The devil wind screeches past our hillside home, eager to egg-on flames that will destroy the not-too-distant coastal town of Pacific Palisades. In our pergola’s eaves, our air force of Balinese “demon chasers,” small hanging sculptures of gold-gilded dragons and brightly painted flying frogs, cows, dogs, elephants and sword- and hatchet-wielding fairies, have worked themselves into a clattering protective frenzy.
The power goes out. Evacuation preparations made, my wife Pam and I lie in bed, watching the orange glow on the horizon and wondering what the Milky Way will look like when the wind rips off our roof. Soon Altadena, another nearby neighborhood, ignites and the total of Southern California homes burned pushes past 10,000. Fate spares ours. This time.
