Lessons from a fire

The winds are not done with us yet

Besides the wind howling all around us, it was mostly quiet — until, suddenly, it wasn’t. Phones started blaring.  

The message was clear: Evacuate now. 

When my Substack hit inboxes last Tuesday I was worried about another part of Los Angeles. We had just begun to get a sense of the devastation in the Pacific Palisades, an area of Los Angeles far away from where I live, on the opposite side of Los Angeles county. The scope of the fire was becoming clearer: Homes were destroyed, the historic Getty Villa was under threat. Some images began to show the breadth of destruction. 

I had sent text messages to friends on the westside of Los Angeles, posted on social media that I was thinking of so many in harm’s way.  Not knowing that within hours, I myself would be evacuated due to a second, ferocious wildfire that ignited closer to home. Close enough, in fact, that I could see it on a ridge from my driveway.

Extreme weather events have been predicted.  

For years the National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration has been warning that we will see more destructive storms in our lifetimes: Hurricanes, fires, tornadoes, earthquakes.  They’ve been predicting some of America’s most expensive coastal real estate will no longer exist.  

We don’t listen. Most of the time the predictions are not even covered in our news, and then, suddenly, it’s upon us. In our faces. It isn’t real, until it is. 

Don’t wait 

We knew the winds were coming. The city and county alerted residents. 

I picked my son up from school Tuesday.  The winds were whipping the street lights, street signs dangled violently, beating their posts. It was the first day back to school after winter break and there was almost a buzzing in the air as the kids left their school, talking about the wind taking down branches, a worry of what was to come.  

As we watched the Pacific Palisades in horror, an alert came from Watch Duty (suddenly an indispensable app for Los Angeles) that Eaton Canyon, a gorgeous hiking area that leads to a waterfall, about 7 miles from our neighborhood, caught fire. Our family hiked it many times; our son played water polo all summer in a community pool just south of it, and now it’s gone.

One friend texted around 7:30 PM: 

Just a precautionary
God forbid 🔥 starts around u guys 
U know to come here 😘

Another friend sent a picture he took from the YMCA north of our house. The fire spread rapidly.   

My son and I were away from our house when the fire started, dealing with a phone issue. By the time we got out of the store the power was out on the block, a man was showing people to their cars with a flashlight, and the wind whipped, continuing to pick up. 

As we drove home, emergency vehicles flew by us going in different directions.  My son sat on a group call with his friends, one who had also just lost power.  If you have power, charge your phones, they all told each other.  

Driving up to our canyon, traffic was moving slowly, taking caution around the fallen trees and branches.  One tree that had been decorated with blue Christmas lights lay on its side across a lane of traffic, with the lights still lit.  Cars took turns passing. 

When we finally reached our street, a giant old pine tree had fallen, blocking the entire street, making it impassable.  We wouldn’t be able to get our car home. 

I’ve often called my little area of Los Angeles County my Des Moines, Iowa of LA.  People are friendly. We know our neighbors and we chat when we’re walking our dogs.

Thank heavens we all knew each other that night.  The neighbor who lived closest to the tree called the city, another helped us park in an area that was safer and gave us a ride back. A third neighbor plotted what to do if the city couldn’t get to the tree in time. We started texting with all our neighbors to find out who was in for the night, who had cars on one side of the tree, and who had cars on the other.  Should anything happen, we were determined to get everyone to safety.  

My husband turned on the TV.  CNN was covering something that was completely useless.  We switched to local NBC.  Local TV would become our lifeline throughout this crisis. 

As we watched, the fires continued to grow.  My son, who had been calm, mostly, was getting freaked out.  We told him he needed to sleep.  We would stay up and let him know if he needed to go anywhere.  

The last time winds whipped this neighborhood like this, a neighbor told us, one house had windows shatter.  We kept our shoes on all night. 

We have two cats and a dog. We brought the cat carriers inside, we packed our important documents, food for animals, and bags as if we were leaving for a week.  My son is an artist and one of my favorite works of his, he did when he was 10.  It’s a modern take on the Mona Lisa.  I wanted to take it with me.  It wouldn’t fit. 

Nothing else matters 

We had never gotten this emergency alert — until it hit our phones.  

It was around 5 a.m. when the loud buzzing sound pierced the air, the message said to evacuate now.  

Ok, I said, let’s go.  I woke up my son.  He was scared.  Let’s go, I said.  Let’s get anything you need.  I walked up to see that the tree was still blocking the road, I looked to see if the fire was any closer than what I could see before.  Thankfully it was where I expected it.  The smell of smoke was heavy now.  

I called the city while my husband ran about a half a mile, to get the other car that’s beyond the trees. We’re now under mandatory evacuation, I tell the city, can you help us with the tree that’s blocking us in?  Yes, someone is on their way. We hope that’s true. 

We had started calling neighbors, ringing doorbells.  Making sure everyone was aware. The order was mandatory, not optional.  As each awoke, grabbing their most precious items we somehow found solace that we were all in it together.  Happy evacuation day, we would joke with each other.  I can see it here, another shouted down at us, pointing to the fire.  

Our next door neighbor is a retiree who has enjoyed this perfect paradise of our neighborhood for years.  This is a first for him, not a fire and not the winds, but the two together with the seriousness and heaviness.  It’s a lot for everyone. 

I go back and crate the cats.  When my husband gets back he sees a city truck headed up the road.  It’s one man.  The man gets out a chainsaw and splits the tree in two.  Behind him a plow comes and pushes the tree to either side of the street clearing the path.  

I start driving with my son, the dog, the cats, some bags, and my husband fills the other car.  The traffic is heavy, everyone headed in one direction, down and out of the canyon.  

We landed at the friend’s house who had texted the night before.  It’s just beyond the canyon, a friend from our public school.  They have coffee, power, and phone chargers. More and more dogs and kids.  Parents bringing elderly neighbors to wait for their loved ones.  All of us making sure everyone is accounted for, figuring out next steps. Community banding together.

It was later that afternoon that we landed at a hotel downtown where we could unpack the cats, figure out what we had forgotten, and continue to watch the news.  But it was the view I’ll most remember.  From downtown the city around us was on fire.  As the sun went down, Hollywood went up in flames. Fire to the north, the east, and the west. It’s like the apocalypse movie, my son tells me.  It is. 

As natural disasters rage, nothing else mattered.  I remember the friends and family who texted and called and checked on our safety.  Some messages – like prescheduled fundraising or sales emails – appeared out of touch with our reality.  Thousands had lost everything.  We were hoping we would get to go home. 

Blame doesn’t equal help 

On Thursday our evacuation order was lifted as winds shifted, firefighters were able to stop the Eaton fire from advancing on our home.  Our home was safe.

We would learn that one of my son’s teachers lost her house.  We would learn that students in our district lost their homes.  We would learn about friends we’ve celebrated Thanksgiving with for years losing their home.  We see the news reports of those who themselves did not get out. 

Each day we learn that landmarks and community centers are remnants of themselves. And we see in Los Angeles, if you’re paying attention and if you’re watching our local news, that for now our local leaders are banding together to continue the fight, with a pledge to rebuild.  Neighbors on Nextdoor are sending reports if their neighborhood is safe, sending tips of where to get aid if you need it; we’re all relying on each other.

On the national news you might not see that as much.  You’ll see the squabbles, the blame games.  And there are legitimate questions to be asked, legitimate lessons to be learned. But if I learned anything from this, if we actually want to fight, especially against a foe as powerful as nature, we have to work together. 

I keep thinking about a point during the evacuation. We were at our friend's house and my husband asked, almost to anyone, “is anywhere just … safe?”

“No,” was my response. Another friend laughed.

It was too true a response as the smoke filled in around us, threatening the next evacuation order.