True story

Yesterday morning I dropped the truck off to get her winter boots on. My son picked me up and we headed out to Oak Glen to have breakfast at Apple Annie's, walk off our potatoes and apple pie along the nature trails at Los Rios Rancho, and pick up some Honey Crisp apples and apple cider. As he drove, I told him how well I'd slept the night before, a conversation which progressed into the not-fond memories of waking up to shots being fired in our old Rancho Cucamonga neighborhood. Such things were a regular occurrence back then. Since I've lived here on the mountain, I've never experienced that sort of rude awakening. Friday night was no different; I read until I was sleepy, then pulled the covers up, cat snuggled lovingly along my side, and fell into a deliciously deep sleep.


Which is why, I suppose, I never heard the shouting or the commotion or the fire engine siren right outside my cabin.

When I returned yesterday, Neighbor Eric came out to apologize if I'd been disturbed the night before.
"No, no," I assured him. "I had the best sleep—"
"We had a chimney fire," he said. "Baldy Fire was here, lights and sirens. They parked between our cabins. You really didn't hear anything?"

I really didn't hear anything.

Maybe it has to do with the double-paned windows in the loft. More likely, it has to do with how safe I feel, tucked away in this canyon, away from all the predators in the flatland.