The Yellow Tag List

Back in 1989, my husband and I lived in San Francisco.   In mid-October of that year, we were entertaining out-of-town visitors at our favorite downtown Hunan joint.  Somewhere between the very spicy Henry’s special and the even spicier Marty’s special we found ourselves counting our blessings, describing our good fortune.  Only months earlier, we explained to our guests, we witnessed the long-awaited conclusion of Tom’s surgical residency, scraped together enough pocket change to purchase our adorable Victorian house from our landlord, and gave birth to our first child. Frequently in those days, as we crossed either the Bay Bridge or the Golden Gate back toward San Francisco, we would quite literally pinch ourselves.  It did not seem that life could get any better.

The next day, Atlas shrugged.  The San Francisco Giants were preparing to throw out the first pitch against the Oakland As to start the World Series.  I left work early to take the long way around up I-280 in order to bypass the game day traffic.   As I exited the freeway, approaching the first stop sign in my neighborhood, the Earth began to move.  It felt as if I suddenly had four flat tires; my car swished and swerved from lane to lane out of control.

Mustering what little poise I had left, I drove the remaining few blocks to our home to find things mostly OK.  Once inside there was no dial tone, so I could not reach either the babysitter or my husband.  With trepidation and urgency, I jumped back in the car and made a beeline up Twin Peaks toward the babysitter's house--a student apartment adjacent to the hospital where Tom worked.  Planted squaredly in the center of San Francisco, Twin Peaks is so-named for the two articulated humps at its crest.  On top, a one-way road circled around each hump forming an "8", meeting oncoming traffic only at a stop sign in the middle between the two humps.   As I paused at this center point, Tom's  car shot up the road from the other direction and stopped at the opposing stop sign.   I could see our little five-month old son wide-eyed and oblivious in his carseat in the back.  A miracle if ever there was one!

The enormity of the situation was slow to unfold.  Most radio stations went off the air, delaying local dissemination of news.  The sun was beginning to set; below us, lights began to twinkle awake oblivious to the worst turmoil in the city's modern history.  From our vantage point we coult see the fires in the Marina district raging.  The fallen section of the Bay Bridge wasn’t visible, but the back up of traffic into the East Bay clearly was.
Although our little family was together within minutes, it was months before we felt safe again.  In light of our gloating the night before, we felt as if the gods were sending us a message.  Tom resolved never again to rejoice over our accomplishments.  But that night in the dark with a flashlight, we discovered that our son had cut his first tooth.  Life goes on.

It was days until the experts assessed the magnitude of the earthquake, and still longer until it was named 'Loma Prieta'.  In the weeks that passed, many homes were lost. Red and yellow tags went up unceremoniously throughout the city.  Houses displaying red tags were scheduled for immediate destruction.  A yellow tag meant that the structure was just stable enough; owners would be allowed ten minutes inside to claim valuables before it was inevitably leveled.  For months afterward,  friends, co-workers, and acquaintances would give each other the Yellow Tag Quiz.  What if you had just ten minutes to retrieve your most valued possessions from your home?  What would those be?
 
The earthquake was a defining moment in our lives from which we learned many things about humility, family, and perseverance.   It also taught us that sometimes the things that seem important in the moment are not really critical in the long run.  People survived without their stuff.   Everyone found an alternate route to work without the Bay Bridge.  The World Series resumed at a later date and Oakland prevailed.   And I declined to replace the 1930s-vintage, three-tiered Bauer storage containers that crashed from my shelf in the tremor.  The lesson of the yellow tag is one that continues to resonate with us to the present day.  It’s a worthy exercise, as your answers might surprise you.

Here’s my  Yellow Tag List, updated for 2012:

1)      My daughter's first book, "An Aphid's Life," written and illustrated in second grade

2)      A photo of my young children lying naked and butts up in their grandma’s giant bathtub

3)      My son’s varsity hockey jacket

4)      Two original superhero drawings by my gifted brother-in-law

5)      My Baroque award from the Van Cliburn Amateur competition

6)      A fantasy pastel portrait of my son and my grandfather studying Torah together

7)      My grandmother’s box of recipes, written in her own hand

8)      My wedding album

9)      My daughter's beautiful paintings and sketches

10)   A framed collage of photos of my husband’s beloved father.

Notice that this list contains no jewelry, no cashmere sweaters, nor that pair of Jimmy Choo sandals I sprung for.    In the end we don't save the expensive things; we savor the priceless moments.