My mother-in-law’s 300-acre ranch, located on a hillside above Pleasant Valley Road northwest of Vacaville, burned to the ground on Aug. 19th.
“The fire came suddenly, giving people around Vacaville little time to gather what they could and run,” read the CNN headline the next day.
Carole and her husband, Dave escaped with only the clothes on their back. They lost everything. They’re currently staying with Carole’s son, Andy, in Woodland, until they find a new place. They plan to buy a mobile home and live in a mobile home park in Woodland. She’s 89. Their ranch is where the family gathered every Easter for family reunions for the past 20 years. Once a year, in June, family and friends would go up to there and pick apricots from the trees in their orchard. The sweetest apricots you’ve ever tasted. Yellow peach fuzz with a bright red blush... Nothing but charred trees and landscape now.
My sister, Jean, died that same week, while the Vacaville fire was still spreading. That was two weeks ago. Jean was 87. She’d been ill this past year with a number of maladies, probably all related, but her doctors failed to diagnose the underlying problem – a cancerous tumor on her spine. She complained of back pain, and a shooting pain from her hip down her leg. Her doctors did a lousy job of prescribing pain medication and by the time they got around to ordering blood tests, scans, radiation, and surgery she was too far gone. For the past couple of months, her entire family – her children and their spouses, brother, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren provided round-the-clock care. Finally, Hospice was called in and within a week she was dead. She died at home peacefully, surrounded by her family. Her devoted daughter, Sally, washed and prepared the body with the help of her two sisters-in-law. White silk fabric surrounded Jean's body and orange rose petals were strategically scattered on her bed. The lights were dimmed. Candles were lit. And soft spiritual music was played. Gathered around her bed for the first and last time were her daughter and son, her daughter-in-law, three grandchildren, three great-grandkids, and brother. Words were shared. Memories awakened. Laughter was heard and tears were shed.
Jean had introduced me to my future wife, Kim, 28 years ago (on Aug. 29) at her son’s wedding in Sacramento. Jean had worked with Kim, who was 32 when I met her. I was 45 and had been divorced for five years. My three kids (two sons and a daughter) were also at my nephew’s wedding and seemed equally attracted to Kim’s fun personality and warmth. We danced all night and soon began dating. She moved in with us within six months. A year later, Nellie came along. Kim’s only child and my fourth. Kim was a marriage, child and family therapist. And a great mother. Just short of our 20th anniversary, on June 24, 2013, Kim died of cancer at the age of 53.
Appropriately, Jean is the common thread that pulls this story together. She was my older sister, a mentor, an adviser, a confidant, a friend. She introduced me to my wife, Kim. Kim’s mom is Carole, my mother-in-law. Carole lost her home. Jean died. And then...
I heard that Carole was shopping with her daughter, Marcia, for a home, furnishings and clothing, and a light went on. We were planning Jean’s estate sale and I called Marcia and told her to bring Carole up to Jean’s to see if there was any furniture she wanted. Talk about perfect timing and stars aligning. Carole was outfitted with clothes (she’s the same size as Jean) and her whole household was furnished with beds, linens, recliner, chairs, tables, end tables, lamps, silverware, coffee cups… you name it. Some purchased at bargain basement prices and much of it given away. So that’s how Carole, Jean, Kim and I connected this week. People related. People brought together. People surviving. People dying. All in the midst of record heat waves, record wildfires and a pandemic. I’m tempted to say: “It is what it is,” but that cliché is warn out and should be retired, along with the idiot who most recently misused it.
