You always try to find something to relate to when reading a memoir-style piece. Being from Florida reading about natural disasters, I immediately think of hurricanes. I think "oh yeah, okay, i might be able to relate to the hardship and stress and grief of this."
Not for this.
The constant guarantee of unpredictable fires every August is terrifying. At least with hurricanes you know several days in advance the impending doom. But from what Barnes describes, an easy and carefree family dinner can turn into an all night vigil praying for the safe return of your fire-fighting husband. Voluntary fire-fighting, too.
At first I was taken with Barnes description of the landscapes, the colors and textures of northern Idaho, a region, a state, I never really consider beyond potatoes and backwoods. I wouldn't've considered Idaho a part of the American West until I read this. I was moved. By the history that Barnes cited throughout, from her own experiences. I was especially taken the "legends" she mentions, like the horse out-running the fire by fifty miles, or the man that shot himself rather than facing the cowardice of running from the fire. They're bone-chilling. More bone-chilling, though, is the thought that Barnes and her family willing risk themselves every year, every fiery August, to live in that part of the world. She barely mentions the rumored brutal winters of the West (the movie Fargo comes to mind), but the summers, long and lush, culminating in a dry and anxious August, always on the verge of erupting.
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