The Glass Fire is snaking around the eastern edge of Santa Rosa, jumping roads at will. They might tell us to get out of our house pretty soon... a lot of houses in the Rincon Valley would burn before it got to us. Yellow sky, ash dropping out of the sky like snow. Still, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. My sons and grandsons are here, my uncle Bob and his wife Magi are here. It doesn’t take long to grow deep roots in the North Bay.