The house across the valley

As I was making dinner last night, a fire chief drove into the driveway with his lights flashing. I ran out to ask if I could help, and he shouted, "How do I get there?", pointing behind me. I turned and could not believe my eyes. The one house we can see from our property was on fire. With all the little country roads winding in and out, I could only give some suggestions and then watch him zoom off to try to help. Within forty-five minutes, the house was destroyed. The firefighters focused on keeping the damage contained to one house; thanks to next-to-no breeze, this goal was achieved.

We had two different mindsets going simultaneously. The first was horror and deep sympathy for the people who had lost everything. It seemed obvious that they were not home. There was no sign of people around; they must not have called in the fire or those fighting it would have had directions to the blaze. Imagine coming home after work to find nothing but what used to be your home?

At the same time, we were watching every minute to see if the fire would travel across the valley to anyone else. We knew where all the children were, and we had my mom join us, too. The dog was put in her crate, and we hoped to be able to grab the cats if we needed to. Everything else was a question mark as we watched. What's important at that point? Those you love and the people who live around you.

I drove off last night and saw the huge cloud of smoke from a much larger brush fire that was burning dozens of acres to the southwest. When you live where the temperatures are hot and the grass is brown, fire is what you dread. As one who endures summer as cheerfully as she possibly can, I welcome any sign of autumn that cares to show up about right now. Anything cool, and particularly moist, would help the fire danger lessen and allow certain people to sleep the night through without smelling smoke and leaping out of bed. I look forward to it.