20, 1991, the flames fanned by the 89-degree temperature and Diablo winds of 35 miles an hour. Gary and I had been eating brunch at Zuni Café in San Francisco with both sets of our parents when the Oakland-Berkeley hills fire exploded around 11 a.m.
There was no longer just two to think about. “Remember we have a child to think of.”Įven as the words left my mouth, I thought of how strange it was to say that. “Don’t die,” I said as I squeezed his arm hard. The thought of leaving our cat Mookie Wilson Wayne to die on his own was too painful to consider. After we parked on Ashby, Gary told me he was going to try and reach our home on Alvarado Road, more than 2 miles away, on foot if necessary. We had raced back from San Francisco as soon as we had seen the huge plume of smoke billowing above the East Bay hills, desperate to reach our house and our cat. I had just discovered two days earlier that I was pregnant with my first child, and I was so overcome with nausea that I couldn’t stay standing. Credit: Frances DinkelspelĪs smoke swirled above me and blotted out the October sun and sirens filled the air, I lay flat on my back on Ashby Avenue near College, my hands pressing down on my lower stomach. Frances Dinkelspiel and Gary Wayne standing in front of their home, October 1991.
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