I’ve Seen Fire, I’ve Seen Rain

FIRST THE RAIN PART 

Having weeks before given birth to our son, our third child, a neighbor recommended an itinerant plumber to just check out everything in the basement of the beloved but older home we were living in. The guy came, I led him to the basement, going right back to care for my baby. He appeared soon after claiming all was in order, I paid him and he left.

That night we had a rain storm in Chicago like no other…sheets and sheets of rain. And we did not know that the cap on a pipe in the basement had NOT been tightened correctly by this worker guy, so that water was pouring into our basement, affecting our phone line.

It was why a neighbor rang the doorbell early the next morning, telling my husband John that he had received a call. John’s father, after a long illness, was dying, but no one was able to reach us. John dressed, hurried to drive to his father’s house, calling upstairs to me that we now had six feet of water in our basement.

SONGS AND SORROW 

At the time, there was a popular song, the singer had not been with his father when the man died. The song: THE LIVING YEARS. The artist: Mike and the Mechanics. As days passed and we heard that song, we would cry. Our son had been born; a father had died. In the living years.

Yes, these things happen. And I blame myself for being busy with my new son, not caring what some guy at the door had accomplished or not accomplished in our basement. Thus we lost: old books that had been in the family for many years; all my teaching materials from my first career; and the keepsake letters I had received: those my husband had written to me over the years, and the formal letters I’d received after I wrote to Queen Elizabeth II. Yes, I did this three times, always getting a proper answer written by a Lady in Waiting, Rose Barring. I looked her up. She was a real person.

NOW THE FIRE PART 

After my mother died in 2013, we moved to California. My younger brother had moved there after college. My mother’s brother had lived there with his family most of his adult life. And our middle child, our daughter lived in the beach communities with our grandchildren. This was the time to embrace California and all it had to offer. And we did love it, every moment of it…except the fires.

How many times did I pack up my big red car? Probably three times.

We lived in a courtyard community. The neighbors would come out and tease me.

“Why are you packing your car? There won’t be a problem. We are fine here.”

Until the night we were not.

The fires started west of us. We had actually driven friends to the airport that day. It was very windy when driving home. John had gone to bed early, but then the police drove into the community, shouting at all of us over their bull-horns. We had to get out. 

I’d already packed my computer, some files, clothing…I can’t list it all, but the back of my car was full, making it difficult to see on the back window. Police stood in the cul-de-sac waving us out.

But then John realized he had forgotten some medicines. We had to go back! Luckily, the police let us in, John grabbed what he needed, and I grabbed jewelry that had been my mother’s. Again we drove, this time to Playa del Rey to be with my brother and his where we sat watching TV, watching the areas around our home burn.

We didn’t sleep. John got calls from family, from friends. Then in the morning, we checked the news, convincing ourselves that we could drive back. Which we did, taking a very long way to get there.

And what did we see? Firetrucks from other states. Firemen and woman still using hoses on fires or digging trenches to stop others. They had been there from the beginning, with no breaks. They had saved our little community and the houses around it. We emptied our car, thankful to be back home.

Days later, a neighbor organized a small dinner to celebrate our safety, the conversation devolving down to the disparaging some minorities….not a good way to celebrate our safety. Ah life.

So yes. I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen firetrucks from other states parked in my neighborhood. I have loved the banners hung across our major streets…thanking the fireman. And probably two or three more times, I have watched the news with caution as a fire started….near the Ronald Regan Library….but what direction are the Santa Annas blowing? Will we be in danger again?

Probably. It’s California. There are fires, and what they truly need is more rain.

Because there is no way to stop the Santa Ana winds from sweeping down from the deserts and across coastal Southern California, pushing dust and smoke from wildfires far out over the Pacific Ocean. It is nature, it is what it is. If you live there, you adapt. And if you are like me, you pack your car. Take your computer. Be ready. 

And where am I now? Back in Chicago. Yes, many days I truly miss California. But I do not miss the fires. And thanks to James Taylor. 

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