Ms. Rachow recommends Celebrity tomatoes and David Villa, the plumber. This column is dedicated to him and to all the other heroes in our community.
The first of May begins the annual tomato-growing race between fellow Journal columnist, Jim Alexander, and yours truly. Per usual, I’m late getting my tomatoes in the ground. It’s Cinco de Mayo before I have my pony-pack.
To make matters worse, the forecast is hot and windy. I figure I’ll water frequently, and the three-inch plants will be fine. I give each a splash of magic transplant solution. Then I hear the wop-wop-wop above. I wonder if the DEA is making sure those are really tomatoes.
Then I see the plume of smoke in the hills. Holy crap! It’s close. But I know the drill: Stack dog kennels by the door. Find purse, keys, cell phone. Get boxes of important papers and photos. Park the vehicles snout out. And then spend any available time left obsessing about what else to take in case of evacuation.
I watch the wind blow the fire away from us, giving plenty of time to pack more stuff: Three tubes of toothpaste, but no toothbrush. Six pairs of scissors. A dictionary. My penny jar containing at least three dollars.
I’m eying a stack of old New Yorkers when my husband gets home from work. We get offers of places to stay from Samarkand to Santa Maria. These people all know we’ll be arriving with four Jack Russells. It’ll be a true test of friendship.
Every half hour I climb a ladder in the back yard to see for myself that the fire’s still blowing the other way. I watch TV news. What they show on screen, I also see from my back yard.
We consult with neighbors. I pack eight bed pillows, two giant jars of ibuprofen, and a big bag of trail mix. And I fuss over those tomato plants. Fire or not, I’m determined to stay in the contest.
The wind keeps blowing away from us, and we still don’t have to leave. Over the next two days we hear tragic news of houses that have burned. And we get the great news that other friends’ homes have been saved. My legs are getting a great workout from going up and down the fire-observation ladder. And I keep giving those tomatoes water.
On Thursday the wind switches direction. The fire is now burning its way down our canyon. The police cars drive by, blaring GET OUT NOW. We decide to go to our friend Toni’s house. She has a spunky Havanese and two standard poodles, who I believe are up to the task of coping with our terriers.
I wonder what would be an appropriate hostess gift under these circumstances. I check the fridge and spot a big wedge of Jarlsberg. Toni is from Minnesota and loves any food that goes moo, so the cheese evacuates with us, too.
We spend the night watching the fire from her deck in Samarkand. It’s as if General William Tecumseh Sherman has come back from the dead. We wonder if there’ll be anything left of our “Atlanta” by morning.
When the sun rises, things look peaceful in our neighborhood. The officers guarding our block let us back in if we offer a good story. The lady from across the street wants to look for her cat. I say I need to water my tomatoes. They wave us in with our promises we’ll re-evacuate ASAP.
After another sleepless night away, we’re allowed to return for good. Home was never sweeter. Somehow in all the smoke and wind, the tomato plants are a foot tall.
We barely have time to give thanks for our blessings before we realize our 60-year-old plumbing has chosen this particular day to get blocked. We have a home but no toilets.
Normally a roto-rooter man would arrive within an hour and solve the problem. But half the plumbers in town are under evacuation themselves, and the other half are busy taking care of plumbing issues in the burn areas.
We finally get someone to show up that evening, but the guy is so exhausted from extra duty that he locks his keys in his van. Instead of snaking our mainline, he has to call a locksmith. As soon as he can get in, he takes off.
It’s the next afternoon before David Villa from Stewart’s can show up and be our hero.
There are signs all over town thanking firefighters for their valiant efforts in putting out the blaze. The sign in front of our house also says “God Bless the Plumbers.”
First published in the Montecito Journal May 21, 2009
