Fires

For the past 24 hours, airplanes and helicopters have been buzzing over our house. Ash is covering our cars, rooves and plants. Smoke fills the air, fills our lungs. My friend and her family have had to evacuate their mountain home. We live in the foothills of a national forest. In Southern California, with our heat and low humidity often coupled with Santa Ana winds, this means that we are often on fire alert. Sure enough, yesterday, with temperatures reaching the triple digits, a fire broke out in our beloved mountains. As of right now, no homes are threatened (even my friend's) and the fire is relatively small. But a gust of wind can change everything in a second. In 1990, our next-door neighbors' lives changed in a second when an ember from a fire blocks away landed on their wood roof, catching their house on fire. Fortunately my mom and another neighbor saw what was happening in time to call the fire department (who saved much of the home) and to save the family's pet schnauzer. I came home to fire trucks and news vans. It changed my view of tragedy forever.

Growing up in this town, fires were very much a part of our reality. (It turns out that all of the above fire hazards were made far worse as the fire chief of a nearby town was also an arsonist.) Fires happened often. When the Santa Ana winds picked up, the town breathed in deep, holding our collective breath until the winds and heat died down. And yet, for some reason, I still love the wind. I love the feel of it against my face, how my hair whips around and the sound of the trees rustling. This seems so irrational to me, given where and when I grew up, until my friend Cindy explained it to me not so long ago.

When I was about eight, we had a particularly bad fire. It burned for days. Schools were cancelled. The power was off. Ashes covered the outsides and insides of our houses. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and hearing the soft voices of my parents talking. I got up, and can still feel and see the gray air in the house, the ashes falling even inside. I walked into the hallway and all our family pictures were down. My parents were pulling out important documents from their filing cabinet. Our car was packed, ready to evacuate. I had never been so scared in all my life. I remember asking my mom if we had to evacuate, would we go to the Denson's house? (They lived across the street.) I really didn't understand the scope of the problem. In fact, at that point, every street north of ours had already been evacuated, and the plan was to make a firestop at Foothill Boulevard, several blocks south of ours. Half the town would be lost. And then, for some unknown reason, the winds changed. Not only did we not have to be evacuated, but most of the town was spared. Less than thirty homes were lost to that fire. As devastating as it was to those families, it was far less horrible than we all thought it would be.

I don't remember if it was that night or the next or even the one prior. But one of those nights, with the power off, my dad somehow plugged our portable television into our car. We adjusted the rabbit ears and the whole neighborhood gathered around to watch our little town, engulfed in flames, on the national news. Somehow there was safety in this gathering. There was community. There was the knowledge that we would all get through this together. Amidst our fear, we were able to talk and laugh and tell stories. It was comforting. My friend Cindy suspects that I love the wind because I so much love the sense of community. It's true that communities really do come together in times of need. Our little street certainly did again and again as fires affected us all. But I'm glad that I live in a community where we come together in times of joy as well. Our street hasn't had a block party since we moved in. Perhaps it's time we do. These fires remind us how precious it all is. Let's celebrate.

In the meantime, I will keep my bags packed, ready to load my little family into the car and head out to safety just in case. I will watch the news, listen to the airplanes and pray for the firefighters. And I'll hold my breath that the wind will stay away.