Column: I survived the Eaton fire. Here’s what the past year has been like

Editor’s Note: Just weeks before the Eaton fire, Kara-Lisa Jones Mitchell moved back in with her mom and dad after some personal struggles. But in December, her mom passed away. Days later, the Eaton fire would roar down the mountain and destroy the home of her father, Frank E. Jones. 

Here, on the cusp of a new year of recovery, Jones Mitchell shares her journey, as the 1-year anniversary of the disaster approaches.

By Kara-Lisa Jones Mitchell

“Hey, Dad, it’s gonna be windy tonight. Let’s get out the candles and flashlights,” I said as we finished up dinner.

There’s nothing like Eggroll Express for an evening meal. Our dining room table was still covered in flowers, notes, picture frames, and cards from the recent celebration of my mother’s life. She left us suddenly, five weeks before this particular evening.

We finished up the cleaning and went into the living room to watch the usual amount of evening news. We watched the Palisades fire coverage in horror on the local channel. Hey Dad, aren’t you glad we don’t live in the Palisades? I shivered.

“Oh my God, Dad, we just got a text from the neighbors. Something is wrong, perhaps fire?”

I ran to the top of our driveway. There was a glow, intense color, and sound. It was roaring, it was purple, it was red, it was pink, it was scary.

“What do we do, Dad? Come look. Dad, come look at this.”

“OK, OK, OK,” I thought, as Dad approached, he said very little, he stood, jaw open, head shaking, and eyes in shock.

“Just in case, let’s make a reservation at the Hilton” I suggested.

Knock on the door: “Dad its Gary Gower, they are leaving. Gather your things Dad, I’ll pull the car out. I will pull the car out, I promise.”

I started dumping the little things my mom had in her trunk. We took anything we needed for one evening.

“We will only be gone for the evening, Dad. Let’s go. We will only be gone for one night.”

We took our two little dogs, drove down Las Flores Drive and made a left on Marengo onto incredibly windy streets.

The next day, ashes and embers were falling out of the sky in Pasadena.

My asthma was on fire, I heard my dad‘s voice clear and bold from outside the room: “Kara, the Adairs’ house burned down.”

The Adairs’ house is no more than 15 feet from our living room  in Altadena. Everything became very vivid. Everything slowed down. Every color became real. My dad‘s phone was ringing endlessly. The news cycle was showing Altadena burning block by block, building by building.

At some point in the early afternoon, we received confirmation that our house had burned down. Our neighborhood was destroyed. My childhood home, nest of memories and safe space disappeared.

Now what to do? What do we do? We can’t stay in Pasadena for now. We can’t breathe here. Where do we go?

We quickly evacuated to my friends’ house in West Covina, stayed there until it was safe to go back to Pasadena. Our local family members hosted us and sent supplies generously from Jan. 7 until March 1, after which we were some of the lucky ones to secure housing in a tiny neighborhood right below New York Drive, close in proximity to our home and everything my dad knew as familiar.

During the displacement, I don’t remember much. I do remember feeling dread, fear, confusion, and the sensation of no solid ground under my feet.

We secured temporary housing, and began the journey of figuring it out. How do we organize our lives? What do we need? What’s missing? Who’s missing what? How do we do this? These questions were not exclusive to us.

“Each morning upon waking, I wonder if I did enough. Answer: “I did enough for today. I did what I could manage. My family will be OK.  And, my family has suffered an incredible loss.”

I began the interesting discovery of building from nothing, and I noticed I wasn’t alone. For example, in stores, I noticed there were those of us who were purchasing things that just didn’t make sense. We were buying items we should already have by age 50 and 80: salt and pepper shakers, pans, lamps, towels and basic toiletries. The sadness of it all: lost for words at the butcher, heads bowed in the aisles, blank looks at the checkout, heavy arms filling the trunk with new things, tears and hugs in the parking lot … all interwoven with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for each other, humility peppered with constant moments of disbelief.

Close your eyes and fast forward nearly a year later.

We have relocated to N. Oxford Avenue. On our block alone, we are bookended with two families that lost their homes in the Eaton fire. As we made the drive into shops, cafes, and various stores we knew we would return to our new home in the Eaton /Altadena area with singed and burned trees. Where houses, restaurants, and places of worship were currently being bulldozed and the rubble removed.

The new normal is an incredible amount of decision-making. My system’s running on fumes, long pauses, tear-filled eyes. The goal each day: Hang on and simply collect the necessary resources to understand how to move forward. Each morning upon waking, I wonder if I did enough. Answer: “I did enough for today. I did what I could manage. My family will be OK.  And, my family has suffered an incredible loss.”

My father encountered health problems not too long after the fire, which focused our attention on his immediate needs.

Healing from his surgeries is difficult. He suffered an incredible amount of loss: loss of his wife of 60 years, loss of his home of 56 + years, and everything he had worked for since he came home from Vietnam.

He worked diligently and endlessly to raise two children in Altadena, sending us to private schools and working as an L.A. County Sheriff’s deputy for over 33 years. He was solid. He is a bit less solid now.

Me? I witnessed it all, which created different challenges to our grief.

Now there’s hope for healing. Now I am hoping we can recover as a family. Now I am praying for community resilience.

We will get through this. We are Altadena Strong.