Fire on the Mountain

 

               Fire on the Mountain

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 Kathy arranged for the six of us women to go to the Laguna Colorado for my birthday dinner. Four of us piled into Kathy’s car. John agreed to bring the other two and drop them off. We arrived at our favorite little restaurant under the large palapa by the water. The owner treats us like family and the food is good, the laguna full of all manner of water birds. What’s not to like!

Kathy, being the youngest, popped out of her car and immediately announced, “Smoke”.

By the time the rest of us groaned ourselves upright on the ground, the smoke had become visible flames. Within ten seconds the wind-whipped flames rolled over the top of the mountain and began the rapid descent down toward the restaurant—and us.

Another half-minute and we were zooming up the dirt road back to the highway, a cloud of dust in our wake. On the way we met John. “Fire. Turn around. Follow us.” We met two water trucks and approximately forty volunteer firefighters on the way to tackle the blaze.

By the time we got to the highway we had decided by committee consensus to turn left, to La Canada. (Cahn-yah-dah)

The food was excellent, the company, superb, the stories, mostly true, the laughter, real. Our energy had ramped up to the top of our scale by the drama of the fire.

It was my best birthday. All the women agreed that I didn’t look a day over 81. Four of us are in our 80s so they had to say that. (One of them whispered, “That changes tomorrow!”) We don’t exchange gifts, yet I came away with an extendable back-scratcher.

When we were ready to go home, rather than split up, rather than call John to come get passengers, Crin and Janet figured out how to cram us all into Kathy’s car.

Kathy is the get-away driver. I always sit in front, not because I am the birthday girl, but because I get car sick and threaten to throw up on everyone. Crin is small, so she tucked into the back seat between Lani and Carol. Janet, who is younger and more flexible, fit herself into the back luggage area, legs extended, “The best seat in the car,” she declared.

On our way back we could see the smoke still rolling black clouds into the sky from the fire. We are concerned about the restaurants along the lake, but more worried about the small scattering of homes. Fire doesn’t care.

However, our energy levels and camaraderie had not dissipated one whit. Four of us are in our 80s. We all have scars. Conversation in the back somehow centered around scars that look like zippers, should I get a tattoo to cover it, you must have shaved your legs this morning, (?) good grief, you could grow a kiwi vine up that one, show and tell, swinging legs, that trouble walking, through the air like acrobats, women comparing bruises and dents and purple veins, all with much teasing and hoots of laughter. Kathy and I wanted to climb over into the back seat and join the fun.

We are ladies in our 80s.

We are girls.

“Girls just wanna have fun.”

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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