“That” play that shall not be named. You know, the Scottish one, affixes Birnam woods in literature and history when Siward, Menteith, Malcolm and their hosts hewed its boughs and then bear them before them, to shadow their numbers, as they marched on Dunsinane. One among them especially intent on murder, a man not born of woman’s womb. Speaking of murder, I have a Clue nee Cluedo of who did it, it was the gardener, with the weed whacker in the rose garden.

They say that you can grow anything in California, just add water. Once watered, it grows, but shutoff the water and it turns brown and then becomes fuel for fire. If it is not fire-season here, then it is time to prepare for the next fire season. That is what time it is now. The winter rains have ended and except for each night’s encroaching fog no more moisture is to be had. A perimeter is maintained around the house, a firebreak to keep the chaparral at bay. The chaparral itself is as impenetrable as a briar patch. Instead of thorns, it defends itself with poison oak. A man wanted $4K/day for its removal. Within that perimeter grass grows, grass that must be regularly cut. Writing atop this Dunsinane, the house cascades down the hill and I sit like a man in a high castle. The hillside is too steep to use a lawn mower. It has been tried. Hauling the mower up and down on a rope. A weed whacker is a more elegant solution. 

Come fire season we will learn it these efforts were enough. In the past an evacuation was mandated. Chris and dad loaded the cars with a few treasures and drove downhill. After the all-clear was sounded only then could they return. They dodged a bullet that year. One that would be much harder to avoid now.