By Rachel Fraser
When the last of my evacuated guests had left, I settled into some decompression with more than a little bit of survivor’s guilt, understanding that this essential element of home – of fully exhaling and spreading out, of privacy, of peace – was going to be absent from my loved ones’ lives for some time to come. And, there was a part of me that missed the chaos. The empty silence (those who’ve met my yappy dog won’t understand how that can be, but I think she was also emotionally exhausted) left me in my own grief, held off to hold space for the bigger, more thorough grief of those who’d lost everything.
July 20th, nine days ago at the writing of this, I was waking up in my son Casey’s room in Jasper, studying the pencil lines on the doorjamb that marked the yearly growth of my boys from when they moved into the house in elementary school, before the growth spurts that took them to their adult heights of 5’10 and 6’2. I was smiling at the huge gap of white before the lines belonging to their 4-year-old brother began. The room was vacant as my 20-year-old son was spending a year in Australia, and, while it might seem unorthodox to some, the fact that this room was located in the home of my ex-husband, his current partner and their two children was a large part of the draw, and the reason I was there. While Geoff was visiting our son in Australia, I was here to spend time with his partner, Julie-Anne, the woman I half-jokingly and affectionately call my sister-wife. There doesn’t seem to be a name in the English language for the relationship we share, that does justice to the years of spending holidays and birthdays supporting the children she lovingly stepparents, and the deep trust, affection and friendship we’ve layered on top of that even when there’s been no kids or obligations involved.
The family-like friendship I have with my ex has also come to encompass our close mutual friends Jaime and Colin over the years, and this chosen family unit was the number one factor in choosing to return to the mountains to settle in Valemount. Their houses in Jasper have been my refuge, almost as comforting and familiar as my own home.
Monday night, July 22nd, I was at work, serving dinner at the Caribou Grill, when I checked my phone to find missed texts, one from Jaime saying only “We’re on our way to you,” and one from a mutual friend clarifying that Jasper was evacuating and there were 10 others in tow: Jaime, Colin, Julie-Anne, her two young boys, and Jasper’s entire resident and tourist population of 25,000 were on their way to our Village of 1000, on a 120 km single lane of highway at 10 o’clock at night.
I rushed home in a panic to prepare, and at 1:30 am the last of my refugees finally arrived. In all, 13 people, three dogs and four cats spent that night in my double-wide and driveway. My neighbours hosted a similar attendance, and our street became an impromptu refugee camp, as did much of our town that night.
Two days later, I rushed home from work again, this time in tears after spending the evening between tables watching the fire overtake the town on social media, from the edge of town closest to where all my loved ones lived. It would be two more days before the final confirmation came that nothing remained on either property.
In addition to donating clothing, gear and food, Valemount reached out to share our neighbours’ grief. Many of us have close relationships with Jasperites, as well as our own memories. There are some places with the preternatural ability to get under your skin more than others, and Jasper is unquestionably one of those places that marks you, whether you’ve spent a weekend or a lifetime.
I was absorbed by my guests’ experience, as I tried to absorb some of their pain, but I was also experiencing loss. Cabin Creek, the neighbourhood that was home to Geoff and me when the boys were young, is leveled. The photo of Maligne Lodge engulfed in flames was horrifying, but the photos of flames stalking Cabin Creek were gut-wrenching.
I keep remembering that I now no longer have my main pet and anxiety-friendly evacuation plan in the case of a local wildfire, but also my less urgent I-can’t-handle-my-life-right-now escape. I’ve been less likely to spend Christmas at my parents’ house than in one of those homes, as they have both been just as warm and festive and full of love.
Days passed, and I didn’t notice their passing. My mom had been traumatically sick, but recovering, and I’d almost forgotten. In the midst of the trauma, a service was held for a beloved community member, and the realization that things were happening that had nothing to do with the Jasper fire was jolting and disorienting.
When people say they lost everything, that isn’t technically true, and when people say they’re just things, that isn’t true either.
New things can’t replace a lifetime of careful curation, of collection, like DJ Bowen’s rare vintages of wine and spirits, gone forever. In addition to a business that boasted “the most extensive wine selection in Alberta”, the family home and his personal collection are also lost.
That door jamb in my son’s room is gone, with its record of the passage of time. So is a hard drive containing photos and videos, deftly documenting moments of our sons’ lives. In the merciless supernatural KonMari method, the ugly couch, thankfully, is also gone.
In a sense, our home is a family member. It grows and evolves, relates and connects with the people in your life. When you move houses, there is continuity in the elements that transfer, the furniture, the art. Like I grieve my sons moving out of my home differently than I would if they died, the moving of the elements of home from one shell to another is very different than a complete rebuilding of a home.
These buildings are where we keep our homes, where the ingredients of home are gathered – but they aren’t it. The elements that make your coffee ritual – the morning sun, a view, coziness, your excellent taste – are all still accessible, and will be combined again to rebuild what was lost.
