Youth / OPINION : From the Ashes, a Neighborhood Is Reborn

My neighborhood was dying. The mostly yuppie and elderly neighbors kept to themselves. They would leave for work in the morning, return in the evening and in between phone the gardener, the pool cleaner, the handyman. Occasionally, there would be an exchange of cautious smiles between people whose lives had overlapped for years and yet who had never spoken to each other.

I hear my dad talk about he way it used to be. The houses were full of kids who congregated regularly on our street, had lemon fights and races down the hill. It all sounded so fun and idealistic. But I had given up hope on that dream.

Then one morning six months ago, we saw the Altadena fire tear toward our isolated neighborhood. It crept closer as we waited for help that never arrived. We were on our own. We stopped worrying about ourselves as individuals. The walls separating us came down.

I woke up earlier than usual that Wednesday. The air was much warmer than normal and there was an eerie wind blowing across the mountain. I stumbled around half asleep. The phone rang and my grandma’s voice urgently asked me what was going on. She was asking me? I was as clueless as she was. I was scared. Where was my family? I told my grandma that I would call her back.

I ran outside and smelled smoke. I was excited, the kind of excitement you feel the morning you leave on vacation. I knew this would not be an ordinary day. But I was not worried when I saw how far away the flames were. We could see the brilliant glow across the ridge, but the firefighters would easily be able to put it out.

My dad drove over to look from a different direction. My mom took a shower and dressed for work. I grabbed the camera and snapped the approaching flames. I noticed how fast they were coming and became alarmed. I didn’t hear sirens; it was unearthly quiet. I ran to my room to decide what to take if we had to evacuate.

By the time my dad returned, the smoke was getting thick and we could feel the temperature rising. We turned on the hoses and began piling things into the van. We heard loud explosions; they were houses above us blowing up. I didn’t hear any sirens. I didn’t see any firefighters. Many of my neighbors came out and asked others if they needed help.

We had gathered up everything we could fit into the van, including all our animals. I put the fish into an empty peanut-butter jar. My family joined the parade of cars down the hill through the blinding smoke, many people not realizing they had just seen the last of their homes.

My family went to our church and spent the morning watching the news. We saw our street in an aerial view, and we saw our garage in a smoldering black spot. As I stared at its smoking remains, I realized all that we had lost and how lucky we were. We stored everything in there, since our closets are small. My mind walked through the garage and I saw our Christmas decorations and “Baby Doll,” my first and favorite doll. There are no more pictures I drew of people without bodies, just arms and legs growing out of their heads. All the family heirlooms are gone.

There were tremendous losses. Of the 12 houses on my rural street, four were destroyed and none escaped damage. But our community was united and now we are standing together against the hordes of looky-loos and fast-buck contractors. The Times reported that “friendships were forged by fire” and I think that sums it up.

The neighborhood is different now. The charred trees and destroyed houses are reminders of what we went through together. I am more hopeful that my dream of living here like my dad did can come true. We help each other out now. My neighborhood is rebuilding together: houses, lives, friendships.