My grandparents’ home has had plush canary yellow carpeting for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I used to lie on the floor, prop myself up on my elbows and watch “Tom and Jerry” as the plush fibers slowly indented my elbows. I remember running on that carpet down the long, thin hallway of the single-story home, the same hallway my dad ran down when he was a child. In my mind, I imagine the carpet is what burned first.
For many Notre Dame students, winter break ended Jan. 12, but my break ended Jan. 7 at 11 a.m.
I looked out the large glass slider in my bedroom and saw dark amber smoke rising into the sky. The Santa Ana winds were strong that day, nearly 80 mph. I quickly dressed as I heard my mom talking on the phone with my dad. As he hurried home from work, my mom and I began to pack up the house frantically. As minutes passed, the flames grew closer.
We quickly loaded partially filled suitcases and bags into the car. Memories shoved haphazardly into the trunk as my dog jumped into the back seat. The surrounding air reeked of smoke, and pale ash fell softly like the winter snowstorms I had left behind in Indiana.
I felt the heat of the surrounding flames 100 feet away as I ran to the car and joined the long line of evacuees headed to safety.
We slowly made our way into the heart of the Pacific Palisades to my grandparent's home. The smoke could still be seen on the mountain now three miles away.
An hour passes, and we eat lunch.
For another hour, we all stared intently at our home Ring camera until the power was cut off. Another hour passed, and the flames had reached the top of my grandparent’s street. One word came to mind: flee. We helped my grandparents put boxes together, take picture frames off the walls, grab documents and clothes piled into suitcases, running from the flames again. Once more, I sat in the driver’s seat, accelerating down empty roads to another safe location away from the fire that seemed to be chasing me.
Two days later, we returned. Back to the same street curbs, I sat on for every Fourth of July parade, the same sidewalks and homes where my friends and I had gone trick or treating, the park where my brother and I used to play. I spent my life in Pacific Palisades.
It took a day to burn.
All that was left of all those memories was scorched and twisted heaps of metal and empty chimneys with vacant hearths.
The camphor trees that made up the smell of my summers burnt to a crisp. Walking through the wreckage of my grandparent’s home, I saw all that was left was the chimney and a single yellow kitchen tile with a purple flower stenciled onto it.
Looking at the destruction, it was easy to see what our community lost, but I do not want to focus on that. Miraculously, my home survived. The Pacific Palisades fire was able to destroy the town, but it could not destroy the community. Amidst all the tragedy and loss, the people of Los Angeles stepped up, offering clothes, gift cards, supplies and their homes. My family had our lunch paid for by a random group of people who wanted to show their love and support.
It will take years to rebuild. It will take years to restore what was lost, but a town is more than the buildings that exist within it. There is no doubt in my mind that Pacific Palisades will rise from the ashes. I know someday in the future, I will walk back down those streets, see new trees sprouting up from the soil, breathe in the warm, soft ocean breeze and recognize my home.
Declan is a surviving biochemistry major at the University of Notre Dame. He is usually trying to figure out how to work the printer. Contact at dburke7@nd.edu.
