Firestorm

This is a digital sketch I did in Photoshop after seeing some news photos of the fires in Southern California. I grew up in the foothills of the Verdugo Mountains north of L.A. Fire is a frequent and necessary part of the ecology there. So’s urban sprawl. The two don’t play well together.

I was five when I experienced my first fire. It was late on Easter Sunday. Past bedtime. We were driving home from my grandparent’s house in the San Fernando Valley. I remember riding in the back seat of Dad’s old Studebaker, looking to the east rim of the Valley, to the Verdugo Mountains. I was sure the sun was rising. But it was the middle of the night. The mountains were on fire.  He pulled out his driver’s license at checkpoint after checkpoint, showing it to firemen and policemen, showing we were on our way home. I remember the sweet acrid smoke burning my eyes. We got home. Everything was alright. The fire had moved on. But the black mountains behind our house sparkled with red embers.

Looking at the pictures from Southern California I can still smell the smoke.