It has been a year since the Eaton Wildfire—a monstrous firestorm with eighty-mile-an-hour winds, devouring entire neighborhoods. My foothill community is at the base of those mountains. When the Eaton Wildfire blew through, the only thing left in its wake was loose dirt.
If only this rainstorm had come during the fire. Once again, only one month later, we were on alert—this time for mudslides.
Many of my friends, who were in the path of a mudslide, obeyed the mandatory evacuation. My house is located on a hill, so we were considered safe.
While at work, the thunderstorms rattled the windows and my nerves.
At 5:30, I drove home and was shocked to find flashing lights and police cars blocking my street entrance.
After watching car after car try to drive through, only to get stuck in the muddy quicksand, I realized what had happened. Mudslide. All the roads leading up to my house were covered with thick mud.
I parked my car a safe enough distance away and decided to hoof it the mile to my house.
The rain attacked my raincoat’s hood like tiny bombs while I tried to zip it up. A Mercedes-Benz pulled up and parked behind me.
“Hello.” He opened his black umbrella so nary a drop would hit him.
Who was this guy, I wondered.
“Quite the mess.” I briskly walked past him.
I gave the officer a wave-off as he was parked.
“Hold on, miss!” He shouted after me.
“Hello officer,” I said politely, “I’m just heading up to my house.”
“No one is allowed up there. Go back to your car.”
I learned a couple of tricks from the last evacuation. “I have two children up there.”
“No! I can’t let you go up alone.”
I noticed Mr. Mercedes walking up.
“I’m not alone, my husband is right here.”
The young officer scowled, “You mean to tell me that you left two children in an evacuation zone?”
“We’re not in an evacuation zone,” Mr. Mercedes innocently offered up.
“We really have to go.”
He whispered, “He’s not going to let us up. I’ll call my…”
“How old are your children?” The officer interrupted.
“Not old enough to be alone,” I answered in a huff.
“Then why did you leave them?”
At that moment, I turned to Mr. Mercedes, “I told you, honey, we shouldn’t have left them alone.”
Deer. In. The. Headlights. A thought flashed across his forehead: Is this woman going to get me arrested? “Sorry, officer,” he said. “I can call – “
“Nope, we’re going.”
I slipped my arm around Mr. Mercedes and nudged along.
“Come back now! I’ll arrest you.”
“He won’t. Keep walking,” I whispered.
“Are you sure? He sounded very convincing.”
“Did he get out of his car?”
Quickly, Mr. Mercedes looked over his shoulder. “No. Do you really have small children at home?”
“Nope.”
“Well, it worked.”
I remembered! We’re wave-by neighbors.
I felt bad for Mr. Mercedes sloshing around the inches of mud in his Gucci loafers, while I slogged in my UGG boots. We marched past the Bobcats that were scooping up the mud and debris.
We made small talk until we arrived at his house. “Do you want to borrow the umbrella?”
“No thanks, I’m just up there a few doors.”
It’s not conventional, but an interesting way to meet your neighbors.
W a f f l e t u d e 