Altadena Strong

It's been a month since the Eaton Fire.  For the first ten days, Zoe and I stayed in Irvine, cocooned by the clean air, grandparent attention, parks, and play dates.  It was our escape.  Then, the time came for us to go back and face reality.  Zoe had to get back into the school routine, for her own sense of normalcy.  As for me, not only did I have to get back into work mode, but also go out to our destroyed neighborhoods and take it in with my own eyes.  On the morning that evacuation orders were lifted for our area (January 21st), I dropped Zoe off at preschool for the first time and it was a heartbreaking separation, even though her favorite teachers were right there with her.  The teachers had to hold her away from me as I walked down the hall, waving to her and holding back my own tears while hearing her scream.  Fortunately, the teachers messaged me as I was still sitting in my car in the parking lot, saying that she had settled a few minutes later and was making me a heart out of markers and paper.  My next task was to drive into Altadena for the first time.

As I exited Lincoln, my heart was pounding, anticipating when I would see the first burned home. There was debris on the road from the winds, but I drove past the coffeeshop not far from home and saw people lining up, buying coffee—business as usual.  I saw that the supermarket was still standing, the yoga studio, the gym.  Then, the first burned house came into view, with twisted metal, blackened trees, and cars reduced to misshapen metal.  Then, there were a few homes after that, totally intact.  The big white farmhouse survived.  The one with the Japanese-style bricks was gone.  Maybe some people did what Wes did and saved their houses.. or maybe the fire worked in a weird pattern.  I couldn’t understand how some were unaffected and some were leveled, right next door to each other.  I also wasn’t expecting Lincoln to be fully open, after hearing stories from Wes about the barricades, the National Guard, downed trees and power lines… it was surprisingly easy to pull up to our house.  I felt a mixture of emotions when I saw our house, sitting pretty as it always has, on its trapezoidal lawn, framed by the eucalyptus tree and the Chinese elm, front fence intact.  It truly looked like a slice of heaven, a surreal sight in a landscape of utter devastation.

Feelings of relief, guilt, fear, dejection, and incredulity washed over me.  Unlike what I'd been seeing in the news and hearing from almost all of my neighbors, our house in Altadena looked… untouched, peaceful.  I backed into the driveway, for the first time in what felt like a year, and stepped out.  The sun was warm against my shoulder, the birds were chirping, the grass was actually green. Wes had cleaned and swept every leaf, when he was eliminating the property of more tinder between wind storms.  It was eerie, like it didn't quite belong... didn't fit the narrative of widespread destruction.  It was a page out of an old book edition that was mistakenly reprinted.  I wondered if seeing it made people angry.

The first thing I did was walk around to the South fence, which was bent at a complete 90-degree angle and I could clearly see Rosemary’s house completely in shambles, with only the brick chimney remaining.  Luckily, she and her family had sold the house last year and moved out of state.  Meanwhile, the new owners were contractors who hadn’t even moved in yet, though they had started to do some renovating.  It was so sad to see the remains of the Nailon family legacy, who had all lived there and made art, gardened, homeschooled, and evangelized for decades.  And the hope that the new family had--disintegrated.

Then, I walked to the East fence, which was also ripped apart, with a clear view into Dinky’s back yard.  Dinky had his hose out on the day of the fires too, fighting the embers raining down from the trees surrounding our properties with Wes.  They had met before, but we barely see Dinky because his front door faces the next street and we really only share this back border.  His house and garage, both intact, stood frozen in time.  He wasn’t there, it looked almost deserted, a little disheveled, but it was there, in one piece.  I pictured how he and Wes called to each other during the firestorm, just keeping track of each other in the most surreal thing that has ever happened on this block.  The big tree behind the fence had fallen over into our back yard, spanning the area between our two fruiting orange trees to Zoe’s play structure, somehow missing all of these points and laying perfectly in between.  This was the tall tree that was most visible from Zoe’s bedroom window, with leaves that turned with the seasons.  Now there isn’t anything there at all, but a blank patch of sky.  Speaking of our oranges, we were told that we can’t eat them for a few seasons because of possibly contaminated soil.  Our tradition of making juice for the teachers and our friends will be on hold.

Then, I approached the back door and I opened it.  I almost wore my shoes in, and then remembered that there was probably ash and other toxic particles stuck to the bottom of them.  I left them outside on the mat.  I took off my mask, and it smelled kind of like smoke, but kind of like… some odor that I couldn't pinpoint.  With the exception of the blue tape that Wes added around the windows, almost everything was just as we had left it, like a time capsule.  The countertop was just as messy as it always was, covered with the clutter of our daily lives: a vision that used to annoy me so much, and now leaves me emotional.  In the middle of the room stood a hamper of dirty clothes, with the last outfits that we all wore inside of it, on its way to the washing machine.  Zoe's worktable had a just-completed card that she was making for her teacher on it (which she was still asking to give her).  The calendar that we had made a habit of marking this year, was flipped open next to the card.  The dining table looked different.  It was now strewn with receipts, gadgets, and other things that Wes has been working on in terms of home protection and clean-up.  My desk looked like it had been ravaged, as Wes had hastily grabbed some things from it that I had requested when I realized how dire the situation had become on the night of the fire.  Zoe’s toys were still on the play mat—magnatiles, legos, her magic wand from Legoland, her favorite tote bag, her grill from Ms. Adriana, the cash register that she got for Christmas.  Her random ziplock bag full of play food was still unexpectedly found on a barstool, her pink watch lay on its side on the TV console, stuffed animals sat by the speaker, musical instruments left on the rug that were just played to the beat of a favorite song.  The wood prints hanging on the walls from our pre-baby travels, the custom-made acorn box on the fireplace that my engagement ring came in… it was all there, with so much as a thin coating of dust over the top.  I pictured it all engulfed in flames: her trampoline, our book shelf, the couch… this happened to so many, but it didn’t happen to us.  

Soon enough, I switched from emotional state to productivity state and started to clean up.  I threw away things that were not worth saving, since a professional cleaning crew was going to come over to clean every single thing in our house.  I started tossing things almost brashly, like the ashy gift bags that I hadn’t yet put away from the holidays and a stack of random blank CD’s on my desk.  Then, I picked up a book that my parents had made for me and given to me on my wedding night.  As quickly as I had started, I embarked on a new mission: to gather the sentimental things into a bin and to photograph things that I would not want to ever lose.  Every single thing in this house was getting a second life, and I did not want to squander that blessing.  After having been through a disaster, one could only think of how quickly all of it could disappear—true, they are only things, but many of these things mean something to us and some simply can’t be replaced.  I threw my Line A Day diary from Zoe’s first two years of life into a bin, a potty training book with a personality quiz that I had completed about Zoe in it, a paper book that Zoe made for Wes on Christmas about why she loves Daddy, our wedding photo album, the miniature golden jewelry that I was given when I was born, my late grandmother’s earrings from Taiwan… I allowed myself to slow down and take it in.  The thought of how unreal and unfair it was that I could do this within four walls, instead of sifting through rubble, crept up to haunt me, despite my deepest gratitude.  And yet, these things could still evaporate in the blink of an eye, whether by another natural disaster or worse, human subversion.  Twenty looters were arrested in the aftermath of the fire, and they're still around, picking through what's left of homes burned and preying on homes that are still standing.  This is why Wes never left in those first ten days.

Then, we took a walk around the neighborhood.  Wes asked if I wanted to drive or be on foot.  I chose to be on foot, so I could let it sink in.  I thought that I was going to cry as we turned the corner and saw the rows upon rows of burned homes, but I didn’t.  I don’t know if maybe I had processed it so many times over already, with Zoe’s incessant questions, the media, pictures from friends… I don’t know if I already knew what to expect, I don’t know if I was or am still numb…  I saw people in the streets like us, surveying the damage silently.  I found myself wanting to hug and hold anyone around, only to remember that maybe some of these people aren’t here with the right intentions.  

During our walk, I thought about how we did this same walk every day, and sometimes even twice a day, during the pandemic when I was pregnant, and then when Zoe was born.  The neighborhood was a perfect refuge during that time--it was eclectically beautiful, quaint and quiet, close to nature, and full of the kindest people.  We met so many fellow walkers and neighbors, as people sought fresh air and movement in those long, lockdown days.  We often followed the same route, winding from Mendocino to Olive, to Mariposa, to Glenrose, to Manor, to Terrace, to Devirian, and back to Lincoln.  Occasionally, we took Olive or Glenrose all the way up and crossed Altadena Drive, went up to Palm, then Loma Alta, popping into little pockets that we loved, like Las Flores and Reever Way for the peacocks.  My very uncertain pregnancy developed during that very uncertain time, and the neighbors always checked on me and shared in our excitement as I grew.  They saw two-day-old Zoe on her first walk through the neighborhood in her stroller bassinet.  For months, they saw either me or Wes take our haggard early-morning walks with Zoe strapped to our chest in a baby carrier.  They gave me words of affirmation when I was feeling exhausted.  They watched her grow into a rotund and chatty one-year-old, then blossom into a confident three-year-old riding her tricycle.   We met other parents with babies and exchanged phone numbers.  It was on one of these walks that we met our closest friends now--Michelle and Greg.  Their home burned to the ground.  So did Will and Holly's, Peter's, Michael and Christie's, Dee's, Mike and Kelly's, Pinky and Mark's, Emily and Spencer's, Jeff and Christina's, Julia and Blair's, and Rosemary and Simone's.  A few of these people have already moved away, thankfully, but their homes were always a reminder of the good times we had together.  This list does not even include my coworkers who've lost their homes in other parts of Altadena.  Every one of these losses was and is still a dagger to my heart. 

I was just taking a video of the devastation on Mendocino as we were partway through our walk when  somebody rolled up next to us in a pickup truck, and in a voice that we both knew well, admonished, “They say no pictures!”  I whirled around and there was Ray, like an angel from heaven, flashing that big, unmistakeable smile on his face.  It was such a relief to see him and to hear his good-natured sarcasm!  He had been on his corner of Mendocino for decades with his wife, Sharon, and they came back to a house intact, like us.  And like us, almost everyone they knew had lost everything.  We told him that we'd be over to chat as soon as we finished walking.  We continued on our walk through scene after unrecognizable scene, stopping for moments of silence by homes of those we knew.  When we circled back to Ray's house, we found him sweeping up leaves in his driveway wearing a respirator over his white, bushy beard.  We talked about all of it, both grateful and grieving, but he said something that struck me.  He said that he’d been through worse.  Aghast, I asked if he had been through another wildfire before, but he shook his head and said that it was riots—both in LA and in Detroit.  I was humbled by this—here we are, feeling heartbroken by a natural disaster and feeling sorry for ourselves when people had to behold their homes and businesses being deliberately torched, and then having to pick up the pieces with less means than we all have now.  

We walked back up our driveway and onto the brick front steps.  So many neighbors have come up these steps to retrieve Buy Nothing items from the bench at the top by the front door... no matter how small, there were many fruitful and helpful exchanges that made me feel connected to them.  Turning around and looking out to the street, I felt lucky that everything looked the same to the West, since the homes across Lincoln also did not burn down.  We could see the mountaintops still, we could see our lawn stretching generously to the sidewalk, we could see Jose's house, a new friend that Wes had made during his long days of fighting the elements and looking out for looters here.  Jose fed him burgers and pizza when Wes was camping out in his car outside of our house when there was no power and no police presence.  I have yet to meet him.  New beginnings, already.  

Again, it is such a mess of emotions for me.  Seeing our house still there, looking as beautiful as it has always looked.. but then seeing that the majority of the others are gone and knowing that so many have nothing to come back to, is hard.  Prior to today, I was not sure how I felt about moving back in.  But, I think that the prospects seem better now that I've actually talked to some people here.  Cynthia and Erik, our next-door neighbors, also stopped by today and we had a heartfelt conversation in their doorway.  The last time we stood there was when Zoe had brought homemade Christmas cookies to them.  They'd been here through the whole pandemic with us, and here we are, masked again, but present and healthy.  Ray is here, Cynthia and Erik are going to be here, Jose is here, Dinky will be here.  People all over LA are rooting for Altadena.  There are signs that say, “Altadena is Not For Sale” on light poles.  There was free food at the restaurant a few streets down and food trucks giving away more free food.  Stumptown Coffee a few blocks south has lines out the door again.  Kismet, the new-coming rotisserie chicken shop, has resumed construction.  Super King, our affordable supermarket—a pillar of our equal opportunity neighborhood—still stands and will open soon.  Crescent Yoga will reopen soon.  Our public libraries are both safe, the historic Christmas Tree Lane is still there, the elementary school was damaged, but did not burn.  Also, I’ve just in the last few days met some displaced families at our hotel in Arcadia: some who’ve lost their homes, some who have homes still standing, some who saved their homes, some who tried but ran out of water…everyone has a unique situation, but most have a desire to rebuild or return because of what the community meant to them.  They’re from all different walks of life, but all had been there longer than Wes and I have, mostly with grown children.  It has been poignant, inspiring, and uplifting to be with these fellow Altadenans from various generations.  I especially enjoyed hearing the older people reminisce on happy times raising their families and building their careers in the town that I'm still fairly new to, but have grown to love so much.  It shows that the spirit of Altadena runs deep and still shines bright.

July 2022

We were always so proud to have bought in Altadena.  When we were still renting our apartment in Pasadena, we used to go hiking at Echo Mountain and Eaton Canyon and think: How nice would it be to call Altadena home one day?  Since my first job as an occupational therapist traveling from school to school throughout the Pasadena Unified School District, I have always believed that Altadena was a special place.  It is the perfect balance between suburban and urban, the perfect blend of diversity, the perfect mountain backdrop to drive home to, with easy access to hiking trails, creeks, and winter snow play.  As Zoe enters her elementary school years, I was looking forward to meeting more families here, to further shaping our niche and giving back to our community.  Since day one of owning this house, Wes has always been so content and proud to be its homeowner.  He took such care of our grounds, from the inside out.  Now that some of the dust has settled (literally), power restored, streets cleared, and blockades removed, we are feeling a glimmer of hope.  There may be people who are unsure about coming back, but there are many who are positive about rebuilding.  It seems to me that almost everyone has accepted the facts of the situation by now, and at this point, it is those people with the positive outlook who are the ones that I want to emulate.  

So, survivor's guilt begone.  We are Altadena proud, and Altadena strong.  We will be there to cheer on our neighbors and help them rebuild in any way that we can.  We will not back away in fear when we have a perfectly good house to inhabit and host from.  We want to be, as another total loss neighbor, Pinky, put it: “a beacon of hope.”  Wes saved our house not for naught.  We hope that we will be able to live out the rest of our lives in this humble, 102-year-old home, which is exactly what we had set out to do when we chose to lay down roots in this town.  Our neighbors are a big part of our “why,” and we want to be here waiting to welcome them home every step of the way, even though it's going to be a long road ahead.