Waiting for Rain

Gramma, 

I am waiting for the rain.  It's been ten days of beautiful, sunny weather and the yard is under control, except for the weeds.  The earth is so dry that they break off instead of pull out.  It has been hot, dry and windy so far this season.  I worry about fires and stupid people who burn in their fire pits during the burning ban.  They don't realize that the wind can gust and carry hot ashes to dry fields and forests.  This happened in the nearby Carlos Avery Wildlife Sanctuary. 

Some moron didn't put his fire all the way out and it started a massive burn that ate up 6,500 acres of wildlife habitat and houses.  He has since moved out of state to get away from death threats and lawsuits.  For days, airplanes hauling water flew so low, I thought they would hit our roof.

Dave and I had been out riding our bikes all day.  On the way home, we stopped in town to get gas.  I could see heavy black smoke coming from the direction of our house four miles away.  I skipped the gas and beat ass home to find Dante's Inferno raging at the end of our dead end road, brilliant orange and red flames piercing the sky.  The road was clogged with emergency vehicles, which despite protests, I maneuvered around to get home. 

People were heading out with boat trailers, animal haulers and other vehicles carrying their possessions.  Some had let their horses and livestock loose, hoping they could beat the flames and catch up with them later.  Friends of ours pulled up with a bike trailer and hauled our bikes out.  Dave threw some of his things in the back of my mini-van.  Guns first and some clothes on top.  I didn't know where to start. 

There were turkeys, tons of them hurrying out of our woods, looking for a safe haven.  It was then that I decided not to leave.  So much had been lost to me through divorce that I said no.  I was going down with my ship of beer.  This wasn't just a ninety-year-old house to me.  It represented my freedom.  I had put all my anger and hostility into making a thing of beauty come alive again. 

Since then, I have become more careful about my own fire making.  I spray the air above the fire to keep live ashes from floating away.  My tractor bucket is ready to push a pile of dirt over the ashes after dousing the flames.  But last fall, I was burning leaves and branches on my little island in the pond when the fire crawled up a hole in a large, dead pine. 

I called Dave on my cell phone, telling him to bring the fire extinguisher and hurry up about it.  Even after I emptied it, a tail of smoke continued to come out of the tree hole.  I put it out with beer.  After shaking a can, I opened it into the hole.  The spray went up the inside of the tree.  It is always good to have beer nearby when burning.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.