Running From the Fire

I love the smell of a forest fire. It always reminds me of being a kid growing up in Malibu. Every year the Santa Ana winds would come and bring with them the threat of fires, especially during an Indian summer. It was almost like clockwork. Just about every October we could count on fire warnings. Then, with the smell of the world around us on fire, the dry, hazy air would burn my eyes and sting my throat. The swirling ash, like something right out of a Tim Burton movie, taunted and irritated my lungs. Neighbors sat watching the news intently, waiting for the mandate to evacuate their homes. 


When I was really young, it wasn't all that scary. It was exciting. I didn't understand the gravity of what it all meant. My father would climb to the roof of our three story house with the hose to saturate the wood. Unlike at Christmastime when he would allow us to trudge atop the roof with him to "help" hang lights, burning blazes caused my father to be intensely serious and focused on his mission, moving in fast forward all the while. We knew not to ask if we could climb the ladder to help. He would turn on the lawn sprinklers in a last ditch effort to dowse the property, hoping it might aid the firefighters and save the land from the angry encroaching flames. 


Even in the midst of all of this panic, I still loved it. I was elated. The frantic chaos of my parents bustling around in a frenzy to batten down the hatches, the red horizon in the not-so-far-away distance, the choking smoke scratching at my throat, to me, was an adventure. It meant we were packing the car and leaving...going somewhere exciting--away from the howling winds and the oven-like heat. Without a plan. That was the best part. We never knew where we were running to....just running away.  


I can remember one year in particular when it looked as though the flames were going to devour all of the parched land in a ravenous feast on their way to the Pacific. The fire was so far and wide, it appeared nothing in its path would be spared from a fiery death. Firefighters waged an endless and exhausting battle that seemed futile. 


Calling in men and women from several other counties, the LA Fire Department knew it was licked. This was no longer a battle against some rogue embers out of control, but more like a war straight from the depths of hell. Trees for miles and miles were charred to brittle twigs, and mountains as far as the eye could see were painted with charcoal. Torched houses fell like decks of cards in the wind. The snap and crack as they disintegrated was deafening to my young ears, a sound I will never forget. We were sent scurrying like rats to escape the blaze before we were trapped. My family went north that year, uncertain of what we would return to, if anything at all.  


Of course, as I got older, I came to understand the seriousness of raging fires. With maturity, evacuation no longer meant piling in the car with my siblings for an impromptu road trip and jumping on the beds of a hotel during our respite from a county in turmoil. I eventually came to appreciate what was really at stake in the midst of the confusion and hustle. For a brief interlude, I distinctly remember thinking I would feel disappointed and empty if my house were to burn to the ground and all of my belongings disappeared into ash. 


Beyond the material items, however, even when I was still relatively young, I thought about how very precious life is. From the smallest pine tree struggling to find its footing on the mountainside, to the creatures trying to escape the relentless flames with endless endurance chasing them, I knew how very much I wanted to have security and feel rooted myself. My house was just that. Security. It sheltered me from rainy days and bitter cold on winter nights. But it also provided a sanctuary to return to since it was home. My room was full of all of the things that made it mine: art projects, posters, souvenirs, letters, cards, clothes, and various books. Of course, I would have been sad to lose those items, but I know I would have been devastated to feel as though I had nowhere to return to if my home had vanished. I was fortunate enough to never know that grief. Until now.  


Living in Florida these last four and a half years has been a journey.  All of this time, I feel like I have been living in limbo, watching for flames and waiting for the evacuation drill. I still feel as though I am trying to find sanctuary, trying to get home. In my dreams, I sometimes see my childhood home that my mom still lives in to this very day. It's not the house so much that I desire, though. While lovely in architecture and location, I don't long for that building. Most often, I really just want a place that feels familiar. I miss the feeling of home. I miss the life I had planned on. 


I love the smell of a forest fire.