Fire and Rain

Wind and rain, Vermont field and hills.

It’s raining in Vermont this morning. I woke to steady pounding on the roof, the windows so spattered with drops arriving and leaving that I could hardly see beyond to the green, green gardens.

So I pressed closer to the glass. Those marigolds I didn’t water yesterday — they were waving back and forth in a rain-is-raining-now dance. Apple trees were dripping. So was the roof line over the porch steps. It was a perfect moment to rise up, splash water on my face, brush my teeth, put on the kettle for a hot cup of fragrant caffeinated beverage.

And I am so, so fortunate in this day.

Twenty-three hundred miles away, the Bootleg fire is devouring Oregon’s countryside. Bone-weary firefighters who see black gunk every time they cough or blow their noses are pulling their boots back on. People will die in Oregon today, and maybe in southwestern Montana too, fighting back against the blazes and the flying embers and the abrupt torches formed from small houses or massive trees. Or trying to drive away, after waiting far too long.

I remember fire, up close and personal. My kids and I survived a nighttime house fire in winter, at twenty-three degrees below zero. On nights like that…