The Beginning: Earth, Wind, and Fire
January 7 was a blustery day, and it was my 32-year work anniversary at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena. How could I have known I would start the day by recognizing a service anniversary and end by evacuating my home? I’m getting ahead of myself, so let me provide the backstory.
I had a happy little home I affectionately nicknamed “the 411” in Altadena, CA, just north of its famous neighbor, Pasadena. Altadena was home to artists and creatives, engineers and scientists, educators and entrepreneurs, and multiple generations of hard-working families. Altadena was far from ordinary; some would call it eclectic or quirky, but to me, it was home for 13 years. I lived on a multi-ethnic and generational street with neighbors who would stop and chat with me while I tended my roses and said hello to people on their morning or evening walks. You came to know the neighborhood dogs and their owners, and we all loved the fantastic Altadena sunsets. Nestled next to the foothills, Altadena offered peace near the cities below, although we have had times when it wasn’t so calm. Five days after I moved into my home in November 2011, a tremendous windstorm caused widespread damage in the San Gabriel Valley. On my street, large trees fell at either end, leaving residents trapped. Thanks to a neighbor who was a retired tree surgeon who gathered up other neighbors with chainsaws, they cut a path in one of the trees that enabled us to get out. After that experience, the wind and I were not on good terms.
On January 7, I went to work because there was no power at home. The winds were terrible, epic winds. I remained at work until the early afternoon when an announcement was made for employees at the Lab to go home when it was safe. I went home in the late afternoon and backed my car into the driveway in case I needed to leave. After padlocking my gate and securing it with some zip ties, I went in and discovered the power was back. Shortly after heating something to eat, the power went out again, so I placed camp lanterns around the house. Throughout the afternoon, my Watch Duty app gave updates on the Palisades fire, but shortly after, around 6:30 p.m., I saw the first alert for the Close fire. I didn’t pay much attention until my brother-in-law in East Pasadena sent photos on the family chat a short time later. This fire appeared to be heading in their direction, so they evacuated. Around this time, the Close Fire was renamed the Eaton Fire. While no sign of fire was visible where I stood in West Altadena, I was concerned with the winds picking up.
A Swiftly Moving Fire
The photo my brother-in-law sent at 6:45 p.m. looking north at the Eaton Fire from a street in Pasadena.
Thinking about the 2011 storm, the large trees on my block, and the potential for them to fall prompted me to start packing and evacuate while it was safe. I originally packed essentials, clothes, and tech gear for a few days. Still, as the winds increased, I added items like treasured family photos, critical documents, and my childhood bear (because where I go, he goes). Other neighbors on the street were leaving. I went outside a little after 8:00 p.m. and saw the orange glow in the distance. The wind shifted, and for the first time, I had a horrible feeling that the fire could make it to my house. My packing strategy changed to include more essential clothing, family portraits off the walls, and other treasured items. Around 9:00 p.m., my next-door neighbors banged on my door to tell me my gate was wide open. The wind ripped the padlock and zip ties, and the panels swung freely. I knew it was time to go.
The Fire to the East
The last photo I took standing in the driveway at the 411 looking east, a little before 8:00 p.m. January 7.
Fear had set in, and while rushing to figure out what else to pack, I turned and saw my Christmas trees. I had had a Twelfth Night party a few nights before, and they were up. One tree was almost entirely glass and Swarovski crystal ornaments, and the second was full of colorful family and JPL ornaments. I grabbed a box, pulled my late grandmother and mother’s ornaments and some favorite glass and crystal items from the main tree, and placed them in the box. I also grabbed a treasured family ornament and the topper from the color tree (the same topper from my childhood family tree) and loaded the box into my car. I found myself apologizing to items I couldn’t take with me in the house. I had to sing a hymn to calm myself down; the fear was mounting. As I finished singing, I saw cherished paintings from my niece and late nephew, so I pulled them along with family portraits off the walls and loaded them into the car.
The last item I pulled was a portrait of the Sacred Heart that had originally hung in my family home and survived a fire when I was a baby. The fire had burned an entire wall of the house but burned around the portrait; it has water stains from that fire and has its original glass, only the wood frame burned away. I gazed at the portrait and spoke to it, acknowledging that it survived the fire at my family home but needed it to come with me. As I pulled the portrait from the wall, I heard an internal voice screaming to get out, get out right now. I ran with the portrait, loaded it into my car, and locked my house. The wind was roaring and it was dark, but I could see the panels of my gate swinging. There was a brief moment when it was clear, so I hit the gas and drove through the gate. Seconds after doing so, the left panel forcefully sheared off with a loud ripping sound and flew up the driveway where my car had been parked seconds before. Had I not moved the car, the gate would have crashed into my windshield and likely totaled my car. Shaken, I got out of the car and pushed the broken panel up the driveway to make it easier for fire crews. I returned to the car, looked at the portrait, thanked it for saving me, and drove off. I didn’t look back because, in my heart, I knew my home was gone.
The drive to my youngest sister’s home normally takes less than ten minutes; that night it took over 45 minutes due to other Altadenans fleeing in the dark. Although we were in bumper-to-bumper traffic, people were driving carefully. I made it to my sister’s and spent the night until we were evacuated at 7:00 a.m. the following day due to homes on fire four blocks away. The fire didn’t reach my sister’s house; I wasn’t so lucky.
I made it back to my home around 4:30 p.m. on January 8. It is a drive that, looking back, I would have never attempted had I been sane, but seeing a Facebook post from my oldest childhood friend of his son standing in the ruins of their home sent me over the edge, and I was determined to see my house. Thankfully, an older sister rode with me. I drove past large and small homes on fire, businesses that I had frequented just days before wholly gone, and block after block of smoking ruins. I would occasionally see a house untouched, so I wasn’t sure about the 411. Turning onto my street, I was stunned at the devastation of the block, but I also saw my next-door neighbor’s home still standing. I had hope for a split second; a few seconds later, I drove closer to my home. The picture you see is what I saw when I returned. I cannot put into words what I felt - shock, grief, the inability to breathe. I later likened the experience to what others who have been through natural disasters experienced upon their return. At that moment, I joined them as a sibling in sorrow. My garage still had a slight fire burning, and I started up the driveway in shock to investigate, but my sister yelled to get back. I realized I was by the gas meter, which was still on, so I backed up.
This is what I saw when I stepped out of my car. January 8, 4:39 p.m
I don’t remember much about my drive home; the shock was too great. I do remember texting friends and colleagues that the 411 was gone. It was hours later that I realized that while I had just experienced one of the biggest shocks of my life, I was still standing. A fire didn’t take away my faith, and I had work to do.
And this is the beginning of my journey.