Just when my left eye stopped twitching from the I-5 shooter, while getting used to shallow breathing through a mask, kicking and screaming against forced hermit status, not hugging my grandbaby due to COVID-19, and renovating a very old wobbly house, we get wildfires.
After three years here in Oregon, from Rhode Island and new to Glendale by a month, I am wondering if there is an amount of money that could get my daughter to move back to the East Coast. She said she would not hate me if I abandoned ship. I could not do that, but nice of her to let me off the hook.
Missing my people and knowing my people are here, too, in this very small tiny village has been so hard. I have met a few of you, but not being able to be myself and grab you in my gregarious Italian way is torture. Normally I would have everyone I meet in a five block radius over to my house for a proper Italian meal with Chianti, lots of appetizers and at least three main courses. Just know, as I suspect with you, none of us are seeing one another in our best light.
Amidst wildfire warnings, I am going about my normal life while juggling evacuation scenarios. Security cameras are set to the cloud and solar powered, defensible land cleared and SUV filled with gas, photo albums and pet carriers; calls to check with family done. My hope is the fires are squelched with no loss of life or injuries. We have all sacrificed too much of ourselves this year. My other hope is a vaccine that will finally release us all from this semi prison, but you can't hurry science or a virus.