Living with fire

September 10, 2020

I fell asleep last night surrounded by hazardous air. This morning, I can’t see the city I sometimes wish to forget. Still, I’m home.

Two of my coworkers are not so lucky.

Fire swallowed their homes in Phoenix and Talent on Tuesday. Others I know are living out of suitcases after evacuating from their apartments as the Almeda Drive Fire approached.

A couple of our suitcases are now packed with keepsakes, valuables, and four-days-worth of clothing. We’re 24 miles away from the closet of three fires burning in Jackson and Josephine counties, though conditions around us are ripe for an inferno.

A few weeks ago, a neighbor three doors down from us tossed a cigarette butt off the porch and started a small fire. A local plumber rolling by stopped and helped extinguish the flames.

I’ve seen the crowd that lives there, and none of them strikes me as having wasted much time or money on education.

Disaster is just a lapse away, and we’re ready to leave if necessary.

I’d not thought about COVID-19 until last night when an old friend of mine freelancing for AP came down to cover the fires. She dropped in with the reporter, and both were wearing masks. I then remembered we are in a pandemic.

The immediate disaster had taken my mind off of the lingering disaster for a couple of days. Now, listening to Coltrane’s solos on Blue in Green, and Flamenco Sketches, I’ve found a salve that works to remove both.