Now we go around our neighborhood and point out "this house/ structure/ tree was scorched during fire #1 and this one from fire #2. But then we can't be sure because there is so much of it. Not a pretty picture. Miraculously again, if you look out our front windows, there is still nothing but greenery, a few rooftops and the ocean about 3 miles out. But soon as we walk out the driveway up the road or now down the road, there are burned out carcasses of the beautiful yucca plants, the summac, the aloe verde, and all manner of cacti that decorated the landscapes. The oak trees are singed. Some will survive we are told. We have lost tons of shade on our hill which means an even hotter miserable summer. Rattle Snake Canyon, nearby where our robust visitors always go to hike, including Martine's nephews and Andrew Duguid from Europe, is unrecognizable. Hard not to cry to remember the magnificient sycamore, alder, and chapparal that are but ghostly appartions now.

There is always an upside, or at least we have to act as if.... Most of my writing group, called the Canyon Writers, because we all live (lived) in or near Mission Canyon where the worst of the fire took place, survived with homes intact. They did lose their power and their Wi-fi, so one of them has been coming over to our house with lap-top to do her writing. We have a generator so we're operating full tilt. Our Canyon Writer's Group is comprised of a journalist, several poets, a novelist, at least two memoirists, and some who do all of the above. It has inspired me to observe "up close and personal" how disciplined they are.

After a few friendly salutations, they settle down and start writing. This means that I must to cut down the "schmooze" factor to zero when they come by to set up their laptops.

None of this: "Oh sorry, but the muse isn't being friendly today...." Or, "I have to deal with the insurance claims so I'll set my writing aside until all this is settled." And my favorite excuse, "But I have to answer personally all the caring people who e-mailed, wrote, and called all the way from Europe, for heaven's sake...." Surely that has priority. I received two letters by "snail mail", one from Montbron and one from the Notre Dame des Anges; people who hardly know us, but were worried. That has touched me deeply indeed.

Of course there's still the business of making meals for people who did sustain losses as an act of outreach and solidarity. This is all very decent, but I'm getting nothing done in the way of systematic writing work.

Then there's the neighbor who wants to borrow Ed's large industrial-sized vacuum cleaner, or the chain saw, PLUS the charming, much appreciated, revered fire-fighters who are staying at the carrefours at the corner of El Cielito and Mt. Calvary to make sure there are no hot-spots left. Of course, you can't have them cruising around in this crazy wind and heat without offering them cold lemonade or beer (Verbotten, Interdit). It doesn't hurt that they're handsome devils. Some of us "women of a certain age" took a very serious survey among ourselves and concluded we had never met a homely fireman, not one!

And as if that weren't enough, my husband's brother in St. Louis had serious surgery on Thursday so that Ed had to fly out to be with him. On my first night home alone, a red-flag alert went into effect yet again! I was up all night watching for that tell-tale GLOW that has become all too familiar and threatening just over the ridges where some hot-spots are still active. In between standing on watch, I wrote. Insomnia and sheer terror are good for something, they say. The next day, a dear friend from LA came up to stay with me, so what did we do? Retail therapy at a consignment store, can't be spendthrift now, can we?

It seems incredible that there is any fuel left to burn, but that's the mystery of these fires. They skip around as the embers fly unpredictably into the four winds. One of our Canyon Writers at whose home we met nearly every other Monday night for years and years, had to get out so fast that they didn't pack a single thing! Not underwear, not even an address book or photos. Sidney had a small private winery at the bottom of his property and hoped against hope that at least that would have survived because even with his macular degeneration, he knew his way around well enough to be able to produce a few hundred bottles of excellent shiraz and syrah each year. No such luck. Everything went up in smoke.