ALTADENA, Calif. — The alerts regarding potential danger began on Saturday, January 4. A neighboring volunteer at the local sheriff’s office advised us to “batten down the hatches” in anticipation of a significant windstorm. Before we knew it, events escalated rapidly.
On Sunday, I donned a bowtie and tuxedo to cover the Golden Globes red carpet. By Tuesday morning, I found myself driving from our residence in Altadena towards the raging Pacific Palisades wildfire to record footage for our broadcast. I urged my wife, Meg, to prepare the cat carriers and capture video of our home for insurance reasons, just in case.
___
In a personal note — the owner of this story, who works as an entertainment video editor in Los Angeles, has tragically lost his home to the wildfires ravaging California last week.
On my return journey, I caught sight of smoke glowing in an ominous orange hue. A colleague messaged to inform me of another fire erupting in Altadena. Parked at a nearby gas station, I searched for a better vantage point overlooking a quirky spot known as the Bunny Museum. Our favored new pizza joint, Side Pie, rested across the street from the café, Fox’s, which has been a community staple since 1955.
Within an hour of the fire’s onset, strong flames raced up the mountainside above Eaton Canyon. Equipped with a KN95 mask and ski goggles, I stood three miles from our home. However, the Santa Ana winds began to howl at an intensity I had never experienced.
Upon returning home, I delivered the sobering news to Meg: it was time to pack up and evacuate. Our daughter, Reese, was away on a school trip. We swiftly gathered what we could in about an hour, which felt both fleeting and agonizingly slow. I grabbed an Ozomatli sweatshirt I’d received for Christmas, a pair of jeans, vitamins, and a portable speaker. Meg packed her belongings and gathered essentials for Reese, including her school backpack and a couple of stuffed animals. I instinctively considered taking some wine but ultimately decided against it. We secured our passports and birth certificates, along with a litter box and wet food for our cats. Both cars were quickly loaded.
Did any neighbors on our street need assistance? I inquired, and our neighbor confirmed that her adjacent neighbor did. I assisted Donna in getting her husband, Phil, into their Subaru.
I took one last photograph from our driveway — our home silhouetted against a daunting reddish-orange hue. With that snapshot, we drove away into the uncertain night, stepping into a reality marked by flames, smoke, and heart-wrenching loss, a transformation that would leave an indelible mark on our lives.
This was the place we called home.
Our journey in Altadena began when Reese participated in the Summerkids camp, each morning feeling the urban rush fade behind me as I drove her past the immense pines, cedars, and maple trees lining the tranquil streets. When Reese turned five, we discovered a three-bedroom, two-bath house boasting a scenic backyard view of the San Gabriel Mountains and a large tree in the front yard ideal for a swing.
Constructed in 1958, this residence had been cherished by our next-door neighbor for many years. Meg and I adored the clerestory windows, hardwood flooring, and wooden beams that adorned the ceiling. Although they had previously been painted brown, we stripped the paint to reveal their natural beauty.
The eclectic community was a delight, with neighboring residents frequently exchanging nods and greetings as we strolled down our sidewalk-less street. Alongside a tight-knit Black community, the serenity, nature, and affordable housing attracted a creative mix of musicians, artists, and artisans from the broader Los Angeles area.
On days when the weather was ideal, I’d take a hike uphill to the trails leading to Echo Mountain and, eventually, Inspiration Point. It was so easily accessible that I referred to it as “my mountain.” The remains of a historic hotel and resort that had succumbed to wildfires in the early 1900s lay scattered across Echo Mountain. Once, on a hike with Reese and a friend, we dug in the dirt and stumbled across pieces of pottery, which we proudly brought home, cleaned, and tried to piece back together.
Two years prior, a family moved in next door with their two daughters, who quickly became close companions to Reese. The girls would scale our garage to watch the Fourth of July fireworks, play ping-pong in our backyard, or gather in Reese’s room for Roblox games. We adopted two orange tabby cats, Luke and Archie, who had been our companions before the pandemic and provided comfort throughout challenging days of lockdown and nearby fires that forced us indoors. Meg dreamt of building a “catio” for them to enjoy outside.
After the passing of Meg’s father, we used her inheritance to remodel our home. Meg meticulously modernized every corner but preserved the house’s midcentury characteristics, curating art, photographs, wood sculptures, and mementos from our travels.
One memorable Christmas, Meg surprised me by converting our garage into a cozy study, complete with a TV, an elliptical, a spin bike, and her father’s old roll-top desk. We also set up storage sheds containing photo albums from a pre-digital era, holiday decorations, scrapbooks filled with my earliest newspaper clippings, and cherished items like Meg’s childhood school photos and report cards. All those tangible memories now vanished.
Working primarily from home had allowed me to maintain a regular routine of walking a three-mile loop throughout the neighborhood, witnessing the community’s vibrant tapestry: yards filled with dilapidated vehicles, residents in cowboy hats riding horses, starkly modern homes with floor-to-ceiling glass, encounters with coyotes, and dog walkers equipped with hefty sticks for protection. In this colorful mix, we found signs of support for various causes incorporating rainbow flags, Black Lives Matter messages, and political banners.
The mixture of human endeavors and the unpredictability of nature created a rich tableau — all of these elements shaped the essence of home for us.
After our hasty departure last week, we spent the night at a friend’s residence in San Rafael Hills. I awoke around 6 a.m. and decided to return to Altadena.
Approaching via the freeway, the scene resembled a swirling orange vortex reminiscent of a sandstorm. Yet, I plunged into a thick cloud of black smoke instead.
Nearby homes were ablaze just past the frequently congested McDonald’s. I halted my vehicle to send live video footage from my iPhone, knowing I wouldn’t catch a cell signal closer to home.
What had happened to our house?
I tried to navigate the route back to check on it, but turned back when the smoke grew so dense that I could no longer see the street, encircled by flames.
Eventually, I made my way to the evacuation center at the Pasadena Convention Center. Watching the transformation of the gathering place was both surprising and moving: initial confusion morphed into organized support as Red Cross volunteers, paramedics, and generous individuals provided food from sources like World Central Kitchen and Chick-fil-A.
After interviewing some evacuees, I felt it was time to return to Marengo for another look at our home.
I swerved to miss burning trees on the road, debris scattered around me as destruction engulfed the area. Our street was obstructed by a smoldering power pole.
I didn’t even step out of the car; I merely glanced enough to absorb the devastation around me: nearly the entirety of our block had been consumed by flames. While Reese’s tree swing and the backyard ping-pong table remained, along with our chimney and fireplace painted white, everything else — all that signified the life we built and the love we shared — was eliminated, like it had never existed. But I remembered it vividly.
As I drove down the hill, tears streamed down my face.
