Looks Like Arson

Okay, I was being way too jocular yesterday. The brush fires are serious business, and tons of people in our little town have been evacuated. As of this writing, 51 homes have been destroyed or damaged by the fires. The Interstate is closed for a good 25 miles.

Here’s a video of one of the fires, about eight miles away from our home:

The worst news: Of the eighteen fires that were burning tonight, at least nine appear to have been intentionally set yesterday; the rest were spawned from them. They’re offering a $10K reward for information on the arsonist.

Gov. Charlie Crist declared a state of emergency, allowing Florida to tap federal funds and the National Guard. The declaration also brings local emergency workers under state control and allows Florida to call on other states for help, if necessary. In addition, the mayor of Palm Bay and Brevard County officials have declared states of emergency.

Say a little prayer for us, if you would.

Literally.

It’s spring in Florida, which means temperatures in the 90s, high winds, and no rain whatsoever. And that, dear reader, means wildfires.

Tonight, Interstate 95 is closed from Malabar, the town immediately east of us, all the way down to Vero Beach, some twenty-seven miles to the south, because smoke from the wildfires is making driving too hazardous. At least 100 homes were evacuated in Palm Bay and Malabar. More fires are burning up near Cocoa.

I watched the 11 p.m. news with interest, though not concern, since the fires really weren’t nearby. There was some really dramatic footage, though. The firefighters were praised for their heroism; I roll my eyes just the teeniest little bit when people who are simply doing jobs that are occasionally dangerous are called American Heroes with the kind of awe usually reserved for people who liberate people from slavery or spend their life in service to the poor or invent the light bulb.

Then our local newscaster got emotional. “These guys,” he said (and apparently no women have ever served as firefighters), “these guys have been working all day long! They have literally worked their fingers to the bone!”

I quickly glanced at the screen, hoping for some extra-special dramatic footage, or at least a photo of a bandaged hand, but they went on to a story about a local politician in trouble over something or other.

It could be worse, I guess. When Senator Clinton was in Iowa for the January primaries there, she praised the tenacity of the people who came to hear her speak. “We had 300 people outside literally freezing to death,” she said. (In fact, no deaths were reported. I smell a government cover-up.)

Dogs in the Basement

One of my recurring nightmares involves a scenario in which there are several dogs in my care, usually one large and several smaller ones, which are kept in my basement.

I suddenly realize with horror that I have forgotten to feed or let them out for days and days. (My house doesn’t have a basement in real life, and I currently don’t have any dogs.)

They have never barked or done anything to remind me they’re there; the realization just dawns on me suddenly, and I rush down to find them in various states of neglect. Sometimes they’re just really hungry and anxious (and messy); sometimes they’re doing rather poorly and need medical help; once, I remember, I found a skeleton wearing a dog collar.

Now, I am not a neglectful pet owner. The dogs I’ve had have been very well cared for, very much a part of my daily life. All would have liked go on longer and more frequent walks, but otherwise they were healthy, happy, and loved very much.

I suspect I have these dreams when I’m behind in my client work, or am feeling there are things I’m not paying proper attention to in my life; the basement symbolizes the unconscious. Last night it was a large Lab and two cute furry dogs, toy breeds, and they were excited and relieved to be let out, but were none the worse for wear. I assume they were hungry, too, but they were more excited to be let out in the back yard.

In the dream back yard, which did not resemble the back yard of anyplace I’ve ever lived, there was an old stone fireplace that could be used for barbecues. I caught a young guy stealing the last of the stones; apparently he had been dismantling the fireplace piece by piece all night long. I was more mystified than angry, and went to tell my father, who in the dream was a high-powered businessman presiding over some sort of meeting, and couldn’t be bothered with my story.

In real life, there was a stone fireplace on what I called the “secret back patio” of my childhood home. The back yard was extremely long, and bordered some woods on two sides; the sunken, multilevel patio was a glorious private playground for me, far away from the house, where my fantasies could take flight. The fireplace dominated the back of the patio, and Morning Glories grew wild over it, their lacy tendrils attempting to claim the fireplace and draw it back into the wild world of the woods.

Last night’s fireplace resembled the one in real life somewhat, though its setting was completely different. I assume that the dismantling of the fireplace, together with my father (who died in 1982) being alive and powerful and uncaring, means I need to look at some of the baggage I still carry from childhood, and unpack it piece by piece until I get to the foundation.

Or maybe it just means I shouldn’t keep dogs in the basement.