Keeping Calm with Crochet

Some people think of October as fall, but in Southern California it’s fire season. The Santa Ana winds come in and blow at huge speeds and the humidity goes to nothing. That’s exactly what happened last Sunday. The only difference was it was a cold wind. A fire started in the wilderness area of the San Gabriel mountains and the wind began to spread it toward homes around the northeast area of the San Fernando Valley.

Monday morning the wind was even worse. It grabbed a heavy outdoor umbrella I’d folded down and sent it crashing into the lime tree. The winds always stir up trouble. There was even a news story about how in the past, that if you could prove there were Santa Anas blowing when you committed a crime, you could get off. Kind of the wind made me do it, I guess. For sure the wind makes everyone uneasy. I have heard that these dry powerful winds stir up the wrong kind of ions. The opposite of the good ones you feel by the ocean or a waterfall.

Palm fronds broke off the tall palm tree in the front yard and bounced off the roof into the backyard. Dust and debris mixed with ash from the fire and spread over the outdoor furniture. The air had the pungent smell of smoke and had an odd cast to it.

Another fire had started. This time much closer, directly north of us in an area called Porter Ranch. I know the area exactly. It’s on a ridge above the Valley floor and where my Joann’s superstore is. There are lots of newer houses surrounded by the brush covered Santa Susanna mountains.

All the regular TV shows were pre empted and I sat glued to the TV, watching as reporters in yellow fireman coats and goggles tried to interview people being evacuated from their homes. A lot of the people were dressed in work attire and had rushed home when they heard about the fire to get their pets, pictures and papers.

The wind was ferocious, sending burning embers everywhere spreading the fire. It jumped six lanes of the 118 freeway and the fire officials started talking about not being able to stop it and that it might burn all the way to the ocean some 20 or so miles away.

We weren’t directly threatened, though when the wind is like that you never know what will happen. I had a headache and was tense. There was only one thing that got me through the day.

Crocheting.

I had started making a scarf from a pattern I’d seen in a magazine. The sport weight yarn was nice to work with and the pattern simple to follow. As I sat glued to the TV, I moved through row after row of the scarf.

There were warnings that the wind was going to get worse overnight, but luckily that never materialized and it actually died down, so they were able to do water drops from helicopters all night. By morning the firefighters had begun to get some control.
I went up to Joann’s Super Store on Friday and passed only one fire truck, but a lot of burned hillsides. I drove on the freeway that the fire had jumped. The people evacuated are back in their homes. There were some homes lost, but luckily fewer than first reported.

When leaves turn red in Southern California, it’s because they’re on fire.

An ill wind, and then...

From the moment we heard the Santa Anas would blow at hurricane-force levels, we knew what was coming.

And still, the onset of the first fast-moving, rampaging firestorm came as a shock to the community, because it hit the sector of our society that is usually the most privileged and protected—Malibu. I heard about the fires when I clicked on the television news that morning at nine a.m. I immediately called my best friend from college, who lives on the beach in Malibu. Turned out she had no idea there was a major fire going on, because her power was out.

I gave her updates from the reports on CNN, and told her to pack up her most important items. But like any good Malibu-ite (Malibuan?), she already had everything organized, the same way Californians learn to keep an "earthquake survival kit" tucked away in some dusty corner of their garages.

I kept hearing local reports that people were trying to get into Malibu, not leaving. I remembered my friend who had no clue that a disaster was racing down a canyon toward her house. Her church had already been destroyed, and it was directly across the street from her son's school.

And so, like the former journalist that I am, I called the CNN news tip line and told them that power was down in some areas of Malibu, and suggested that perhaps people who had friends in the area should call them on their landlines, which still seemed to be working. The CNN tip-taker was very nice and took a lot of notes, but I never saw the tip come over the news that friends should call their friends and family in the area to roust them out.

That day ushered in a strange, surreal week in Los Angeles. We woke up each morning to discover a fine layer of ash—like dust in the attic—settled over cars and surfaces. The skies seemed permanently overcast, but from smoke, not clouds. It became slightly irritating to breathe, no matter where you were. People all around me were coughing more. We had spectacular, firestorm-fueled sunsets that were even more beautiful than our worst pollution-caused sunsets. In some places in Southern California, you could stare directly at the sun, because it had diminished into a swollen, tangerine orb behind the layers of smoke.

My Malibu friend seemed quite relaxed about the flames that were racing her way. She even met me for lunch Monday afternoon—and then was turned back by police when she tried to return home. She and her family spent a couple of days as Malibu refugees, which does seem like an oxymoron.

But still, this experience hasn't soured any of us on living in California—or even in Malibu. We do have occasional impressive catastrophes here. Earthquakes, firestorms, city-wide riots, to name a few. But every other day, it's paradise here. The weather is so wonderful and consistent, you almost forget what "real" weather is. And we don't deal with the far more frequent disasters that plague other areas of the country, such as hurricanes, snowstorms, and tornadoes.

When all is said and done, I'm staying put. Everyone I know is, too.

Where you live, are there any recurring disasters that you've just learned to accept, prepare for and deal with? Do other aspects of the environment offset the occasional problems?

Life—and the book tour—continues...

I had a wonderful book signing event on Wednesday at the
B Dalton in the mall at Los Angeles City Hall. The bookseller, Candace Davis, set up a nice table—complete with a vase of flowers!—and I sold lots of books. I was impressed by how many men bought the book. But that was encouraging--I think diet, exercise, humor and murder mysteries is a combination that will interest many readers in America, not just women.

On Saturday, I spoke to a nice-sized crowd at Mysteries To Die For in Thousand Oaks. The staff and Heidi made me feel very welcome. I recruited a good friend of mine who once attended the same diet clinic as me in Durham, North Carolina (DYING TO BE THIN is set in a fictional diet clinic, AKA fat farm). We regaled the crowd with stories about how the real diet doctors would roam the town, tracking down and busting people who were cheating on the program.

Whenever a diet doctor entered the building, the cheating dieters would flee--running for the ladies room, exits, wherever we could find to take cover.

Ah, those were some good times.