Reconnaissance mission after the landslide

CATHARINE COOPER

After life, limb, family and pets, how do you prioritize what

“things” you hold dear and important? And can you remember where

everything is?

Detective Joe Torres phoned on Saturday afternoon. “Monday morning

at 10,” he informed us. “You’ll have two hours to get what things you

can from the house.”

My parents begin their lists: irreplaceable artwork, photo albums,

the family silver, jewelry, credit cards, theater tickets, a special

piece of crystal. How do you choose from 40 years of living what to

rescue and what to relinquish? With the integrity of physical

structure in question, each foray into the house might be the last.

Lists are rewritten and re-prioritized. I wander mentally with my

mother from room to room, identifying how items might be retrieved.

Since she will not be in the house, I draw a map of each room, and

together we mark where things can be found.

Days of friends asking, “What can I do?” now has an answer. We

need hands -- many, many hands and strong spirits. We need sturdy

folk, fleet of foot, and unemotional to form a kind of human chain to

pass belongings one person to the next. I need muscles and I need

packers.

Charlie Williams had built my home two years ago and in the

process I had discovered a man of deep integrity with broad spirit

and heart. He jumped at the chance to help, offering his construction

truck and crew to add to those of my husband Steve, and my brother

Bobby.

I call my friends to help pack china, crystal and glassware.

Merri, my lifelong friend and daughter of my mother’s high school

friend, is on the road from Danville before she even answers my

voicemail. She calls her sister, Gerri, to help. Jenna, Eloise and

Pam readily agree.

Because of the location of the house -- smack in the middle of the

slide -- there is no street access of any kind. To get to the house

requires climbing up, over, and down a goat path of uneven rocks,

loose dirt and boulders. At the end of this path is the asphalt

remains of Flamingo, a fractured and twisted remnant of a street. At

the end of the dirt path is a slope of around 60 degrees. A fallen

utility pole blocks the path on the way to the neighbor’s rickety

wooden stairs. These must be climbed to reach the slope, which is

riddled with deep fissures, and crossed to get to the back of the

house. This is simply going in. Going out will require the entire

journey in reverse, but carrying heavy loads.

I wake at 1:27 a.m., unable to sleep. My mind replays the list

over and over. Mom has asked for so little. She is more concerned

with everyone’s safety than with her belongings. Since I’ve been in

the house once, I have a strong assessment of what is possible, and

my personal plan is to bring as much from this dwelling as can be

carried.

We meet at Bluebird Park to consolidate vehicles. We are two

trucks, one van, two SUV’s and 22 people.

Here’s the drill. Clear the two checkpoints on Bluebird and

Oriole, drive to the end of the road and park near the gate. Wait for

police, building and fire department support. Listen to their

instructions. Firemen carry air horns. Their job is to listen for new

movement. If the horn is sounded, drop whatever you are holding,

evacuate immediately and reconvene at the gate for a head count.

We’re going in, and the clock is ticking! Only three people are

allowed in the upstairs and three downstairs. All must wear hard

hats. No one is allowed in the kitchen. I set my packing crew up

outside the house with boxes and bubble wrap. I carefully grab china

and crystal, carrying stacks of breakables down the narrow interior

stairway to their waiting arms.

Charlie, Steve and crew go for furniture. Doug, the building

inspector, suggests we rip off the railing. It feels odd to tear

apart the house, even though it is already broken, but with the

railing gone, suddenly more is possible. Everything goes directly off

the deck and begins the long journey to the street.

The bedroom floor tilts at about a 35-degree angle. Broken glass

from pictures and a shattered lamp litter the carpeted floor. I dump

dresser drawers into trash bags, held open by Charlie.

Together we make short work of emptying the contents of the room,

except for furniture. Clothing, mementos and photographs mingle in

sturdy garbage bags.

While the kitchen is temporarily off-limits, the dining room is

not. Charlie holds my feet as I lay over the counter to retrieve the

silver from the bottom kitchen shelf. Merri and Gerri come up to help

me with the last of the china hutch, and we shift places. I hold

Gerri’s feet while she pulls up china and cut glass. We grab wine

glasses from overhead and hurry them downstairs. Bubble wrap is gone

so we grab towels and sheets -- anything to soften the ride down to

the street.

Doug signals that we’ve “gotta leave now.” I quickly scan the

house.

The living room is empty except for the grand piano, couch, end

tables and books left on the shelf.

Bedroom furniture is mired until a rescue plan can be devised.

Desks, safe and another bedroom set remain behind. Loose papers and

odds and ends litter the floor. Best that my mother, the impeccable

housekeeper, not see this mess.

Two cars remain crushed under the collapsed garage.

What we don’t have time to carry, we leave for the next day.

Detective Torres has given us an additional one hour to load what we

have already pulled out.

The pile at the bottom of the wood steps is daunting. We catch our

breath and begin the long carry up the street, over the dirt goat

path to the trucks. Battalion Chief Tom Christopher takes off his

heavy gear and lends his strength to the carry.

Hot and exhausted, we pass one object and the next, until all is

loaded in the trucks. Emma arrives with water and after a brief rest,

my folks’ belongings are transported to my garage.

The next day, Scott, Connie, Emma, Merri, Scotty, and the same

wonderful Charlie and Steve crews finish the work of the day before.

Even the dining room chandelier is cut down and carted out.

Next will be the equally daunting task of sorting bags and boxes

of disparate objects and repacking for storage.

And of course, dealing with the endless city meetings, countless

questions, financial responsibilities, insurance agents, government

agencies and the tenuous steps of reestablishing a home.

Again and again, I cannot thank the city, their staff, my friends,

and Charlie for their unwavering support.

Each and every one of them has played an invaluable role in making

this stage of my parents’ transition possible.

* Catherine Cooper’s parents, Kay and Lewie Wright, lived for 39

years at 1044 Flamingo Road. Catherine can be reached at (949)

497-5081, or e-mail ccooper@cooperdesign.net.