Having resided in Los Angeles for 24 years, wildfires were always something I heard about happening to "those poor people." Living just a short distance from downtown, in a house overlooking Eaton Canyon, nestled between Pasadena and Altadena, I never truly imagined it could happen to us. But it did.
Tuesday began like any other day. We experienced a brief power outage, a common occurrence due to heat or wind. The power returned, thankfully, in time for my broadcast. I even enjoyed a peaceful Zoom meeting outdoors. However, the tranquility was shattered when the power went out again at 5:10 pm, this time plunging us into darkness.
Anticipating strong winds, my son and I began securing outdoor furniture. Suddenly, he pointed to a massive plume of dark gray smoke billowing from across the street. It appeared so close, almost within arm's reach. Initially, I mistook it for something burning in my neighbor's yard, but then I noticed the telltale orange glow at the mountain's base. My son's 911 call confirmed our fears.
As emergency vehicles swarmed the street, a primal instinct kicked in. I knew we had to leave, even before the official evacuation order blared from a police bullhorn. The frantic search for flashlights, batteries, and candles in the dark house was punctuated by the rising panic in my children's voices. In the chaos, we struggled to locate our dog, his leash, even his collar.
With only the clothes on our backs, a few essential belongings, and our bewildered dog, we fled into the night. The street was a scene of controlled chaos, thanks to the incredible first responders who expertly navigated the exodus. Driving down the hill, we were confronted by a terrifying inferno. The sight was so horrific, my children couldn't bear to look.
Finding refuge in a nearby Marriott, a hotel now sheltering many displaced families, brought a momentary sense of relief. The immediate concerns shifted from survival to logistics – school closures, homework, volleyball tryouts, and the gnawing uncertainty of our home's fate.
The experience brought a recent Sunday dinner conversation into sharp focus. My husband had asked each of us what single item we would take if forced to evacuate. Now, faced with that very scenario, I realized the true value of irreplaceable memories – a cassette of my late father's voice, my mother's and grandmother's rings, my wedding album, my untouched piano, sentimental teacups, even love letters from my husband. These were the treasures that truly mattered.
As we wait to learn the fate of our home, the uncertainty is agonizing. While I know a house is just a structure, it holds a lifetime of memories. And that's what makes this experience so profoundly unsettling.
