The Anniversary I’d Rather Forget

I’ve been putting off writing this – maybe hoping I would run out of time and not have to deal with it. But then the power went off at my house tonight. I would prefer to be home vegging out in front of the tv, but the universe played a cosmic joke on me and forced me back to my office with nothing better to do but write.

This year is the five-year anniversary of Archie Creek.  I’ve spent the last five years trying to forget about one of the most traumatizing times in my life, but now I feel like I have to dive back into that pool to remember and somehow honor it.

There are so many stories. Mine doesn’t include loss of property.  My story is a simple one – similar to those who have faced death and had a second chance.  The second chance is a blessing, but the memories are a curse.

My family was evacuated for seven days. I never want to pack a car with ‘what matters’ ever again.  I never want to go through my home and decide what are ‘things’ and what are ‘memories’.  I never want to have to console my child having a panic attack while I’m doing my best to hold it together myself. 

We imposed on friends we hardly knew and gained an extended family in the process.  We found strength in each other in a strange world of isolation and fear… checking hourly updates on the fire advances, trapped indoors because of the heavy smoke laden air… just wanting to breathe – but the entire state was on fire… there was nowhere to go.

While getting my bearings, I felt a responsibility to my community because I owned a business.  Donations were flooding 138 Grill, and they were doing a tremendous job of redistributing.  I did what I could – what I could afford.  There was a community bond that I had never seen before. But there was really no other choice.

2020 will forever be one of the most traumatic years of my life. Owning a restaurant during Covid is enough to make the strongest business owner give up. Many did.  I don’t blame them.  But after months of struggling – we were kicked when we were down.  Everything we were fighting for… everything we were looking forward to getting back to after Covid… All of it.  It was burning to the ground.  Everywhere.  The whole state was on fire… and it seemed everywhere else was a higher priority than our little town.  We had to fight for ourselves.

That’s what many residents did. Neighbors and friends gathered shovels, hoses and supplies and did their best to help neighbors. But this fire was hot.  This fire was relentless. The fire prevailed, and left scars here that may never heal.  At the end of it all, we were changed.

I tend to embrace change.  As a military brat, you learn fast that you can embrace it or fight it – but it doesn’t change the outcome. Glide changed that year. The Umpqua changed. The people changed. And I mourned that for a long time. But there is a baptism by fire that can’t be done any other way.  This is what we experienced.  Glide succumbed; Glide emerged.  Glide was different, but Glide was stronger.

Sometimes getting kicked when you are down peels away the layers of vanity, self-righteousness, and ego. What you are left with is so raw and exposed you have no choice but to face it. Turn the ship into the storm and go full throttle.

We’re still working our way out of that storm, but each wave gets a little easier to handle.  The winds have calmed, and we can see the sun coming up on the horizon.  It’s too early to take our hands off the wheel, and there’s a lot of work to be done yet.  We’ve learned a lot of lessons, but it’s time to let go of the pain.

I don’t like looking back.  We are moving forward. We are letting go. Archie will be forever imprinted in who I am today, but going forward, I’m choosing to let this memory fade. If ever faced with the dilemma in the future – this is one memory I won’t be packing in my car.