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Fire Season

by Jennifer Graf Groneberg (Subscribe to Jennifer Graf Groneberg's posts) Aug 9th 2007 11:00AM

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My 4-year-old son Bennett is covered in Band-Aids. He finds a tiny red dot on his arm, which prompts him to say, "Owie, mommy, owie! Need a sticker!" There's another mysterious malady on his knee. One on his tummy, one on his ear. I didn't know you could put a bandage on an ear, but Bennett finds a way to manage it.

He calls them stickers, but they are Curious George Band-Aids, because we are suckers for marketing at my house, particularly anything with monkeys on it. And I think I know why Bennett has developed this sudden case of hypochondria: some of it's my fault, some of it isn't.

My husband Tom fights wildland fires in the summers. He goes out on an engine with 2 other firefighters and he tells me they drive around, mostly, running water to other men and women closer to the fire.

When they aren't doing that, they dig trenches, or cut the lower limbs off the giant Douglas firs, or they patrol the black, already-burned landscape looking for "hot spots." To hear him tell it, it's another hum-drum day at the office.

I know he explains his work this way for my benefit. I've seen pictures of him and the fire truck with a wall of fire behind it. I've seen the hose when it comes back from a fire, burnt and cracked. I've smelled his clothes, smoky and black, soot trapped in the pitch of pine trees.

He makes it seem as if there is nothing to worry about, so that I won't worry. But I do. I watch the fire updates every night on the local news. I can't help myself; it's the only way I have of finding out what's going on. As fire footage plays across the screen, I look for trucks I recognize, or faces I know, and the kids watch with me.

This is why I'm partly responsible for Bennett's rash of Band-Aids: he knows his Daddy is gone, he knows fire is dangerous, and me watching the news every night does nothing to lessen his anxiety. The only thing he can do is count his owies, keep track, and mark them with monkey stickers. It's his way of keeping himself intact.

I don't blame him. I remember when the twins were born early, and we were making daily trips to the NICU, our oldest boy Carter, who was then 4-years-old, began wearing his bicycle helmet everywhere. I told Tom I thought it was the most honest reaction to the summer's chain of events that I'd seen. I feel that way now, too: we are a bit broken, with Daddy gone. Maybe we should all wrap ourselves in Ace bandages.

Three communities near us have been ordered to evacuate. The faces of some of the homeowners appear on the local news. One woman is my age, and her voice quivers when she says she's sure it will all turn out okay. Behind her is her car, overstuffed with pictures in frames, a quilt, a cat meowing unhappily. I wonder how you choose. How do you decide what to take, knowing you might not have a home to come back to?

This is why it's partly not my fault: it's the worst fire season in 20 years. All around us, there's fire. Pieces of ash fall from the sky and I think of Henny-Penny from the fairy tale, who runs around shouting the warning, "The sky's a-falling, the sky's a-falling!"

Even if Tom were home, we'd still spend our days indoors with the windows shut against the hot, smoky air and the half-burnt blades of grass floating down onto the picnic table. I'd still keep the sprinkler shooting a tsk-tsk-tsk of water across the grass, our yard the only green oasis in a sea of dried-up brown. I'd still have a full tank of gas in the car and my purse by the door, just in case. I'd still stay up too late watching the sky, and the orange glow across the lake.

A mama deer and her twin fawns have taken up residence in the bushes below our house. They join the robins and the chickadees, hummingbirds too, and a skinny Garter snake, all drawn to our little patch of green. Tom tells me our house is the best place to be. He says that it's safe, and because he knows more about it than I do, I believe him.

I see the fires on the news, great flames leaping into the sky. I step outside and feel the wind, hot like a blow-dryer. I smell the burnt air. And I remember the faces of the evacuees. I don't know how I could explain it to Bennett, so that he'd understand. So I do what I can: I buy boxes of Band-Aids, and wait for the earth to spin us away to the cool, clearing air of Fall.

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