The recent spate of calamitous weather events across the country brought me back to a conversation I had with a close friend in Los Angeles. It was last January when fires were raging out of control in the Pacific Palisades. At that moment, my friend’s house was only seven miles away from the nearest blaze, so I asked if she had a go bag ready. Her answer was characteristically Angelino: “I used to have one in my car in case of a breakdown on the freeway, but now I don’t know where to put one. In my house? My office? My car?” As someone used to schlepping, my response was something like ‘you should fill a backpack and have it with you wherever you are.’ It seemed to me that any self-respecting go bag should be mobile, especially in LA.
When we got off the phone, I started thinking not so much about where to stash emergency supplies, but about what those supplies might be. Medications, eyeglasses, phone, and charging cables, of course. (I guess I’d have to have stash away extras of whatever I’d need, otherwise I’d be packing my go bag when it’s too late.) Cash might also come in handy, but how much cash? I wouldn’t necessarily bet on credit cards working, but if they did, they’d be in my phone case. As for the phone itself, for once its original purpose—calling people—would be vital. It also wouldn’t hurt that my phone contains the mother load of my virtual possessions: most of my writings, our wills, insurance policies (perhaps of dubious use), tax returns, birth certificates, my maternal grandmother’s diary, medical histories, and some 23,000 photos. While all of these will be presumably safe in the cloud, it would still be comforting to have them close to hand—in my hand.
Thinking about my electronic archive, I realized that I’d pivoted away from a state of bare survival to the prospect of salvaging the past. Would my digital records be consolation enough? And given that much of my analog world might be gone or unrecognizable, should I include something tangible, a favorite object? I struggled to think what that would be, which is odd for someone who has personal associations with almost all of her possessions. I am surrounded by the art of my husband and our friends. I know where each piece of pottery and each piece of furniture came from (i.e., family, MacIntosh’s auctions, Brooke’s Variety Store, and other Andes shops). I could tell you the sources of my clothes. I even have my mother’s notes about our wedding expenses, plus her records of household expenditures. In the end though, I couldn’t name a single thing that rose above the rest. Not because I haven’t any sentimental attachments, but because I have an embarrassment of riches relative to most of the world’s population.
The truth is that it’s a luxury to be able to pack anything at all—a luxury not afforded to those Angelinos who are under threat today from forces more damaging than fires. Not to mention all our terrified neighbors across the land, including my Los Angeles friend whose adopted daughter never leaves her house without her passport. And what of the victims of the flash floods in Texas this July? A go bag is irrelevant when weather warnings are slower than the rushing waters; it’s beside the point when you’re suddenly taken off the street. A go bag requires advance warning. In the meantime, it’s an unreliable talisman of survival, an expression of our desire for control even in the worst of situations. Of course, the worst situation is being deprived of the ordinary and precious things that make us who we are. It is dehumanizing.
Assaying 