In the early mornings these days, the light is heavy and gold—really quite beautiful—but it's a sign that the sun is fighting its way through a thick screen of particulates. By the time the sun is fully risen, the sky is a whitish pink wash. Occasionally, patches of clear blue peek through, but as the days and fires progress, that becomes a rarer sight.
This is the time of year in Southern California when I'm glad to be a Flatlander, as those in the hills like to refer to those of us who live inside the basin rather than on its rim or in the canyons further out from the area's cities. I'm not glad in a smug way. In fact, I feel a kind of mild variation on survivor's guilt—normalcy guilt. While everyone in the hill country all the way from Santa Clarita to San Diego is disrupted, some losing everything they have, my life goes on in a fairly routine manner. My experience of the fire is scraping the ash off my car's windshield in the morning so I can see to drive; stinging eyes and scratchy throat; and relatively light traffic—because those normally on the roads are watching out for their houses, or can't get through the fire areas to the basin.
I don't wish to be disrupted or lose everything myself, but my heart goes out to those who are experiencing these things. I appreciate how lucky I am, but I don't take anything for granted. In the early sixties, the entire LA basin almost burned. Fire ravaged through Brentwood, which is on the downward slope of the Santa Monica Mountains and close to the heart of West Los Angeles, adjacent to UCLA. If not for an incredibly courageous and tenacious stand by firefighters, that conflagration would have spread to West LA and across the basin—and nothing short of a miracle could have stopped it. But heroics, and a last minute weather miracle, did save that day. I'm not so foolish to think we might not be so lucky next time.
Firemen are the real deal. That's not a red state issue or a blue state issue, that's the truth. I'm not sure I'd want to have a discussion with someone who didn't recognize how gutsy they are.
Because fire is a fact of life in Southern California. Our environment evolved to take advantage of fire in the way it germinates its vegetation and the conditions are always favorable for flame in the fall. This year is just much worse than usual. I can't remember a time when I didn't get the occasional glimpse of flame peeking over the Santa Monica Mountains, when the smoke didn't choke the air in autumn. Not every autumn is like that, but enough so that it's a permanent part of the psyche of anyone who grew up here.
That and the normalcy guilt.
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