Stuff: Chapter One

My publisher informs me that my new book, Stuff, will be ready for publication in the next two weeks.  So today, I thought I’d give you a taste of the story by pre-printing chapter one for you.

Stuff is based on the Bastrop fires in Texas during the drought of 2011.  Watch for Stuff at an eBook seller near you soon.

           

Chapter One

The first things I thought about were the dogs: Chester and Allan. Both were still asleep on my bed and would continue to be so, until I went upstairs and roused them from their deep slumber.  They would be none too happy with my early-morning disruption of their precious naptime. Those two could while away the hours unconscious longer than any two animals on the planet, maybe with the exception of my son, who has been stripped of that habit by the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis. Now, a crack-of-dawn officer, he is away at sea somewhere on a ship with a special mission that none of us can know about; so, you might say the second thing that I thought of when I heard the bullhorn, was my son, missing in action from me, but safe with the Navy somewhere on a far off edge of the globe. But he didn’t count. I didn’t have to rescue him.  Just everything else, it seemed.

            The man in the yellow overalls and heavy boots, stood in the bed of a Ford pick-up truck with a bullhorn pressed to his lips blaring instructions to us on the cul de sac.  “Pack your things and prepare to move.  Pack your things and prepare to move.  Use County Road 6.  Do not drive to Holloman.  The road is already blocked. Do not drive to Holloman. The road to Holloman is already blocked.  Prepare to evacuate.  Pack your things and prepare to evacuate.  You have less than an hour.  You have less than an hour.  Pack your things and prepare to evacuate-” and so it went. It was as if he said it enough, it would happen – on cue.  Tell them and they will do it.  Tell them often and they will do it faster.

            I could already hear the sirens of the fire trucks coming up the hill on Bardstown Road. That was less than a mile from me. Looking to the southwest, I could see the smoke rising and occasionally I got a glimpse of orange flames licking the pre-dawn sky as the advancing wall of fire ate at vegetation, forest and homes in its way.

            “Stop looking, sir. Get your stuff and get out.”  The man was now aiming the bullhorn squarely at me, as I gawked at the events around me. Ash blew over us with an advancing wind; the sky turned grey from smoke and charred debris. Sleep fought with reality as I tried to focus on the events unfolding before me.  I was swimming up to the surface, trying to clear my mind and my vision to grasp what was facing me. “Hurry sir.  You have less than an hour to get out.” I decided not to retrieve the newspaper from the front lawn; instead, I returned to the house and closed the door.  Feeling its safety around me I almost thought of hunkering down and waiting it out, like a spring thunderstorm. Get to a safe part of the house and wait until the wind and lightning have passed.  But this was different.  A thunderstorm was like the flu.  It could be fatal but usually is not, merely uncomfortable; but a fire was cancer.  It was going to eat through everything I owned.

            The voice on the bullhorn faded as the truck in which he rode drove out of my neighborhood and headed for the next small subdivision of Forrest Ridge. “Pack up now and get out.”  The words drifted away, but not their meaning.

            I called to the boys and I could hear them give a low growl each, saying, “Leave us alone, Dave. It is sleeping time.  You are up way too early.” I raced up the stairs and shook both of them vigorously. The dachshund, Allan was first to rise. Reluctantly, Chester, my border collie, followed suit. Both animals were cranky. “Come on fellows, we got a lot to do.  Fire is coming.”

            They could have cared less.  They had been awakened and now it was feeding time.  That is how the world worked. You wake us – you feed us. And only then shall we see about all this nonsense going on about outside.

            I went downstairs, taking two steps at a time, trying to show the dogs that I had a sense of urgency about me. I raced to the kitchen and poured dry food into two bowls and called for them. Slowly I began to hear the jingle of collars and the click of nails on the hardwood floor as they made their way to breakfast. One set of clicks stopped and I could just imagine Chester stretching out, first one hind leg and then the other, as he shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs and to get his motor revved for the day’s fun and play.

            Now I had to decide how and what to pack. A fire was bearing down on the neighborhood, the same fire that I had been seeing on TV for two days and reading about in the morning paper just yesterday.  It had already consumed 25-thousand acres of prime Texas forest and grasslands and was nowhere near being wrestled under control.  Hot, summer, drought weather and stiff winds rising from the parched, desert plains of Mexico, were stirring the fire and encouraging it forward.  Until this morning its’ trajectory was away from my house, but now the gods of fire and destruction had changed their minds and the wall of orange and red energy was sweeping toward me.

            I had to pack and get out.

            I was beginning to panic.

            There were pictures that captured in time the history of the family.  There were shots of Matt at every age and in every possible uniform kids can attain. Scouts, soccer, baseball, band, Navy, you name it and Matt wore it. Then there were other family shots – my mom and dad; uncles and aunts and cousins, whose names I had long forgotten. There were things about the house, which Matt had made: a bookshelf and ceramic ashtray. He had painted an Indian painting, which still hung in the den. He always threatened to take it down every time he visited, but yet it endured, as priceless to me as the Mona Lisa is to the rest of the art world. There were things still in his room – memorabilia of a young man’s ascent into adulthood.  The blue ribbons from the science fairs and the wall of merit badges earned on the way to an Eagle Scout award, and there were pictures of his friends and coaches and little league teams.  There was even a long scroll panoramic shot of his graduating classes both from high school in Holloman and from college in Annapolis. The panoramic shots took up the top portions of two walls in Matt’s room. It all had to be saved.  It was the stuff of memories – of history – of life.  I hastily began to grab for things and make piles near the door.

            In the midst of my mental mayhem, the telephone rang. I thought to myself, “At least the cell towers are still standing.”  There was one such tower less than four hundred yards south of the entrance to the cul de sac.  I grabbed the cell phone and answered.

            “Dave, are you all right?”

            Ann’s voice was raspy as always. She sounded like she had just smoked a pack of cigarettes and drank a fifth of bourbon during an all night binge, but she was a teetotaler and never had placed a smoke to her lips.  It was just the sexy way in which my ex-wife spoke.  It was something that had attracted me to her many years ago. “I saw the fires on the Today Show.  They said it was heading east.”

            “Yes.  We’ve just now been given the signal to evacuate.” It crossed my mind that several minutes had transpired.  How much longer did I have?

            “Dave get out.  Get the boys and get out.”

            “I’m trying Ann, but there’s a lot to grab.”

            “It’s just stuff, Dave.  Stuff.  Get Chester and Allan and get out while you still have a chance.”

            Her own parents had been killed in a fire in downtown Chicago while Ann was a junior at Northwestern.