Finding My Way to the Fire

The universe has a strange way of providing for us. I had been unemployed for less than 24 hours when I received an unsolicited call from a former employer.
“Hello?”
“Fire in California- they desperately need a good equipment dispatcher. Are you available to go?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
I used to work Fire and Aviation for the US Forest Service. I’d given it up last year. Now here they are offering me a lot of money for some temporary work. Even though I had a lot of good plans coming up over the next few weeks, it was too good a deal to turn down. So here I am, hurdling through southern CA on my way to a dispatch center for the Angles National Forest.
The smoke in the air makes it look like we are driving into a massive thunderstorm. The kind the rolls in out west, filling the sky with volumous* dark clouds that seem to scrape the tops of the hills. In a way this is correct. When fires get big enough they begin creating their own weather. Alternatively, from other angles it looks like it is sunset- an eerie effect given that it is 2 o’clock in the afternoon. As we take a turn in the freeway I can see the actual fire in the hazy distance along the ridgetops, and even from that far away the flames are running high enough to be seen by the naked eye. When we finally get to a point where I can see the sun it is glowing Mars red. I think to myself
This must be what Pompeii looked like.


* I know volumous is not technically a proper word, but I think it should be. I stand by the assertion that it means something different than “voluminous” which suggests an ethereal or fluffy quality. Volumous carries the suggestion of expansive with weight. There is substance there.

Horror Story

A few nights ago I was startled to my feet by cries of alarm which emanated from the other end of the house. Concerned, I made my way through the living room to find that the girls were shrieking at the presence of a bug in the bathroom. Bravely I ventured forth to investigate expecting to find a spider or a dreaded roach, which even I find unpleasant. A moment later I emerged;
“It’s a cricket.”
“That’s worse!”
“Why is it worse?”
“Because they jump!” After a brief instant of astonishment at the pandemonium caused by a harmless, and no doubt terrified, little cricket I move toward the kitchen to fetch a glass and a postcard.
“Hold on, I’ll take care of it.”
A few moments later I am sliding that postcard under the glass containing the scrambling creature. The girls scurry to the door in order to hold it open as I exit with my capture, only to scramble indoors before I release the beast, least it should leap upon them for revenge! I realize this is how I must look to the guys when I react with alarm at the sight of a roach and smile to myself. “Off you go” I whisper to my rescued insect.
Last night I passed a bush with the singing cricket within and I wondered if it might be the same cricket I saved. Wouldn’t that be something?

A Tale of Friendship and Sushi

After running with my pooch Lana, I realized that I was starving. I decided the time had come to get on my bike and go downtown for a long overdue visit to a friend of mine who works as a chef at a Japanese restaurant downtown called Sushi King. Truth be told, we met because I would go there for lunch once a week when I worked for the Forest Service and finally he suggested in his thick Thai accent that perhaps we should know each other’s names. He finds my name impossible to pronounce and calls me “B.” Assuming that I would find his name equally impossible to pronounce he told me to call him “O” - and so it stands. This was all the more amusing two years ago when I went to Thailand and he gave me his sister’s phone number. Her name? Ah.

After parking my bike on the sidewalk (I LOVE that about owning a motorcycle!) I walked in and sang out “Sawadee-ca!” imitating the inflections of the women I heard at the street markets in Surat Thani before giving O a hug over the rice cooker and sliding into my seat at the bar. He told me that I looked “better” and I wondered what I had looked like last time he saw me, or if he had simply misspoken when meaning to tell me that I looked good.O always does his best to hook me up with extra treats on the side, which is one of the perks of having to visit him at the restaurant. Like most immigrants, he works an impossible amount of hours and our attempts to socialize outside of the restaurant have met with failure. That night he concocted a delicious spicy citrus salad with chunks of raw fish hidden amongst the leafy greens for me. It was entirely delectable and upon seeing how much I enjoyed it, he promised to make it for me every time I come in from then on out. He and I chatted about his nieces and nephews and his upcoming travel to Thailand. He asked what I wanted him to bring back for me and laughed as I described how I helped build my own house, exclaiming “most girls don’t do that!”

As the restaurant grew quiet he slipped into the back, promising to be back in a few minutes. When he reemerged, holding two dishes of red bean and ice cream, something happened that had never happened before- he came around the bar and sat down next to me so we could eat together. As I sat there letting the smooth, cold sweetness slide down my throat I marveled at the strange privilege of sitting side by side with my friend. It was a reminder of how many simple things we can take for granted.