Defensible Space

Defensible Space

It is strange or is it predictable that common place things have taken on a different meaning.  Freshly plowed fields that use to hold the promise of new life in the spring now bring up the thought – defensible space.   The plowed fields of the brown upturned earth surround stands of oak, maples, and alders among the fields and the farmhouses, sheds, and barns are equally protected by the dirt of the fields.  Defensible land.

Our minds are shaped by our environment and with so many fires burning grasslands, hillsides, timber, businesses and homes all we can do now is pray. I pray, I tense up when I hear sirens wailing in morning, the day and the night in the town that we live in.  I have always prayed for the emergency workers, police, and firemen who serve us when we go about our daily lives. It is the least that I can do.

We are surrounded by forest on all sides but one –the Pacific Ocean. I pray that we don’t get the 9.0 earthquake that they are predicting for the Oregon coast as we stand on the beach looking East watching the fire burn. It might be our only haven from a fire storm.

When traveling to Portland, Oregon to pick up our son, large information signs on the way on I-5 displayed “Extreme Fire Danger Use Caution” in yellow letters.  Worrisome, yes. The fire haze of smoke rings the valley and blocks the intensity of the sun burning down.  There will be no sighting of the dormant sleeping volcano, Mt. Hood which sticks up out in all her glory on a clear day.

Now that is a good idea for a disaster story.

The smoke haze filled the valley. It was another hot day with nothing to alleviate the fears and worries of more fires in the foothills, grasslands and forests surrounding Portland, Oregon that nestled beneath the dormant volcano of Mt Hood.  The local news had reported that in addition to the continued development of more smoke hovering in the valley, a heat warning was in effect for the rest of the week.   At the tail end of the broadcast was a footnote of a series of small earthquakes centered in Mt Hood.  They had been so deep that no one had noticed.

Cars, trucks, vans filled I-5, I-84 and I-205 with a lone motorcyclist weaving in and out of the ever slowing traffic but it was still moving. A married couple was heading to the airport to pick up their son who had flown in from New York City to escape the August heat. A man cursed in his car as he spilled his Starbucks, a mocha latte into his lap.  He was already late for work, thankfully, his pants were dark.

Jenica’s dogs stated barking wildly, two German Shepard dogs and then they suddenly stopped, standing still, listening.  Squirrels, she thought and continued to place her cell phone in her purse, noting that she had forgotten to charge it again. No worries, she would plug it in when she got to the gift shop where she worked at the base of Mt. Hood.  She was too involved to notice the slight rumbling under her feet as she ran to her car.

It was going to be a good season for the grapes, Martin thought as he gazed out onto his fields of growing grapes. He couldn’t see Mt Hood today through all of the smoke haze from the forest and range fires further west of Portland otherwise he might have wondered whether the plume of white was smoke or steam.  Whatever, it was, it was growing. A slight tremor shook the mountain. It had appeared overnight, causing snow around it to melt and run down the one slope of the mountain. It remained invisible becoming one with the smoke haze. 

Mary heard the clicking of the seismograph as the needle moved across the page, generally she ignored it and would wait for it to finish measuring the small barely registering tremors around Mt. Hood.  But today, she was bored for once and walked over to see the readings, 1.7, 1.3, 2.0, 2.3, 2.7, the depth ranged more than 3 miles down. The mountain was busy this morning.

The couple who picked their son from the airport was on I-205 heading home, the mom texted and called friends and grandma letting them know that they were heading home. Yes, they would be having lunch in Corvallis, picking up corn, peaches and tomatoes at the Saturday Farmers Market.  Getting bread from Great Harvest bakery.  It was warming up in the valley but they had air-conditioning in the car.

It was just before 11 am, Jenica turned onto I -5 heading towards work.  She thought about her phone and wished that she had charged it the night before.

The motorcyclist was still weaving in and out of traffic on I-5, he glanced to where Mt. Hood should be. Damn, these fires. The beauty of the mountain was one of the reasons that he had moved to the Northwest.  His bike jumped a little as he maneuvered around several cars until he was forced to stop along aside a double load semi-truck on one of the interstate bridges.  He saluted the driver, thankful for the shade that the big truck provided. The driver raised his hand in a half-salute in acknowledge of his jacket which displayed Airborne.

The bridge shook slightly, he glanced off the bridge seeing a large truck with a heavy load of boulders rumble by underneath.  The bridge shook again after its passing. He shrugged and hope that today wasn’t the day that the old bridge decided to collapse.  There had been a lot of coverage in the news lately about the inter-structure of the nation’s bridges. Still the biker wished that traffic would move and get him off of the bridge.

I am sure that you can run away with this little study in fiction.  Go for it.

It never surprises me anymore about the different directions that my little mind can wander off to but what is annoying is my lack of time to run down each little path that presents itself.   What do other minds do when traveling on the road?  I am always glad not to be driving, I prefer to gaze at the countryside, drinking in everything.  Sometimes, I have great philosophical discussions with myself, often asking my devoted husband to help solve deep involved theories that somehow managed to take root briefly in my head as we travel 65 miles an hour to wherever we are going. 

Right now, I am praying for rain, a gentle one that will last for more than a few minutes. I am praying for no wind, I am praying for the comfort of those who have lost much.  It is still all that I can do hiding in my own little defensible space in my mind where I can for the moment believe that I am safe.