“We have to protect your family jewels!” 

After decades of marriage I was shocked my bride thought I still had my family jewels.

Following one of the driest winters on record with a snowpack as thin as my hairline, Summit County braced for a summer of wildfire danger. Reading about mandatory evacuations occurring across the country, my bride and I often discussed a plan of action were it to happen in our hood.

Luckily, we have so far dodged the bullet fire-wise, but not so with poor air quality. In late June and early July, our house was as smoky as your average dorm room at a liberal arts college.

We would check our weather app daily to determine where, and if, we wanted to hike or bike. If it did not look to be healthy breathing I’d often opt for the gym. That said, we were usually able to strategize where to go to do the things we enjoy without scratchy throats or itchy eyes.

But any strategy or planning would be fruitless if we were 2,000 miles away. So in mid-July, when we were scheduled fly to the East Coast for a couple of weeks, Ellie decided that we needed to take steps to secure our valuables.

I tried to explain that we had no valuables, but she thought otherwise. She visited an online survivalist website that sells stuff to deal with the end of the world as we know it. She ignored the crossbows, water purifiers, solar generators and freeze-dried elk meat and purchased a fireproof lockbox that is guaranteed to withstand fire, flood, invading hoards and armageddon. The ad boasted that if your home burned to the ground, that lockbox would be what is left standing. It did not make clear how you could find it among the rubble.

I will say the thing was a stout container — about the size of a toaster oven, very heavy with a substantial lock. 

We had a few days before we were scheduled fly to Boston, so we had ample time to fill it.

We came to discover the only stuff we owned of any value was skis, bikes and vehicles; none of which would fit in any box. Seems our garage was worth way more than our home. 

My one contribution was, I did put in the titles to our vehicles, passports and a photo of my parents. But the truth is, if the vehicles burned with the house those titles might not be of use. Ellie wanted to put in our wedding photos. That’s OK for her, she looked good. I was married wearing tie-dye, sporting a dangling earring, mullet haircut and cowboy boots — I never want to see those photos again.

By the same token, I have no desire to save any old videos that reminded me of what I said or did. I do have some old Biff tapes that were given to me. I accepted them but never looked for fear of what I might see. 

The day before our trip the box was about one-third full, almost all of Ellie’s stuff. She warned me, “All those photos and videos that you have no interest in now, you’ll wish  you had them when you are old.” I answered, “I’m already old, and they are more fun to remember than to see again.”

To keep her happy, at the last minute I threw in a couple of wrist watches and an avalanche transceiver. 

The footage of the communities across the nation that have been ravaged by some of the worst wildfires in recent history is heartbreaking. Some of the most devastating damage was done where the citizens were least prepared financially to rebuild. 

Now granted, I certainly would not want my home to burn down. But I will say just the thought of it has reminded me there is little in there that I could not live without. As I look outside my window now I can see it raining, which gives me hope that I won’t have cause to find out if my assertion is correct.

The morning of our departure, Ellie reminded me that there was still lots of room in the fireproof lock box and suggested I fill it. I put in some stuff —old photos and a couple of VRC tapes; cool keepsakes but nothing crucial. 

That turned out to be divine providence, because when we returned home from 10 days awa,y neither of us could remember where we put the key to that burley container. And the box has remained unopened and repurposed as a coffee table.