In a state of wonder and fire

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

MONTEREY, California

Great, thick, ugly clouds of smoke rose in the air, turning a blue sky black, then stopped and spiraled downward, rolling, one after another, like creatures from a horror movie, down the hills, over burning brush, and onto the deserted road just a median strip away from where my husband and I were stuck in traffic.

Southbound, the direction we were driving, was bumper to bumper, with people riding their brakes and rubber-necking. But no one beside us or behind us seemed the least unhinged by the smoke and flames just across the road. A house in cinders a line drive away, the hills burning. Hundreds of acres in flames. Firetrucks and firefighters everywhere. A helicopter hovering, dropping something - water, flame retardants - then flying away.

And hundreds of us in hundreds of cars filled with thousands of gallons of gasoline. Yet it was business as usual. No panic. No rush to escape. Just a long, slow procession to wherever it was we were all going.

Later, there were front page stories and news reports and lots of people talking about the fire, the dry weather, and the rumor that this one had been set. But the talk had a used-to-it tone, fire to Californians like snow to New Englanders, something that is measured and assessed and discussed, but also expected.

The thunderstorm the next day was different. Midday, just after lunch, the blue skies turned gray. The sun disappeared. A few storm clouds gathered. And then there was thunder.

"What's that?" people asked - a young girl serving drinks in a lounge, a desk clerk checking in a guest, a man giving an older woman a massage, a caddy, a doorman, the person who checks the minibar.

It's thunder, the guests all said, people from Florida and North Carolina and Washington, D.C., and England and Taiwan and Australia.

"What's that?" the natives gasped, lightning next, a sizzle, then a ferocious jolt. There was hardly any rain, just a few drops, but the lightning crackled and stopped the people who live here in their tracks, had them racing to doors and windows and looking out and up and saying to each other, "I've never seen lightning here." And "I can't remember the last time there was thunder."

"Seven years ago," a man working at the health club declared with the certainty born of experience. "I remember it was 2001."

"Did you see?" "Can you believe?" "There hasn't been anything like this in years." This was the buzz later that day. And the next day. And the day after. Forty-eight hours after this thunderstorm, it was still the talk of the town.

It's all what we're used to, the things we overlook and the things we see.

A friend, years ago, told me about going to church one Sunday in the shadow of the Grand Canyon. About listening to the priest talk about the infinite love of God. And about being stunned when he compared the depth and breadth of God's love to the mighty Mississippi, when right outside his window was this wonder, which people came from all over the world to see.

In this great, beautiful place, I see huge blossoms that look like magnolias growing on trees that look like evergreens, trees everywhere, straight and tall and bent, pine and cypress and redwood, deer on the golf courses and deer on the windy streets, the sea churning, patches of pink and yellow flowers growing between rocks. Fog that doesn't burn off until late in the day - June gloom, it's called. Even on days when the sun breaks through the fog and warms the beach, there are cold, raw nights and fireplaces glow.

It all amazes me. The cold. The heat. The smell of wood smoke and jasmine. Different birds singing their different songs. Different plants blooming their different flowers. Vines and vineyards. Cottages and mansions. Seals and sea otters. Bougainvillea climbing a wall. A great blue sky. A golden sun. The sea. Lightning. And a fire that burned 630 acres, that 645 firefighters fought, finally contained.