As the hills of Orange County are burning away, I am happily clear and blue-skied up along the San Gabriel Mountains. It's fire season in California once again.
Though sometimes I would feel no remorse about Orange County burning to the ground, I do feel a certain solidarity with the Orangeos in this case. I think as southern Californians, we all understand the power of fire and how it could burn this mother down in two breezy days. Two years ago, the hills in Azusa (a few freeway exits east) were burning and the buzz on the streets of Monrovia was all about evacuation. Would we have to flee to the overpriced hotels of Pasadena? Luckily, Monrovians were spared the torture of leaving behind their beloved Coldstone and Krikorian Theater. All we got was a blanket of smoke that hung over the town for at least a week. The smoke turned the sky a color I can only describe as "apocolyptic gray." The shape was sort of reminiscent of the cloud-finger of God parting the Red Sea in The Ten Commandments.
The most amazing part was the cinders free-floating around us at all times. We found cinders in our bed sheets and caked on the window panes. The Blaxima (my black Maxima)'s hood had a white-flaked coating, as did the geraniums in our garden. A walk to get the mail required a face wash or a clothing change.
It's the closest we get to snow in California, these cinders clinging to your nose. Next thing you know, there will be "cinder fights" and "cinder-men."
No comments:
Post a Comment