For the Mountain People

I’ve been whittling on this since the day after. It seems I run a full mill of emotions as I work through it. It’s disjointed and twisty and repetitive but I’m leaving it as it is for now because that’s what it’s been like here-confusing and excessive and unsure. Maybe one day I’ll come back to it and get it right, but for now it will have to be enough to get it out.

It’s been seven months and five days since the sun rose and illuminated what remained of Gatlinburg. Seven months and five days later…it is raining. And rain is appropriate. We’ll still take all we can get. Even on the Fourth of July.

I say hooray because it will put a damper on fireworks activity. Fireworks start fires. I never TRULY believed that until my days at dispatch. Here’s what happens: It’s high summer, which generally means it’s been fairly dry. People drink all day, out in the sun, then they play with fireworks. They may possibly even hurt their fool selves, or the kids who don’t obey orders to “Get back!” (or maybe the kids were never even warned, or maybe it’s just bad luck). The dogs are barking, or howling, or quivering in the corner. The cattle and horses are wild eyed at the explosions. The veteran is inside, trying to block memories and reminding himself it’s all in celebration of a victory won years ago and repeating to himself to relax.

The firework lands on a round bale of hay, or the shingle roof, or the dry weeds in the ditch.

And just like that, you’ve got a brush fire.

Or you know, two teenage boys playing with matches in a severe drought with high winds. That’ll do it too. Even though they had no intentions of anything like that happening. Clearly. I played with matches all the time in the National Park. Sure I did. Wanna come over and ride my unicorn?

I guess we’re just going to have to agree to disagree on how we feel about the delinquents who INTENTIONALLY set fire to the Chimneys. I have a hard time finding forgiveness. I honestly believe that in their little minds they’ve convinced themselves that it was an accident. Sure, they didn’t set out to burn half of Gatlinburg. I think the final tally was somewhere in the neighborhood of 1500 buildings.

And fourteen people.

But they did mean to start A fire, no doubt. They’re probably sorry now, after they saw how out of control it got and the grief in all the eyes of people nationwide and their parents living with the stress of getting them a pardon. And they must face the consequences. My hope is that although the punishment is not going to come from the state, perhaps it will come from the National Park System or civil suits. How many times have you done something you didn’t MEAN to do, it just happened, stemming off another decision that could have been avoided? But you learned from it, surely. After you made it right and paid up.

Every day there has been a headline in our little county newspaper about the fire. New stories about the generosity of strangers, the strength of our community, and Dolly Parton. Always Dolly. 

Where were you the night of November 28th? I bet anyone who lives in Sevier County can answer that question without batting an eyelid. Some were snug in their homes watching TV with their family. Some people were running for their life. Some people were running for the fire engine.

I was picking out a Christmas tree that would stand bare in the corner of our living room for two weeks.

And when I finally did decorate it, I cried.

I didn’t lose a thing. I didn’t lose a family member, a friend, my home, my business, or my job.

I did lose sleep.

I did worry about friends who live up that way. I was terrified envisioning what hell that must be coming off the mountain. It hasn’t been far from my mind in all this time following it. It’s hard to forget-we’re surrounded by well wishers and signs for help and of course, the scorched hills themselves. I replay in my head what I would have done. I like to think I would have left days before-when the smoke was so bad it was hard to see, when it burned your throat and nose and eyes. I would like to think I would have calmly packed some suitcases and everything we could get into our vehicles and sped to Knoxville. But I don’t know. You feel safe at home. But we wouldn’t have waited on city officials to tell us to get out, I know that. When the sky is yellow and people are wearing masks to walk down the street, and the air is so hot it feels like Santa Fe in July, it’s time to get the hell outta Dodge. And that’s what it was like on November 28th, 2016. I know, because Sevierville was only a fraction better. We watched ashes rain down all day and wondered what, if anything, was going to happen. It was that ominous waiting you have in your core, like waiting outside ICU to hear the outcome of surgery.

But I didn’t escape my burning house to get on my burning road blocked with burning trees to get off my burning mountain to try to get to safety in my car that is catching on fire.

I DON’T KNOW what it was like in Gatlinburg Monday night.

However, I was in Sevierville Monday…and pretty much every day before that since the fires started. It got progressively worse every day. Monday was almost unbearable. I looked outside at ten o’clock & it was just….yellow. I don’t know how else to describe it. Like a chemical fog enveloping all of us. Ashes fell like snow. I was reminded of Schindler’s List. By two o’clock, you couldn’t be outside. We were coughing and hacking and sneezing and gagging inside with the windows & doors closed. The sun was barely visible, comparative to how it appears from Mars. Just a pastel orb you can only make out after studying the sky for several minutes. My husband was texting me at 8:30 that morning saying how bad it was. His jobsite was 50 yards from the Park Vista & he couldn’t see it. People were walking around in dust masks on the sidewalk. He said it looked like we were having a smallpox threat or something. He sent two messages to his project manager trying to convey the magnitude of the situation.

He got no response.

By ten thirty, the guys all had wet bandanas tied around their mouths & noses. You couldn’t see down the hallway where they were working. Ashes rained down heavy all over downtown. The wind would blow, carrying with it heat from the fire up the mountain.

At 12:09, I received another text from him. The general contractors were shutting the jobsite down. He was leaving, regardless. The wind had picked up and now debris was flying all over the road, creating more hazards. It was becoming pure havoc and he couldn’t get out of town quick enough. He hammered down through the spur to the relative safety of Pigeon Forge.

I worked till 5, developing a greater sense of unease the longer the day went on. Driving home, I longingly admired the Christmas trees displayed beside the Rescue Squad. But I’m not allowed to shop by myself for trees, as I get ones that are too big for my house. Or Biltmore. And besides, it was too smoky to enjoy the excursion.

As soon as I got downtown things cleared up significantly. It was so hot people were running their air conditioners but nothing helped evade the smoke.

After I’d been home a little while, we went out to select a tree from the Boy Scouts. I had no idea what was currently happening to our friends in Gatlinburg. But when we sat down to eat our big greasy Hardees cheeseburgers I was perusing Facebook & began to see some very disturbing posts. This was around 7:00.

There was nothing in the news about it.

I received no text to evacuate, but why would I? We live twenty miles from the mountains. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I texted my friend who still works at dispatch, on the off chance it somehow was exaggerated. But she was off, and miraculously didn’t get called in. She hadn’t heard anything about it. So I was glued to Facebook until nearly midnight. Shug wasn’t surprised by the turn of events. He was, however, confounded that there was anybody left to evacuate. He said one of the guys he works with lives on Ski Mountain & his wife called around 10:00 and said the fire was only about 50 yards from their yard. Needless to say, he tucked tail & ran O-F-T.

So I ask you, why did people wait all day to leave? Why did they depend on a text from city officials to tell them to get the hell off the mountain? I’m so confused. On the front page of the Mountain Press a few days after was a family that claimed they had repeatedly called the city administrators to be told there was no immediate danger. Um. If there was any question in my mind, I know that I would have been skinnin’ it out of town. Do people really think firemen have some sort of magical powers to protect them & keep them safe? If it has been raining ash all day and you can SEE FLAMES right down the road and the wind is blowing fifty fucking miles an hour, why the hell would you stand around videoing the sky? To post it on social media later to gain attention while you cry that no one came to save you? Because I’m sure back before cell phones, you were responsible for yourself. Oh, wait….aren’t we still?

Anyway. I’m a little perturbed by these people who were waiting for some dignitary to tell them what to do. And I’m sure that’s nothing compared to what dispatch was hearing.

A nightmare is what it is. And now people are wanting to point fingers & place blame when it was mother nature taking a little back. That and those boys who started the whole blamed thing.

Shug finally went back to work in Gatlinburg seven days later. He said it was sickening, & everybody was gonna croak when they see it. He couldn’t hardly bring himself to take pictures. He took one, though, of what was left of a foundation of a cabin near his work. All that remained was a chimney & a dryer. “And there’s a thousand of this same scene. It’s everywhere.” He said it hurts to look at the chair lift, & the Cocaine Castle is just some burnt timbers jutting from the mountainside.

Another thing I had, and continue to have, a hard time swallowing is all the sightseers. All the vultures that were up there gawking at all the misery and loss. Some people who didn’t have a dog in the fight were miraculously up there before homeowners were. They were taking pictures of the rubble while firemen and linemen and state officials were still trying to work. I hadn’t seen it first-hand until I went to supper downtown at the end of April and it still turned my stomach. Even though things were greening up and growing back the devastation was still real. And I’m sure it’s still raw to many. We need to give them space, give them prayers, not give them something else to despise. Tourists never understand the thinly veiled contempt from locals when they ask prying questions. Why we shun their suggestions and turn our heads from their ways and nasal tones and continue to do things the way we always have, even though it may take just a moment longer. We do want you to come, and enjoy our park and all the attractions and make memories, but we don’t want you to change us. We don’t want you to laugh at our ways. They’re OUR ways, not yours.

Volunteering is a sure way to change your life. The people in command may not have any business being there, but there they are, most likely because no one else stepped up. No one else devoted the time. They may be getting wrong information. They may not know what to do with you. The best thing you can do is just leap in, feet first. Even if you’re just sweeping the floor. Eventually people will seek you out as a leader and you’ll have a little army of workers, everyone pitching in and making the chores whiz by.
You’ll get the wrong information. You’ll hear lies and rumors. You’ll try to update people via your Facebook only to find out ten minutes later that it’s wrong or stagnant information and things have changed. It’s discouraging. But don’t quit. Because a year later, when people ask you what you did, you can look them in the eye and say simply, “I helped.”
I helped.
I shoveled manure and I stacked hay and I sorted clothes with strangers and friends and I moved chicken pens and I restacked hay and I made calls and I begged and I threw away and I organized and I transported and I laughed and I cried and I hugged.
I helped.

The fire was overwhelming and spread extremely quickly. There was no way to get help to all the areas immediately. Save yourselves! Nobody has a foolproof disaster plan. Not even your leaders. We’re all just doing the best we can. But when it comes down to it, you are responsible for yourself.

So. In summary, whether you’re volunteering and looking for your place, or you’re in a dangerous situation waiting on direction, DON’T EVER WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO TELL YOU WHAT TO DO. Act on instinct. Do something. Move. 

And as far as a emergency text message…well, that wouldn’t be a bad idea…if the cell phones were even working. Because most of them weren’t. The smoke was blocking satellite signals, and the rest were bogged down with everyone trying to call out.

Dispatch that night

I have to wonder if the verdict would have been different if government buildings had been affected.

But what am I saying? Of course it would have.

And I’m rolling now.

I have milled this over in my mind a hundred times. Lots of people are begging the people of Sevier County for forgiveness on behalf of these boys. Personally, I believe they’re not remorseful for all the death and destruction. I know I wouldn’t be able to live with myself… I think they wanted to see “their” fire on the news and know that they had caused it.  I’m familiar with this concept-again, something I learned while working at dispatch during Halloween. A whole slew of redneck boys would drag tires out in the road and light them just to hear the dispatcher’s tone out local fire agencies.

And so, while I didn’t lose anything but my faith in the government once again, I still think these “kids” should be rotting under the jail. At sixteen, you know better. At four, you don’t. Don’t give me your bullshit. I can’t take any more.

But today, it’s raining. And I rejoice. It’s coming a good ‘un. So maybe the mountains will be smoky for the right reason.