Wine Country fires prompt disaster training for blind
The classroom was full of students, all of them blind or visually impaired. Their canes were propped in the corner, their guide dogs asleep under a table. It was time, so Patricia Jefferson began reciting from a list of 21 questions.
Do you know where the fire alarms are in your home? Do you know where the gas shutoff valve is? Do you have an orange vest? Extra dog food? What about Braille labels?
The dozen adults at the Earle Baum Center in Santa Rosa were given emergency backpacks, and they sifted through them, gingerly touching the contents: AM/FM radios, foil blankets, water purifiers, freeze-dried food.
The students were planning
Jeff Harrington’s guide dog, Lucas, sits underneath a table during a fire safety training session for the blind community at Santa Rosa’s Earle Baum Center.
for a worst-case scenario, in a class this spring funded by a $40,500 donation from the Redwood Credit Union, based in Santa Rosa. Many had barely managed to flee October’s Wine Country fires. If a friend or family member hadn’t been home that October night — well, they don’t like to think about it.
“A lot of our clients really thought they might die,” said Kati Aho, the Earle Baum Center’s executive director. “We are all super aware. In a way, we are capitalizing on how horrific the fires were. There is a reason to be prepared.”
Jefferson, a vision rehabilitation instructor, is teaching some of the most vulnerable people in Sonoma County, the center of last year’s firestorm. The Tubbs Fire was the most destructive blaze in state history, destroying nearly 7,000 structures. It killed 24 people — the flames trapping many elderly and disabled people in their homes.
Such a disaster could strike again. If it does, Jefferson wants her students to know what to do.
More than 3 percent of Californians are blind or visually impaired, and there aren’t many resources for them. But, so far, the center has given out 50 emergency kits to clients in Sonoma, Napa, Mendocino and Lake counties. The community has been engaged.
“An extra cane could be a good idea,” said Maycie Vorreiter, 20, of Santa Rosa, in the classroom. “What if you’re trying to get out and someone steps on it and breaks it?”
“A pencil-tip one, that could be good to add to the pack,” Jefferson said. “You know, canes are like shoes. You gotta have one for the trails, one for dressing up, and one for sidewalks. Now you need a disaster one.”
“This is like Christmas,” said Bob Cuneo, 71, of Santa Rosa. He held a pack of playing cards in his hand, feeling their edges. They weren’t labeled in Braille.
“Hey, that can be your homework,” Jefferson said. “Get home and label them all in Braille.”
It’s the kind of thing many people don’t often think about. How do you play cards if you can’t read them? How do you evacuate from a wildfire when you can’t see or drive a car?
Though Cuneo lives in Santa Rosa, the area hardest hit by the Tubbs Fire, he didn’t have to evacuate. It still shook his confidence, the sense that he was safe in the suburbs.
“It made me much more aware of it,” he said. “I was going, ‘What the hell would I do?’ I’m partially dependent on others. Here in America, most of us think it won’t happen. Lo and behold, it does. Now I am learning.”
For others, the evacuation was hellish. Denise Vancil, a Braille and independent living skills instructor, was home with her husband, Ben, and their two children. Both parents are legally blind.
There was a racket outside. It sounded like a party, which made sense, because a neighbor was moving that day. Then came the bangs: pop-pop-pop. The power went off and on. Vancil didn’t know what was happening.
The news came in pieces: a text from Vancil’s mother, a news report on TV, the neighbors packing up. She told her children — Sophia, 9, and Devin, 12 — to pack their backpacks. They grabbed some clothes and the family’s electronic Braille reader, a sort of Kindle for the blind.
But neither Vancil nor her husband could drive. They couldn’t call an Uber or Lyft in the middle of a wildfire. The neighbors didn’t have space in their car for four more people plus a guide dog and belongings. They felt stuck.
“That was the scary part, not knowing how we were going to leave,” Vancil said. “I was panicking, but you don’t want your children to know that. It was surreal.”
Eventually, a family member came to pick them up. They escaped, but it felt too close. Now Vancil keeps an evacuation backpack by her front door. Her family has a plan. When disaster arrives again, they will have a ride.
Jeff Harrington, the director of accessibility technology for the Earle Baum Center, recalled a similar crisis. The smell of smoke came first, he said, like a huge bonfire. He can’t see, so noises guided him. He grabbed kibble for his guide dog, Lucas. His wife packed the car. His daughter Megan, 12, helped corral the cat.
“My wife was the eyes of the operation,” said Harrington. “The sounds of the sirens and explosions, the heavy smoke, those changes scared me. You have to be able to make relationships with your neighbors, family and friends. They can help you when you can’t help yourself.”
His house survived. So did Vancil’s. They were lucky, with family to care for them and places to go.
Neither has seen the destruction wrought by October’s fires. They never will, and that makes the trauma more difficult to process. They can feel that the landscape around them has changed, but they can’t witness it.
Disasters are overwhelming for everyone. For the disabled, they are that and more.
But the new training, and the backpacks, give comfort. If a wildfire sparks or an earthquake hits, the center’s clients will have an extra cane and food for 72 hours. They’ll gain some control.
“This is so hard for people,” said Aho, the center director. “Sight loss is something that people hide really well. People are afraid. There’s a sense of shame around being blind. Now, they have resources and know how to escape if they need to. It gives them something to hold on to.”
In the classroom, Jefferson finished her lesson. The clients roused their guide dogs and slipped on the backpacks. Their canes clacked against the floor as they walked out and into a world that was a little less unsure.