Opinion: Two Altadena residents who became homeless in the Eaton fire

In a matter of days in early January, some 150,000 Angelenos became homeless as they were displaced by the Palisades and Eaton fires. These individuals’ lives did not slowly unravel; they didn’t lose a job and then run out of savings and receive an eviction notice. They fled their homes amid a natural disaster, and afterward many had no home to return to. Some have resources to recover financially. Others are now struggling like the estimated 75,000 Angelenos who were unhoused before the fires. Louis and Joyce, who spoke with me in January and early February, agreed to share their stories with The Times on the condition that their last names not be used. — Robert Karron

Louis

I lived in Altadena, on Poppyfields Drive, between Santa Rosa and Santa Anita avenues. I helped my parents purchase our home in 1975. I was the third owner. By the time they passed on, I was in another house, but it never occurred to me to sell it, because my three younger siblings still lived there. Some cultures have extended family that extends the lineage. It’s not like you get to a certain age and you just split.

How was I able to purchase a home with my parents when I was only 26? I was on the road with Ray Charles at the time. I play baritone sax. I played with Ray Charles for 20 years, on the road for about five years. It was a great experience. Definitely elevated my ability as a player — you get advice from your fellow, older musicians.

It was the first time I was away from home, so I learned a lot about life. It’s an experience, coexisting with other people. I got a chance to see America, at a simple level. We didn’t stay at fancy hotels. We interacted with people in the community. I spent time in Columbia, S.C. First time I went to New York City was with the band. Back then we’d go to major cities for two weeks. I stayed with a friend in Harlem.

Has my early experience of touring, moving from place to place, made dealing with my present situation any easier? Definitely. I’m able to roll with it more. I can move, get what I need. Touring has allowed me to be not as freaked out as I might have been. Don’t get me wrong: I’m still freaked out — but not to the point where you’re saying: “I give up.” It’s like I’ve been preparing myself for this.

Eventually, I moved back into the house on Poppyfields, with two of my brothers. We were there together, the three of us, on Jan. 7.

Tuesday morning — it was windy. But I didn’t think anything of it. I knew there was a fire in the Palisades, but that’s far away. Then I heard about a fire in Eaton Canyon. But that’s far, too, I thought. I got dressed, and I went to work. I had a gig that night at the Vibrato — a famous club near Beverly Glen. I’m there at 7:30, I’m playing, I’m on the bandstand. I think we did two sets. We’re starting to finish things up and people start calling me on my phone. “You OK?” I said, “Yeah, I’m OK” — not knowing the gravity of what was going on.

I get home around 10. The power’s out. But they’re still saying the fire is just in Eaton Canyon. But it’s real smoky. Around 11, my brothers and my next door neighbor and I assess what’s going on. It’s pitch black, and the air quality is really bad. I saw what looked like a fire, in the corner of the sky, but I figured that was the Eaton Canyon fire. Sometimes you see fires in the mountains, and they illuminate — they look closer than they are. That’s what I thought was happening.

We decided to go to the IHOP. We thought, let’s have a meal, chop it up a bit. We go home. I’m still wearing my dress clothes, from the previous performance, so I change into something a little more comfortable. The wind is still bad, with the velocity enough to be concerning — but not to the point where we thought the house was going to catch on fire. Until we decided to drive to the shelter. To be honest, I wanted to stay home and wait it out, but my brothers convinced me to wait it out there at the shelter, as a precautionary measure. So we get in the car. We go east on Poppyfields. I did see something then that looked like it was on fire. I thought, “Man, that’s crazy.” But it was still far away. Then we see an emergency vehicle. It’s this big black car, with red and blue flashing lights. The guy in the car shouts — I’ll never forget this — “Get out.” We get to the shelter around 1:30 a.m., but we stay in the parking lot. We don’t even register. We’re just waiting it out. The wind is still howling. My younger brother says: “Watch out, there’s some embers.” I didn’t take it seriously. As we now know, those embers were serious — they’re the ones that caused a lot of the damage. At no point did I think I was going to lose my house. It was only for precautionary’s sake that I went to that shelter.

Five hours later, my brother wakes me up. I’d fallen asleep in the car. It’s like 7 a.m. now. My brother told me that people were saying that our whole neighborhood was gone. But I still didn’t really believe it. … This is a part of the timeline that I can’t really remember.

At some point I know we traveled to the neighborhood. Turning on Lake Avenue, it looked like a war zone. Fires to a lot of familiar businesses — businesses I’ve known for years. Downed power lines. We drove around them. Was the area closed? Yes, parts were. In some of the areas they prevented people from driving, sure. But everyone was trying to figure things out then, even the police.

A lot of people returned to their homes when it was still possible and saw the damage. Mine? There was absolutely nothing left. Zero. Luckily, because I’d had the performance the night before, a lot of my instruments were still in the car and had been safe with us outside the shelter. I stood there looking at what used to be my house. It was just a plot of land. It was unreal. It was a nice-sized house, four bedrooms in the front — and there was a rear property, too. All gone. I thought: “Wow. OK.” But you know something? I didn’t really process it until I talked to my insurance agent. I called him, told him what had happened. That’s when I started crying. That’s when it hit me.

It was the third most damaging event in my life, after the death of my parents. My mother had a stroke, and I was with her when she was incapacitated. I was on the phone with my father when he had a heart attack. We were sharing a laugh — we laughed a lot together. In the process of laughing at a joke he took his last cough, and that was it. So — that and the house, yes. Those have been the three toughest moments of my life.

Fortunately, I have a good insurance company. It helped facilitate things, to make it work. Eventually, we’ll rebuild. But first things first. We have to get into temporary housing. My brothers are staying with friends, and I’m staying with a different friend. I’m looking for a place — I have a meeting with a Realtor today. The process of looking for a house, with all the moving parts, is challenging, that’s for sure. I’d like to stay in the area.

I didn’t know this at the time, but Altadena is a historically Black neighborhood. Kind of similar to Baldwin Hills. Didn’t know this until people started writing about it. Over the years, it’s become increasingly gentrified. So you see a lot of things you didn’t see 15 years ago, like people taking their babies in strollers, on major streets. And jogging, at all hours. But I kind of liked that. That made it cool to me—the multiethnic flavor of Altadena.

And there were all those great shops. POV (Pizza of Venice) was a very nice place. They had great pizza and specialty items like gumbo and fish tacos. Another place was Side Pie. Great New York-style pizza. Thin crust. Loved that place.

I — like a lot of my fellow Altadenians — am in shock, but I think there’s a firm desire to want to be a part of the process of returning back to some sense of normalcy. One of the election years, I worked at a precinct, and I got a chance to meet my neighbors. I really enjoyed it. They even let me turn in the tally of votes for that evening — put it in the box. I had a lot of pride, doing that, for my community. (This was a while ago — when Obama won his second term. Different times…) I’m looking forward to getting that community feeling back, let me tell you.

Joyce

I lived in Altadena. I’d been there over 30 years, and my husband’s family has been in the area over 60 years. We had three houses. There was ours, my husband’s parents’ (the family home, which they left to their children) and his brother’s. All burned to the ground. The family home actually caught fire two years ago, and they didn’t have insurance, so they pooled their money to repair it. The family members that had been living in that house moved in with my brother-in-law, next door, and they were all waiting for the occupancy permit — which was going to come next month — when this fire struck. No insurance this time, either.

Joyce, who asked that her face not be shown, has kept the wristbands that signify her journey through the shelter system since the Eaton fire. Green when she arrived, orange for staying overnight. Orange and white — the dormitory you’re in. Lilac came with a trip to the Westwood Disaster Recovery Center to pursue relief. Blue and white when everyone was consolidated into one room.

(Robert Karron)

On Jan. 7, we saw a fire in the distance. But it seemed so far away. We went to the grocery store, which was a bust, because the power was out. When we got home we heard that some neighbors had evacuated, so we put a bag together. But we didn’t think we were in real trouble; we were sort of cavalier about it. The fires had never come down that low. The pattern is that they go uphill, toward Mt. Wilson. We thought: “We’ll be back soon, in a few days, tops.” I packed some clothes, a few pictures, and my father-in-law’s flag (he served in the Korean War). But that was it.

That night, my husband looked out the window, but he couldn’t see anything. I went to sleep. At 10:30, though, he woke me up; he smelled smoke. We went outside. A few miles away, we saw this huge flame — 100 feet high, maybe 300 feet wide. It’s yellow and white, and it’s got these clouds swirling around that look like two dark eyes, and this other cloud that looks like an ugly mouth. It’s like a bad cartoon. And now the wind has picked up. I thought: “Oh my goodness. This thing is coming our way.” We start to move our cars down the hill, in case we need to drive out. We check on our 93-year-old neighbor. We pound on her door. There’s no response — we just assume, and hope, she’s already left. I’m coughing. My husband says: “We need to get you out of here.” We drive our two cars down the hill, a few blocks away, but we still smell smoke. So we drive farther down the hill. No, not yet. Finally, we get to Exposition Boulevard and Vermont Avenue, where the air is clear. Only then do we get cell reception.

A friend in Glendale tells us to come to his house. My brother-in-law tells us that the house next door to him is in flames. My husband sends me to Glendale, but he goes to help his brother fight the fire. We disagree about this — but that man’s got a heart of gold. He drives back up the hill.

First he stops at our house. He sees that our backyard is on fire. He goes to our front door. It’s locked and chained — that means someone’s inside. Our nephew has been staying with us. My husband pounds on the door for five minutes before our nephew finally wakes up. He’d been sound asleep. Together, they try to fight the fire in the backyard, but they find that there’s no water in the hoses. Soon the house is engulfed.

My husband said that embers the size of baseballs were flying around, and any little spark that touched anything sprung into a new fire, and the wind just gusted it away. He watched as the neighbor’s house caught fire, too. Then it went to the next house. And then it was the whole block. My husband and my nephew got in his car and they drove out. It was dark, and it was smoky; they didn’t know where they’re going. But they got out.

Meanwhile, it’s 2 in the morning, and I’m in Glendale. My friend makes me grits. She says to go to sleep, but I don’t know where my husband is. I don’t know where my nephew is. I’m not sleeping. At 6 a.m. a friend from church sends me a screenshot from Facebook. I see that my 93-year-old neighbor is OK, but that her house has burned down. But where’s my husband? Finally, my nephew calls. He says: “It’s all bad.” I say: “What do you mean?” My husband gets on the phone. He says: “It doesn’t get any worse than this. It’s all ashes. … Everything burned down.” I ask: “What? What?” Then his phone dies.

I didn’t see him until that night. He picked me up, and we drove through the back roads, which they hadn’t closed yet, to see our house. There were places in that house — a day later — that were still burning, still on fire. In the house next door I saw something that looked like a sparkler — like those sparkler fireworks that the kids play with, on the Fourth of July. I asked my husband, “What’s that?” He says, “That there is a propane tank.” So we decided to leave.

Driving away, I kept thinking: What happened? I mean, what happened!? And: Why didn’t we get an alarm from the sheriff’s office? When we were packing our bags, the night before, my husband had asked me if maybe we should leave, right then. I told him: “Don’t worry, honey, if we need to leave, the sheriff’s office will let us know. There’ll be those cars driving around, with their loudspeakers on the roof, shouting, ‘Everybody evacuate. Everybody evacuate.’ ” Well, we never saw uno firetruck or police car in the neighborhood. Zero, zilch, nada — except for the ones that were parked at the major intersections.

Do we have insurance? In October, just four months ago, those crafty insurance people flew a drone over our house. They said: “You have two months to get a new roof and to cut those 12 trees down.” We’re talking tens of thousands of dollars to do this. I’m on leave from my job now, with a workplace acquired disability. We don’t have those kinds of funds. I asked them for an extension. They said no. So, in December — just two months ago — they dropped us.

My insurance agent says that they did this to a lot of people. Those insurance companies are probably partying now. They’re going to be partying for a year. But — thank God — since we still owed money on the property, we did get “lender-placed insurance.” It’s not enough to rebuild — and it covers none of the items we’ve lost — but it’s something.

We’ve been at the shelter since that day. I can’t believe it’s been almost a month. At first, I asked the Red Cross for a housing voucher. But they told me to come here. On that first day, when I walked through, it looked like refugees to me. Like a junior Katrina.

These are the wristbands they’ve given me that signify my journey through this system. The green one was just to get in. Orange — you’re staying overnight. Orange and white — the dormitory you’re in. Lilac — for when we went to the Westwood Disaster Recovery Center, to see if we could get more help. Blue and white — when they decided to consolidate everyone into one room, on Feb. 2. What a nightmare that one consolidated shelter room is. Dogs and cats in there — dogs barking all night long. Sick people coughing. It’s challenging, to be in a room with 350 people, all sleeping on cots. And they clean with harsh chemicals, which I don’t do well with.

But, I have to say, the community has been so nice to us. Kudos to Pasadena. Most of the fire, of course, was in L.A. County. That’s different from Pasadena. They’re doing this of their own volition. That night, in fact, during the fires, the only fire truck we saw was a Pasadena fire truck, down on Woodbury Road.

Later, we had a town hall meeting. An L.A. County firefighter was there. I asked: “What happened? I mean, what happened!?” They said that they were stationed at Eaton Canyon — they had 30 trucks there. But then it got past them. … They said, in their 30 years on the job, they’d never seen anything like it. And they said: “Ma’am, it wasn’t a fire. It was a firestorm.”

Robert Karron teaches English at Santa Monica College. Instagram: @robertkarron