. When you live alone, your furniture is almost like a friend. It's with you throughout the day, aiding your rest, helping you make dinner, playing your favourite shows. Everyone says that things can be replaced, and they're right. But first, you have to find your way to that path...that way of thinking sensibly. It's almost impossible when you don't know how it's going to end.

I mourned for the sewing machine I bought in 1986 and used to design the babyTrekker carrier, selling it all over the planet from my little town of Flin Flon. I mourned the few babyTrekkers I had left. I grieved over ancient patio furniture left to us by my mother in law. It's over 25 years old, but so comfortable. It reminds me of her.

 I mourned for my favourite hair brush. Such nonsense, really. But it didn't feel like it at the time.

Most of all, I mourned for my community. We are each other's people. Even the ones we only see in Pharmasave or at the Co-op or the Orange Toad. There are so many ways that our lives intertwine...through Community choir and hockey games and all the clubs like Rotary or Lions. There's our book clubs and our church families. There's the people we pass when we're out for a walk.

When I was strolling through Polo Park in Winnipeg, I spotted two people from Flin Flon headed my way. We just walked into each other's arms. I didn't know how badly I needed to see a familiar face and hear a familiary voice until that moment. 'I miss everything and everyone,' I said. And, 'I'm not a city person.' We both recognized the grief that comes from being away when all you want is to be back home.

When Lois and I were driving together on that long night, I said to her, 'It's like we're in Gaza except we're warm and fed, and nobody is bombing us.' It helped put things in perspective.

 I'm so thankful to all those who helped out. The Canadian armed forces, all the firemen coming from so  many different places and countries. And our Manitoba premier, Wab Kinew, who jumped right in and called a state of emergency so we'd get the help we needed. I'm thankful for the people who stayed behind to assist the others. Judy Eagle, for feeding and comforting all those animals. Alison Dallas Funk, for giving us video updates on Facebook in the evenings...I can't begin to tell her how comforting that was. All I could think of was how tired she looked, and how hard it must have been doing all those things. Others, like our mayor, George Fontaine, and his trusty sidekick, Crystal Kolt, hurried around the city of Winnipeg, making sure everyone had what they needed. 

When I got home yesterday after a month away, I sat in my driveway and cried. I was relieved to find everything much as it was ( except for the foot high grass in everyone's yard.) I also cried because everything wasn't the way it was. Too many friends from Denare Beach lost their homes. Some from Manitoba, too. 

But I'm thankful that my town is still standing. As neighbors and friends drive past, we wave at each other like we've been gone for a year. And I know that I'll never take my community for granted again. I will try hard not to complain about silly things, and the next time we evacuate (we live in the north, the earth will continue to heat up) I will have a long, well thought out list ready to go. Next time,  I won't forget my toothbrush, or hairbrush, or socks.

 But that's for another day. Hopefully, for a summer far down the road. But for now, welcome home, everyone. I can't wait to see you all.