Fire, Fortitude and Black Velvet

One day, I was watering my roof, bleary-eyed and mud-caked. Three days later, I walked down the aisle at my sister’s wedding, wearing black velvet, surrounded by fresh gardenias, and a church full of friends and family.

What happened in between? The quirky blessings and pesky curses of life in the canyons.

The first blessing came a week ago Wednesday, when my sister, Sharon, called to wake us and warn that she could see a fire in the Altadena hills to the west. She had just moved to lower Sierra Madre, but we live above her in a canyon, so we couldn’t see much. I drove down into nearby Pasadena and found barricades, emergency vehicles, and a lot of dazed people and horses standing in the streets.

Looking up, I could see flames in the foothills. They had consumed parts of Altadena and Pasadena, and were heading east--straight toward our house.

I rushed home, woke my husband and told him that we had to start packing. Groggy from a bad cold, Clark didn’t believe me at first, especially since our little neighborhood seemed so peaceful. Then I turned on the TV and showed him how close the fire was.

Even then, he urged patience. I, meanwhile, was rushing about, unearthing valuables and family mementos and stuffing them into our two cars. At first, I was methodical. Gradually, as the day wore on and the fire got closer, a strange blend of fatalism and adrenaline kicked in. I tore through the drawers and closets (and regretted having stocked up at Price Club the day before). By then, Sharon and her fiance, Doug, had driven up to help us, both taking time off work and from their busy wedding week.

I was glad to have them there, because there was so much to do. We loaded the cars with the usual odd evacuation mix of boxes, clothes, a moose-shaped lamp and a few true valuables.

*

The rest of the day was spent pulling out hoses and sprinklers. (Luckily, Sharon and Doug had just had a garden shower and so they had brought a lot of things with them, still in boxes.) We also watched TV nonstop, flipping channels. (Laguna looked awful, but we were only interested in Altadena).

By nightfall, the fire was being called Altadena/ Sierra Madre. My husband had his map out and charted the flames as they pushed toward us. Finally, sheriff’s deputies drove up to tell people to evacuate. We all rushed around to check for last-minute items and decided to do one last watering. By now, we could see smoke above our ridge. People were driving off, wishing each other luck.

The four of us soaked the house with our makeshift assortment of hoses. Doug was propped on a second-story railing, trying to reach the roof. Clark and Sharon were in front and I was in the back, all of us drenched.

Jane, our next-door neighbor, told us she was staying. We realized that we were not going to be required to leave, at least not yet. Clark said he wanted to stay, so we sent Doug and Sharon home, leaving us with one car, just in case.

We joined up with several families on our street, the second highest in the upper canyon of Sierra Madre. It’s a little enclave of friendly people, many of whom have spent years up here. (We’re the newcomers, at four).

We formed an ersatz neighborhood fire watch, taking turns sitting in lawn chairs in front of Jane’s house--”the Command Post”--since it’s in the middle of our street.

Led by stalwart Dennis, who lives across from us, we kept a 24-hour watch on the ridge. We tried to figure out when the gray sky was really orangish, and we worried whenever that orange became too orange. Each time, we were elated when it faded back to gray.

About 2 a.m., we had our worst scare: The sky above the ridge was bright orange and the deputies drove by to tell us the fire was coming over the top and we had better prepare to leave. “They can’t keep it down,” they said.

*

When I wasn’t outside, I had been napping by our front steps, with an alarm clock set by the hour. Now, I just stood at the doorway and thought about all the things we had done in that house. How ironic it was that just two months before, we had helped Sharon and Doug move into their first home, and now they had helped evacuate ours.

By great luck, the winds died. The deputies came back and said that if the firefighters could hold the flames off the ridge till daybreak, the water tankers could fly and that might save us.

Sunrise was 7:04.

Each hour passed very slowly. We were all on edge, so much so that when one poor neighbor, on ridge watch, tried to start his truck to keep warm, several of us bolted out our doors into the street, half-asleep, assuming it was time to evacuate.

Finally, the sun came up, masked by smoke, but up enough for the choppers to fly. We cheered as they crossed the horizon, just like in those WWII movies.

Thursday, things seemed under control and I went down the hill to get food. But by the time I tried to come back, the wind watch was on again and officials had closed our canyon, even to residents. I was worried because Clark was up there without a car.

I finally reached him by phone. He said he’d catch a ride with Jane if things got bad, so I might as well go to the wedding rehearsal in Arcadia that night.

The rehearsal and dinner went well, all things considered. Afterward, foot traffic was allowed up our hill, so I walked the steep road to our house with my brother, Jon, each of us carrying supplies.

Jon stayed with us for two nights. He was up at 4 Friday morning to monitor the flames he saw from our living room window. He also watched the hand crews cut amazing breaks straight up the chaparral-covered hills around us, using flashlights and chain saws.

Morning’s light revealed a dozen firetrucks poised in our neighborhood, staffed by crews from Merced, Madera, Mariposa and Long Beach. They stayed two days and were quickly adopted by the neighbors who had remained on the hill.

We spent a lot of time talking: Several engine companies now know the colors of my sister’s wedding and the menu for her reception. Jon, who was supposed to play the piano at the ceremony, practiced on our old Baldwin in between scouting the streets and trails. (His “Liebestraum” became so familiar that when the trucks finally pulled out Saturday, one of the fire captains yelled to him: “Take care of those fingers!”)

The last scare came Friday, when the firefighters told us that the winds were supposed to kick up and come around at us from the east. The choppers were dropping water right beside us, and the hand crews were cutting breaks on our hills. They feared a whiplash inferno, driven by wind, that might rip through our canyon and down into town.

*

The last miracle, of course, is that the winds never came and that Saturday morning, just in time for the wedding, the fire watch was declared over. The trucks rumbled away, with us cheering.

Jon, Clark and I went down the hill to the wedding. My sister had told me days before that if the Santa Anas kicked up Saturday, she would understand if I missed the ceremony. It did seem a nasty choice: Watch my sister get married or watch my house burn. In my heart, though, I knew I wouldn’t miss the wedding. After all, no house means as much to me as my sister, and I wanted to stand with her on this special day.

So, there we were at the church: Sharon and Doug radiant, if feverish (they had caught colds watering our house); Clark and I, also happy but sick. (Sharon and I palmed a few cough drops beneath our bouquets.)

I had planned to give a toast at the reception but was too tired. Here it is:

“Wishing you so much happiness today. And, I hope, we will all be toasting you again, 50 years from now. By then, may both our houses still be standing, and may they be filled with joy--and maybe some grandchildren.” (This last is for my mother).