Malibu’s wildfire threatens my community. It’s also bringing us together.
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Ali Martin Staff writer
| Los Angeles
Campus was closed for the second “fire day” in a row. Instead of heading to morning classes, my high school freshman watched over younger schoolmates whose parents have to work. This family normally pays her to babysit – now there’s no charge. We are forming a village.
I’ve recently moved to Los Angeles after three decades away – now, with one teenager at home and another in college. Our little house in the hills is perched precariously close to the Franklin Fire sweeping this week through Malibu, a canyon away. So far, it has consumed around 4,000 acres, and is approaching my daughter’s school grounds.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onNatural disasters are often events that awaken thought. Our writer reflects on honing priorities as a wildfire looms – and building local connections along the way.
I realize I don’t have a go bag. We keep important papers in a fireproof case for this very occasion, but I’ve neglected to put together other essentials. All I really need are my girls and our little bichon, Rocky.
It’s impossible to ignore an escalating sense of disaster. In the last few weeks, we’ve had a minor earthquake – too small to trigger the warning system; my older daughter, who’s in Northern California, was affected by a tsunami warning; and now we have this latest fire.
But now I have a plan. And my village is growing.
Campus was closed for the second “fire day” in a row. Instead of heading to morning classes, my high school freshman watched over younger schoolmates whose parents have to work. This family normally pays her to babysit – now there’s no charge. We are forming a village.
I looked around our home with acute gratitude: nutcrackers we’ve collected; my great-grandparents’ furniture; a white cabinet that served as a changing table for my daughter who’s now in college; artwork – so much art – collected abroad, passed down through generations, made by tiny hands when my girls were younger.
I’ve recently moved to Los Angeles after three decades away – now, with one teenager at home and another in college. Our little house in the hills is perched precariously close to the Franklin Fire sweeping this week through Malibu, a canyon away. So far the fire has consumed around 4,000 acres, and is approaching my daughter’s wooded school grounds.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onNatural disasters are often events that awaken thought. Our writer reflects on honing priorities as a wildfire looms – and building local connections along the way.
We watched CalFire’s live evacuation map grow throughout the night – ready to run to campus to save whatever we could. As of Day 4, the school is under an evacuation warning, but its little cabins tucked in the hillside are still standing.
LA is a city of mountains, valleys, coastline, and the canyons that connect them. It is this topography that creates LA’s microclimates – a fascination for locals who have strong opinions about which neighborhood has the best weather – and well-fueled fire corridors.
The air feels heavy. A chilly dampness brings the slightest hope of moisture. The natural haze mingles with any smoke that might hint at flames making their way up the Pacific Ocean side of the Santa Monica Mountains. We are surrounded by trees: sycamore, lemon, pomegranate, orange, cypress, elm, maple, and oak. Amid the city, we are connected to nature. This duality is as integral to LA’s makeup as its sunshine and creative spirit.
I grew up here, in the San Fernando Valley, where drought and earthquakes are part of the atmosphere. But the actual threat of fire has always floated as a low-lingering cloud of possibility that never really landed. Until now.
These moments are transformative. They awaken latent feelings – of fear, gratitude, love. Of purpose. What means the most to me? Who means the most? I realize I don’t have a go bag. We’ve always kept important papers in a fireproof case for this very occasion, but I’ve neglected to put together other essentials. I mean, who has an extra set of essentials lying around to put in a box for emergency use only?
It’s easy to fill my laundry baskets and toss them in the back of the car. Family photos and some jewelry – things easy to grab – are within reach. High value, low effort. My California work-from-home wardrobe lends itself to a quick getaway. The dog’s leash and harness are in my purse.
If I have to, I’m ready to walk away from all of it. All I really need is my daughter and our little bichon, Rocky.
This realization hits deeply. It is a relief, but the possibility of starting over, again, feels like free fall. Home is different now. Much of my childhood village has moved away or passed away, and I’ve been seeking connections to take root.
Natural disasters don’t tend to rattle me. I’ve chased tornadoes in the South, hurricanes out East, whiteout blizzards in the Midwest. I know all the safety drills. But fire hits differently – it gives little notice and overpowers indiscriminately. In a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, fire wins. That’s probably why it’s not Rock, Paper, Scissors, Fire.
My daughters grew up with snowy winters and snow days. In Champaign, Illinois; Omaha, Nebraska; and Johnstown, Pennsylvania, the lightest snowfall or single-digit temperatures would send us to the morning news to check for a ticker of school closings. And the closings meant joy: into their snow gear, then out to the lawn with shovels and sleds until cold caught up to the excitement and they remembered the hot chocolate in our pantry. This would all happen before 8 a.m., and the rest of the day was spent with Lego bricks, painting, or Oobleck, capped off by a movie watched from under a pile of blankets that may or may not have been a fort. Snow days had all the fun of playing hooky with zero risk.
Now we have fire days and preemptive power-outage days; five in six weeks, including one school evacuation. My youngest is unaware of the relative danger. She is delighted by the disruption.
The first day of the fire brought the students a thrilling break in routine. There were no online classes scheduled, so my daughter and her friends conspired to spend the afternoon at the mall. One mom agreed to cart the group around during the day. Another mom hosted them late in the afternoon. One of the dads brought them home. I couldn’t text enough heart emoji to express my thanks to the families who got my kid out of the house for the day so she could have some fun – and I could get some work done. Any parent who works during these “bonus” free days knows this gratitude.
My neighbor, an engineer who works with the city, is a wealth of helpful information. When I moved in, he showed me how to get trash piles hauled away. He told me whom to call when my power lines came down. As the fire spread, he sent me the link for Cal Fire’s live map and assured me he’d take care of my child if she’s left alone for any reason, as if the two – a map and the promise of care for a loved one – have equal weight. I exhaled for the first time that day.
My daughter’s response to Day 2 was to ask if we could put together a remote-schooling group – lessons learned from the COVID-19 pandemic. If the lockdown taught us anything, it’s how to pivot. And how important friends are.
It’s impossible to ignore an escalating sense of disaster. In the last few weeks, we’ve had a minor earthquake – too small to trigger the warning system; my older daughter, who’s in Northern California, was affected by a tsunami warning when a large earthquake struck off the coast; and now we have this latest fire.
But now I have a plan. And my village is growing.
