It's nearly three months after the Station Fire threatened our neighborhood. Life is slowly returning to normal. The massive mudslides that were anticipated have not yet materialized on our side of the hill, though some homes across the canyon found their yards buried in three feet of mud after the last rain. The air no longer smells like an ashtray first thing in the morning. The kids still come back into the house with pitch-black feet after playing in the yard, but their faces and hands are no longer covered in ash.
But today we're powerfully reminded of the fire again. Last night we had one of the vigorous windstorms we've grown used to here in the foothills of the Angeles National Forrest. It was strong enough to knock out power several times. This morning, I woke early for deacon duties at the first service at church. I found the foothills shrouded in a thick haze of ash, barely visible in the bright morning sun. The air is gritty, if you open your mouth, you'll be crunching particles between your teeth in a moment. Flecks blow into my eyes every few moments, and I'm blinking and eye-watering constantly. On the church's patio, thick rills of fine black ash chase each other in the gusts of wind. After only 15 minutes of welcoming in front of the church, my clothes and face were speckled with tiny dark particles.
The fire will be with us for quite a while longer, I think.
Last 5 posts by Ken White
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