The Eaton Fire
Notes from a grieving Altadenan
Before I begin: a blanket content and trigger warning. Below are words and images about wildfire and the destruction of my home. I’m sending you so much love if you’re experiencing loss from the recent Southern California wildfires—please take care of yourself.
Like so many others in our beloved community of Altadena, I lost my home in the Eaton Fire yesterday.
As I write to you from the couch in my parents’ one bedroom apartment in Pasadena, a few blocks from the current evacuation zone (but safe for the moment, all of us glad to be together, we three humans and our three animal companions), the fire burns unabated, already having consumed over ten thousand acres of wild and human communities in the San Gabriel foothills and front range.
There are certain experiences from the past two days that I hope to be able to put into words soon. Like how it felt on Tuesday to watch fire quickly climb the ridge above my home, an electrified ladder ascending into the sky, surrounded only by black, powerless night; or how that image prompted me to move, to shove my passport and cat food into a tote bag by the dim light of my headlamp as hurricane force winds raged outside. Those moments were the most fearful of my life, and yet as I flew out the door and drove south on El Molino, I assumed that I’d be back in the morning, and that my home would still be there.
I’ll never forget that image of the jagged tower of fire, or the anguish of arriving the next morning to find my house—two miles southwest of the fire’s origin in Eaton Canyon—consumed in flames. Two firetrucks had just arrived and one firefighter was dragging a hose through my side yard and into the backyard. Flames raged from the back of the house and dense black smoke was beginning to billow out of the front windows. “That’s my house!” I shrieked, over and over. The words became like an animal’s cry; visceral, nonsensical syllables. At some point I crumpled to the ground, and my stepdad collected me and held me tightly for a moment, and then we had to go. There was nothing we could do.
The whole experience lasted thirty seconds or so, but my life will be forever changed by it. I haven’t been able to return to my house yet, but I will soon; hopefully tomorrow. I’ll go to see if there’s anything left not burned to blackened ash, and because I have to go, to take photos for the insurance claim. It will be another experience that will live inside of me forever. The only way I’ll be able to carry this weight, which will keep accumulating for a while, is with the help of my loved ones, my family and friends and neighbors who have held me so tightly these last couple of days.
We all keep saying to each other: This is unreal. It’s unbelievable. But that’s how grief works, right? It’s like a dream at first, like things are happening to a character in a movie—not to me. But all the figures in our dreams represent parts or versions of ourselves. Right now, a part of me reckons with the reality of what I’ve lost, and the immensity of all it entails. Another part of me, as in a dream, can’t yet access that reality.
Last night, I talked to my seven-year-old nephew on the phone, and he told me about what he hopes to do during spring break (and that he’s sorry about my house). I’ve just been laughing with my mom and stepdad as my inquisitive one-year-old cat comes nearly nose to nose with their gentle fifty-pound dog, all of us negotiating newly close quarters. Now I’m drinking tea and listening to a beloved album by one of my favorite artists—Never for Ever by Kate Bush—and remembering, amid the loss: I still have this.
I’m sure I’ll have more to say about all of this in the coming days, weeks, months, years. I’ll try to write it down as I’m able to and share it with you, with gratitude that you’re here with me; part of the net which holds me as I’m forced to begin again.
My dear friend (and talented artist) Whitney Arrington set up a GoFundMe page for me, where you can donate in support as I start over after the fire. My livelihood was inextricably tied not only to my home—which housed my studio and all materials, supplies, and inventory related to my business—but to the land which abutted it, my beloved San Gabriel foothills, which continue to burn. Our futures are uncertain, to say the least. If you’re able to contribute or simply share the fundraiser, I would be so grateful.
Been thinking of you Erin all day! Im so so so sorry for this unimaginable turn of life and Im here for you in whatever capacity you need. We have couches and open doors in Oceanside if you or your family need to get away from LA smoke. And I have a studio of tools, pots, dyes and anything you need to help you whenever you get back to work.
Honestly absolutely anything- please reach out. We have a generator, tools, do you need extra clothes, anything?
Thank you for sharing your story and Im praying for strength as you return to your home for the first time. can't express how much you are loved in this virtual community as you are in your home physical community. you are incredible- we love you.
-liz