Tinderbox

There is woman who is nebulously related to my family and resides in Queens. We call her Aunt Vi. I phone her once a week to chat. She's about 94 but, amazingly, she has all her marbles fully intact. Unfortunately she had a stroke a few years ago, so she doesn't do much more than sit in a lay-z-boy and watch the news -- which often devotes time explaining whatever natural disaster is hitting good ol' LA.

Aunt Vi: So are you close to the fiyahs?
Dodo: I'm about 10 miles away. But don't worry Aunt Vi, I don't live close to forests or anything. I'll be fine.
Aunt Vi: Well be carefuhl! Ach, I don't unduhstand why people live out in California -- the earthquakes, the fiyahs. I feel like something horrible is happening there all the time!

While driving home from work last night, I see this:


This fire seems to have more of the devil in it that Jesus or the second coming. I finally closed up all the windows (a recommendation made public a while ago, apparently). The past two days I've woken up with a voice resembling someone who binged on a few packs of cigarettes. Apparently all the cars on the street are covered in ash.

Something ties us to this place though. It happens to almost everyone -- you start out hating LA with all of your being, and then you find your niche, it gets its claws in you, and you can't think of a good reason to leave. The weather, the bars, the restaurants, the diversity. Does it all balance out? I don't know. Hopefully I'll never get enough money to live in the mountains and have my day of blazing reckoning.