When I was a child in New Jersey, I associated autumn with the smell of burning leaves.  My father, with the help of four whining children, would rake the leaves into bunches, load them on wheelbarrows, and haul them to the back yard, dumping load after load until they formed a towering pile.  Then he’d light the whole mess on fire, which worked out pretty well except for the time when a nearby tree started to burn.  My father doused the flames with a garden hose.  The fire trucks came anyway.  All the neighbors wandered over to see what the fuss was about.  It was a good day.

Now that I’m an adult in Southern California, I associate autumn with the smell of burning forests.  You catch the tiniest whiff of wood smoke, and you think: uh-oh, we’re in for it.  This year I was watching my son play soccer when I caught the smell.  I looked around and realized that what I’d taken to be a low-lying cloud was actually a forest fire, wafting fogs of smoke into the blue sky.  By half time, black plumes were billowing into the sky from a different direction, another source.

My first reaction, as always, was anxiety – not for my house, which is too far from anything resembling nature to be in danger – but for my health.  Four autumns ago, in the midst of another wildfire season, I developed asthma, a remarkably common condition in these parts.  After my son’s soccer game ended and the fires progressed, the air grew so hot and dry it seemed to crackle.  Chunks of ash floated from the sky like snow.  I could practically see my bronchial system spasming in response (which, as any bio-feedback/visualization specialist will tell you, is not an image I should cultivate).

My second reaction, upon returning home (“Stay inside, kids!”), was concern for all of the people whose houses were in danger and aching sympathy for those whose homes had already succumbed.  But my third reaction – let’s be honest – was wonder.  Like:  whoah!  That’s terrible, but it’s also kind of … cool!  The light in Southern California is typically harsh and flat.  However, throw in some soot and smoke, and everything turns gold.  Two o’clock looks like sunset.

Late in the afternoon, I had to drive to Brea, where the fire was so bad it took out a wing of the high school.  I took as many back roads as possible; closed freeways had funneled heavy traffic onto the main thoroughfares.  Snaking up Brea Boulevard, through the center of town, I was forced to pull over a few times to let the fire trucks pass.  On top of a parking garage, high enough to see the flames, a line of people (non-asthmatics, presumably) stood at the railing, entranced, as if they were watching Disneyland fireworks (which go off at 9:30 every night and are not nearly as exciting).

By the next day, the fires were out.  The smoke hung around for most of the next week. Everyone was told to stay inside as much as possible.  My daughter was glad that she got to miss gym class; my son grew stir crazy.  I went to the doctor, got yet another asthma prescription, and prayed for winter.