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224 pages, Paperback
First published August 1, 2018
The humidity keeps the hills a rich green and means that a wildfire won’t burn, but it can be hard on pudding-headed sorts overly concerned with the texture of their hair. Like me. Redheads are vulnerable to such worries. We’re conditioned to believe that there’s only a few flyaway hairs’ difference between siren and Pippi Longstocking, Little Orphan Annie, or Witchiepoo.
It was like when I was a waitress in Palm Springs, California, which hosts a lot of kinky conventions. The restaurants would get a list of what groups were in town, and it was always interesting to note that the Mennonite Women’s Quilting Group was booked the same week as the Inland Empire Spankers or some such.
During the Rim Fire in California, a huge pyrocumulus cloud formed every afternoon. People in Groveland, a little (by California standards) town of six hundred, came out and stood in front of their clapboard houses and potted geraniums and watched as the firecloud grew higher than the Sierra Nevada. I would stand there awed, and without words I deeply understood that if it didn’t rain, the next fires could be even bigger, and if the rains did come and they were too hard or too much, those burned hillsides would wash away in floods. It was all so precarious--right on the edge of cataclysmic. But nearby were flowers in flower boxes and pines that had not burned and a lost dog that had returned home and a restaurant opening for dinner, and you could feel everyone in the street breathing sighs of gratitude that it was all still here. If even for just a little longer.