海角大神

Campus was closed for the second 鈥渇ire day鈥� 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 鈥� now there鈥檚 no charge. We are forming a village.

I looked around our home with acute gratitude: nutcrackers we鈥檝e collected; my great-grandparents鈥� furniture; a white cabinet that served as a changing table for my daughter who鈥檚 now in college; artwork 鈥� so much art 鈥� collected abroad, passed down through generations, made by tiny hands when my girls were younger.

I鈥檝e recently moved to Los Angeles after three decades away 鈥� 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鈥檚 wooded school grounds.

We watched CalFire鈥檚 live evacuation map grow throughout the night 鈥� 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鈥檚 microclimates 鈥� a fascination for locals who have strong opinions about which neighborhood has the best weather 鈥� 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鈥檚 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 鈥� of fear, gratitude, love. Of purpose. What means the most to me? Who means the most? I realize I don鈥檛 have a go bag. We鈥檝e always kept important papers in a fireproof case for this very occasion, but I鈥檝e 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鈥檚 easy to fill my laundry baskets and toss them in the back of the car. Family photos and some jewelry 鈥� things easy to grab 鈥� are within reach. High value, low effort. My California work-from-home wardrobe lends itself to a quick getaway. The dog鈥檚 leash and harness are in my purse.

If I have to, I鈥檓 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鈥檝e been seeking connections to take root.

Natural disasters don鈥檛 tend to rattle me. I鈥檝e chased tornadoes in the South, hurricanes out East, whiteout blizzards in the Midwest. I know all the safety drills. But fire hits differently 鈥� it gives little notice and overpowers indiscriminately. In a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, fire wins. That鈥檚 probably why it鈥檚 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鈥檛 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 鈥� and I could get some work done. Any parent who works during these 鈥渂onus鈥� 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鈥檚 live map and assured me he鈥檇 take care of my child if she鈥檚 left alone for any reason, as if the two 鈥撀燼 map and the promise of care for a loved one 鈥撀爃ave equal weight. I exhaled for the first time that day.

My daughter鈥檚 response to Day 2 was to ask if we could put together a remote-schooling group 鈥� lessons learned from the COVID-19 pandemic. If the lockdown taught us anything, it鈥檚 how to pivot. And how important friends are.

It鈥檚 impossible to ignore an escalating sense of disaster. In the last few weeks, we鈥檝e had a minor earthquake 鈥� too small to trigger the warning system; my older daughter, who鈥檚 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.