CalTech Girl: Since you aren’t responding via GoogleChat, is the fire in the hills anywhere near your place? Check in!
Attila Girl: Just got in, poured myself a screwdriver, and admitted to myself what that smell is in the air. I can’t see a thing, so I don’t think it’s close, but I was about to Google it.
No orange glow–not at the terminus of the Santa Monicas, or the the Verdugos, or the San Rafael hills, I didn’t see at thing on my way home from work–granted, I wasn’t LOOKING for it, but even the smell ain’t that strong.
I do not think it’s close in the least, but I’d better go check. Better safe than sorry.
Caltech Girl: Hang on . . . yeah, turns out it was actually down in Glendale, over by Burbank . . .
Attila Girl: That’s the one. Not too close to me, but I am surprised that I didn’t see anything on the way home; they must have gotten it contained in a hurry. Flames on that hillside along the 5 would have gotten my attention. With 4-5 fire departments on a little brush fire, they probably
overpowered the thing.
* * *
Did I ever tell you people about the time my husband was in Southeast Asia, and there was a fire like, one hill over from the house? It was just a tiny thing, but the smoke awakened me, because, let’s face it: I’m cheap, and unless it’s just sweltering, I always sleep with the windows open. I may also sleep more lightly when the hub isn’t there, because snoring just isn’t as much fun when you aren’t keeping someone else awake. Thrill = gone.
So I thought about it, and I figured with AtH in Cambodia I had to be the over-cautious person in the house. I sighed, and I pulled on an overshirt and some shorts, grabbed a flashlight, and walked around the hill. One of the sheriff’s cars was parked crosswise, blocking the road as the firefighters doused embers down the incline a bit.
And I asked what was going on. The deputy informed my chest that there had been a bit of a blaze in the scrub, but it was contained; they were only keeping people away from that stretch of road as a precaution. I buttoned another button on my shirt against an imaginary breeze, and for once wished I didn’t tend to sleep in tank tops during the hottest months. The deputy assured me that if the winds changed and some spare embers were ignited, he’d let my neighbors and me know. Or rather, he’s let my neighbors and my breasts know (they appeared to be whom he was talking to—but it’s cool, because they tell me everything).
In the morning I woke up and wondered for a moment if I’d dreamed the whole episode, but the air was dirty and gray, and my hair smelled like smoke.
I sent Jerry Lee a note, but he didn’t believe me. He never believes me. Or, rather, he pretends not to. That was before I had a blog, so whenever something happened I had to send a long email to him, or to David Linden, or to someone like that. It was positively primitive, but as with all my suffering, it brings me closer to my pioneer forebears, who were sometimes forced to send individual email to people regarding events that they would have preferred to live-blog. (That is not even getting into the issue of WiFi access in those covered wagons, or the paucity of hotspots along the Oregon Trail. Or the fact that they sometimes ran out of orange juice, and had to drink their vodka straight.)
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There have been times when I believed you but I can’t think of any right now.