Fired Up

Before moving to California, I was warned about the earthquakes. I was warned about the traffic. I was even warned about the illegal Mexicans. (No, really… some people are racist.) But no one stopped to warn me that every year half of California burns to the ground.

Even though fires are an annual tradition, I forgot it was the season. I wouldn’t say I was lulled into a sense of security, more so I was distracted by California’s other devastation: crippling debt and unemployment.

Originally hailing from New England, when I think of mountain views, I imagine picturesque colorful rock formations topped with green trees or snow. From my window in California now, however, I see the mountains ablaze. The glowing orange is sort of beautiful, though the resulting thin layer of soot on all of the cars isn’t very attractive. On top of that, the air reeks. I tell myself it’s just the scent of a campfire because then it seems pleasant rather than threatening. I also try to pretend the copious smoke is just concentrated clouds, even though the sky is empty aside from the air surrounding the mountains.

These factors aside, I’m not too worried about my own safety yet. The good thing about having so many freeways around is that I’m practically enclosed by them. The fires would have to jump the freeway before reaching my home.

Several years ago, the fires were so close to me that homes were evacuated just up to a few blocks from my dorm. We were encouraged to leave the area if we had somewhere else to go, advice that about half the students heeded. The rest of us lived like we were in some apocalyptic state. It was dark outside 24/7 and we wore bandanas around our noses and mouths even indoors to help filter the air. A few kids even had legitimate gasmasks. Nevertheless, my nose was literally running with ash. Also, each time I coughed, black specks would come out of my mouth. I considered taking up smoking just to breath healthier air.

As if the air quality weren’t already bad enough, last weekend my house was fumigated. When I finally permitted to return, I was told that my eyes might sting and water for a while upon re-entry and that that was “normal.” That doesn’t sound normal to me, but I was glad to at least have the warning, since I did periodically cry for no reason. Otherwise, I might have thought I was just having an emotional response to the insects that lost their lives.

During the fumigation, I stayed at Allison, Melinda, and Stacy’s house. I don’t want to overstate the extent of our friendships, but I really prefer their company and hospitality to that of toxic chemicals. Still, I really wanted to see my house while it was tented. Since fumigation tents look like big, fun circus tents to me, I’m always tempted to run inside and play. I realize in reality I probably won’t find too many clowns and acrobats in there, but it’s alluring nevertheless.



On the drive over to my tented house, I saw smoke billowing overhead. My first thought was, oh no, the fumigation has gone wrong and the chemicals are escaping into the atmosphere. Fortunately, we found the house to not only be tented sufficiently, but beautifully. Doesn’t it look amusing? Does anyone else want to jump around inside that in spite of your better judgment, or have the pesticides just gone to my head?

As for the smoke, we quickly spotted its source: a brush fire just down the street from me. I thought I had a sufficient buffer between my home and fire, but I did not take into account the fact that my own street was susceptible to fires of its own. California is so flammable, I’m surprised they don’t outlaw matches altogether.



It was scary. Jessica called 911 to report the fire and she was put on hold for seven whole minutes before they took her call. Way to go, Los Angeles police. Next time I’m being stabbed, I’ll know to just roll over and die rather than calling for help. Fortunately, the fire department did arrive before any houses were burned.

Why do I live here, anyway? I’m not saying it’s hell, but it’s sure looking like it more and more each day. Maybe I should have just gone out with a bang in my “circus tent” rather than waiting for the fires to get me.