San Diego on Fire, Day 2

Here’s what the news stations media are calling it: “Firestorm 2003″. Dramatic to the end, but even Fox News is having a hard time overdramatizing what is happening here. You’ll hear the numbers on the news eventually: at least 11 dead, two dozen more deaths being “investigated”; at last count [although nobody's had time to actually count], 450 homes destroyed. That’s in one 24-hour period, and the fires are still marching west toward the most populated areas of the county. Firefighters are overwhelmed, and have been told not to expect any help because of the San Bernardino fires to the north of us. Many of our crews were helping out up there when a hunter got lost near Ramona and set a signal fire Saturday night. [Yes, the idiot is under arrest.]

For some reason, we are not in the path of any of the flames. They are on both sides of us, north and south, burning toward the sea. We feel safe here but my niece and her father had to leave their home in the hills east of El Cajon last night. They went to stay with his recently ex-wife–good thing they’re still on speaking terms. Mesha will be coming to stay with us tonight, until school starts again. Just about all of the schools in the county are closed.

A family friend a few blocks away suddenly has a horse in her small city backyard. Her daughters were evacuated from their east county homes and had no other place to put it.

Nobody knows if their houses will be there when they get back.

Robby took the opportunity to spend another night at a friend’s house. I made him take his allergy meds and inhalers, but I didn’t have to ask him to wear one of my surgical masks. Usually, he refuses even when his allergies are driving him crazy with sneezing and coughing. This time he actually asked for a mask, not because he thought he needed one but because it suddenly seemed cool. He’s enjoying the excitement, and the day off. Whatever works.

The air is thick with choking, nauseating smoke. Ashes are falling lazily, like snowflakes. I am reminded of the descriptions of the aftermath of 9/11 in New York City. For the first time, I don’t feel like a freak wearing a mask in public. And the thought is there as I watch home after home go up in smoke while I sit comfortably in my living room: what can I do–what should I do–to help?

Then, a plea goes out. I call to find out if buses are running normally–they are, though they may run a bit late–and I get ready to leave.

It’s not much, but it’s something.