On May 5th, I heard a loud blast as I was making a phone call from my home office. The power went out immediately, which triggered the generator to come on. My phone cut out for a few seconds, but came back on, whereupon I finished the call.
Even the explosion hadn’t rattled me, and I expected the power to be restored in a few hours as usual. But this time was different, in our otherwise-quiet forested neighborhood.
I just didn’t know how different at that moment.
I still don’t know why, but a few minutes later, I stepped out onto the front yard — and that’s when I smelled wood burning. It was a strong odor. A policeman stood in the street at my neighbor’s house, two doors away. White smoke billowed from the brush on the side of the road.
When I walked to the edge of my property to get a closer look, I spotted campfire-sized flames. It occurred to me that a transformer must have blown, creating a spark that ignited the brush.
My sense of calm dissipated as that campfire spread before my eyes. In moments, it had moved up the hill with frightening ease.
Holy shit! I thought. A policeman parked up the street from the fire, and another parked down the street, closing it to traffic. I imagined that they, or someone, must’ve called the fire department. Still, there was no fire truck as the flames spread.
Not wanting to risk that others assumed someone else had called in the emergency, I nervously fumbled for and found the number for the town fire department. It had an automated message. It said to dial 911 in case of emergency. Whatever! I did that, and a person answered to say they were aware and that a truck was on the way.
Minutes can pass like hours — especially as you watch flames expanding dangerously. I needed reassurance, so I walked down my driveway to the nearby policeman and asked him if the fire department was in fact on the way. He said yes.
By this time, I had visions of the fire spreading out of control. I went inside to get my wife, who’d fallen asleep in front of the TV and was blissfully unaware. She came outside to view the situation. Now the air was thick with smoke.
A few thoughts rushed through my head. Should I start my sprinklers? Not an easy task, since they were still shut down for the winter. Should I prepare to evacuate?
Neighbors gathered from up and down the street. I met some of them for the first time. Nothing like property-threatening disaster to unite virtual strangers.
I’d said to the policeman that this reminded me of California as we waited for the fire department. He was sympathetic, but calm and cool in the face of some very nervous neighbors.
Thankfully – finally! — the fire truck arrived. After watching for what seemed like torturous minutes as they unrolled the fire hoses, they arrested the advance of the fire. With disaster averted, we all breathed a sigh of relief; a smoky sigh of relief.
In any case, I’ve developed an understanding for the people who lost their homes in the Palisades fire in Los Angeles. It’s a tough thing, facing the possibility of losing one’s home to fire, or any other disaster.
The End
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