Thoughts from inside the LA wildfires and how you can help.
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Hey Reader, I had just settled into my preferred nook at our kitchen table. My laptop was open. I planned on using some of its precious battery to edit chapter 2 of The Memoir, per the comments I'd just received from my agent. This was, I concluded, a good use of my time. I didn't have enough energy (mental, physical, or electrical) to edit videos or photos for a recipe. Still, I knew in the same way the birds knew to fly farther west--towards the water--that it was best for me to fly towards the sound of my keyboard. Do something productive. It was hard for me to see the screen, though, with the sunlight streaming in through the windows facing east. I peered out, past the tall, swinging palm tree in our backyard, past the tiled roof of our neighbor. The sky was a perfectly pale blue. No one, not in a million years, would interrogate the color of the sky, I mused. But the hills, the quiet hills that gave my neighborhood its name, they stared back at me with silent accusation. It's too dry. It's too windy. The morning before, when we'd still had electricity, I'd paused at the window right next to my shower, the same hills bracketed by black silhouettes of trembling palm trees. A cluster of orange had cropped up overnight as if someone had blanketed one of the quiet mounds with hissing coals. I checked the WatchDuty app by rote--my fingers were now so used to the swipe-swipe-click, I could open the app while still gazing out the window. I was staring at the northern edge of the Palisades Fire, the big one. As was often the case with these things, it appeared much closer than it actually was. It was highly unlikely to jump the 101, the freeway that wound its way between my home and the fire like a concrete barricade. A couple hours later, we lost power. Somebody had doused the coals with water. They were no longer visible. Before returning to my laptop, my eyes traced the long, yellow cord hooked up to the rumbling generator sitting in the middle of our yard. Anthony had unearthed the extension cord the day before, a few hours after the power had gone out and I was thus inspired to unbox the Westinghouse WGen9500DF I'd purchased a couple years ago, when we'd had our first power outage (which had lasted all of a couple hours). At the time, he'd been skeptical, having never owned a generator before. The box it came in was so large, so heavy, he'd warned me of how difficult it would be to use and so it sat there, unboxed, collecting dust in the corner of our garage for 27 months. Until, of course, a 29-hour power outage with no end in sight inspired me to give it a test run. Which, predictably, proved frustrating. Not only was it as heavy as Anthony warned, I soon discovered that leaving a generator unused for so long could cause all sorts of problems. I also realized that neither Anthony nor I knew very much at all about things like circuit breakers, non-double-A batteries, and, well, electricity in general. So, I used up much of the precious battery on my phone and the trickle of cell service I managed to wriggle from an extraordinarily congested network, to watch endless YouTube videos on things like "where is the 'on' button for a Westinghouse generator" or "what is a 'choke' for a fuel valve and where is it on the WGen9500DF" or "how come my generator won't turn on?" I'd visited two hardware stores in my quest to start my generator. The first one, itself, was powered by a generator that looked a lot like the one sitting idly in my garage. A young woman pushed open the sliding glass doors to reveal aisles of tools, hoses, batteries, and gas canisters cloaked in darkness. We're open, she reassured as I walked through the doors she held open for me. But we have no power. So you'll have to wait until someone can guide you through the store to get what you want. I nodded. The front half of the store was lit in what can only be described as an eerie, post-apocalyptic glow. Drawn faces of customers standing in one, single-file line that started by the generator-powered cash register and disappeared into the shadows made me wonder whether they knew something I didn't. Perhaps I should be buying more than a couple extension cords and a gas tank. But at least I had a generator back home. The clerk assigned to me was a middle aged woman in her 50s. I knew this because from the moment we left the semi-lit anterior, she started describing to me in one non-stop sentence the osteoarthritis that began to plague her hands and knees when she was 46 years old, just a few years older than me, and how she'd been on the medication for about four years and wasn't really sure whether it was doing much good and that it made her highly susceptible to paper cuts and oh, darnit, the gas tanks are actually up front with the extension cords, so let's turn back around and get you set up by the cash register. I paid for my two extension cords and 1.5 gallon gas tank (even though my generator could hold 6 gallons of unleaded fuel--that's all they had left) and headed to the gas station. That visit, too, was an education in adulting. We started our life in California with an electric vehicle. It had thus been nearly three years since I'd actually had to get gas from a gas station, and it seemed I'd forgotten how. After my 7th failed attempt, the gas station owner came out with his hands in the air, Ma'am what are you doing? before he shoved the gas nozzle into my newly purchased tank, explaining to me, You have to push down hard for it to work. Gas tank in hand, I drove home and poured my 1.5 gallons straight into the fuel tank of my W9500. But it wouldn't turn on. I called the toll-free "helpline" printed on the owner's manual. The young man who relieved me from hold-music suggested I pick up a propane tank because if the battery was dead--which it very possibly could be given the generator had been unused for so long--it could not be jumped with fuel. It could only be resuscitated with propane. I stifled the urge to ask, And why, pray tell, is there no mention of this in your totally useless owner's manual? Instead, I thanked him politely, hung up, and got back in the car. This time, Anthony joined me. We drove to a different hardware store--one I'd called in advance to confirm the availability of propane tanks. This one still had power, but the long line of cars waiting to place an order with the McDonald's drive-thru next door was all the indication I needed that ours wasn't the only home without electricity. The propane tank seemed to do the trick. The engine light turned on and the machine came to life with a satisfying rumble. It was loud and smelly, but at least it worked and hopefully, I wouldn't have to throw out all my food. Anthony and I pulled the refrigerator several feet off the wall so I could reach the outlet and plug it into the extension cord. I walked back with the other end in my hands and plugged it into the AC outlet on the WGen9500. But the fridge remained dark. I tried hooking it up to my laptop, thinking that maybe the required wattage for a full-sized fridge was too much for the unused Westinghouse; but, the small battery icon in the top left corner of my screen remained bereft of a lightning bolt. I got back on hold with the toll-free helpline, only this time, I was subjected to over an hour of awful music before I was able to talk with a human being. It didn't go well. He began the conversation by berating me for failing to include the "DF" when I rattled off the model number, "DF" makes a really big difference, you know. When I asked him what possible reasons there might be for the WGen9500DF's failure to generate any actual power, he replied with, I honestly don't know. I'm just typing your questions into an AI chatbot and it seems I'll have to refer you to technical support. That was the end of that. I sat back on my heels, still squatting in my unlit garage. I repressed something that felt disturbingly close to tears. There was something about this failure that was particularly grating. In the space of a few hours, I'd gone from being marginally dismissive about the generator that I couldn't even be bothered to remove from its box to being slightly unhinged at its unwillingness to do its job. It was time to "call it," I decided. I checked to make sure all buttons, switches, and valves were securely in the "off" or "closed" positions and lugged the thing back into its corner. I logged onto Yelp, found a few electricians, and asked whether they might be able to come by and take a look at my Westinghouse WGen9500DF. That night, as it grew harder and harder to read the book I'd started (Han Kang's Human Acts), we accepted a generous offer from friends. We'd stay with them for the evening and possibly even overnight, if the power wasn't restored. The following morning, we drove back home. Still no power. Our fridge was starting to smell. Anthony suggested I go for a run, and I agreed it was a good idea to pretend that all was normal. After a couple miles, I came back and went straight to that corner in my garage in nothing but my running shorts and sports bra. I rolled the WGen9500DF out of its spot, carefully hooked it up to the propane tank, and once more, brought the engine to a thundering roar. I connected it to my laptop, but nothing changed--no power. Armed with little more than a couple hours of YouTube research, a front-to-back review of the owner's manual, and a couple half-hearted exchanges with an electrician on Yelp, I peered closely at every last button on the machine that was trying to ruin my life. I saw one that had "Reset" in slightly raised letters, one I hadn't been able to see in the meager afternoon light the day before. I gave it a firm press. And just like that, I heard the satisfying pong from my laptop, signaling its reception of a charge. It's working! I yelled, still kimchi-squatting in the garage. It's working!! I repeated, in case Anthony couldn't hear me above the engine noise. For a moment, it was like I'd plugged the bright yellow extension cord into some socket on my body, jolting me out of my despair. I wasn't a failure, any more. Because everyone knows, failures can't survive in a world populated with silent hills and licking flames and dry winds and AI chatbots with their human proxies that don't give a shit about you, your dog, or your rotting fridge. We rolled the generator to our backyard, threaded the extension cord through the sliding glass doors of our family room, and connected it to our ailing refrigerator. It sprang to life with a hum and I threw open the doors while a small, peckish sort of mania spread my mouth into something that resembled a grin, before whispering to myself, It's working! By the time I'd settled into the kitchen table, the engine's clamor barely registered anymore. I imagined the yellow line extending from its corpus throbbed like an umbilical cord, giving life to the refrigerator, which had somehow transformed into everything--my house, my safety, my life, my future. Yes, the hills were still insidiously silent, and yes, the fire raged behind them, but for the next 4 hours or so, until the propane in my tank was completely depleted, I could pretend that everything was ok. Anthony walked into the kitchen wearing a long-sleeved shirt and running shorts. Gusts of up to 60 mph were no match for my husband's need for normalcy. I'm going to head out to run for as long as I can run. Then, I'm going to the gym, he said. I nodded, distractedly. I was checking the WatchDuty app, again. A small vegetation fire had sprung up north of us, north of the 101. They called it "Kenneth Fire." Only a few acres, but still worth keeping an eye on until the small, orange flame icon turned grey. Ping--the friends who'd hosted us the night before texted: "Kenneth Fire! Our door's open." I turned back to my manuscript, the first sentence Charlie asked me to rework: "Yes, Chicago once had a thriving enclave for its"-- An unholy siren erupted from my phone. An EVACUATION WARNING has been issued in your area. A few seconds later, an alert on Anthony's phone cut through the engine noise, the hum from our refrigerator: An EVACUATION WARNING has been issued in your area. And then, just in case either of us missed it, another alert ripped from one of our phones: An EVACUATION WARNING has been issued in your area. I sat there in my kitchen nook, pinching the screen of my phone on WatchDuty so I could zoom as far in as it would allow. The Kenneth Fire was now a few hundred acres. The yellow evac warning zone had spread like leaking engine oil, its edges brushing right up against the back of our home. I'm going to CVS to pick up my prescriptions, Anthony said. Yup, but come right back, I replied. We'll head to Sid and Nabiha's right after. I watched his back disappear beyond the door that led to the garage. I turned back to the yellow cord snaking its way into our home. I got up. Opened the sliding glass door. Walked over to the WGen9500DF. Squatted. Pressed my thumb into the blue "Start/Turn Off" button, until it finally shuddered into a terrible silence. How You Can Help. Anthony, Lulu, and I are safe and sound, back in our home. We did evacuate the night of the Kenneth Fire and stayed with our friends. But the amazing firefighters were able to bring the fire under control later that evening (while we were asleep), and we woke up to learn that the evac orders had been lifted. Later that morning, power and internet were both restored to our home. In a bizarre twist, though, as I was cooking a "thank you dinner" for our friends, an evac warning was issued for their neighborhood. So we, in turn, opened our home to them. They stayed with us for two nights. Despite seeing the sky transform into a ghastly orange, watching ash fall from the heavens, reacquainting ourselves with KN95 masks, our families remain relatively unscathed. Our homes are intact and none of us has been physically harmed by the wildfires. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for so many others.
Despite what you might see on the news and social media:
I read a quote by Mr. Rogers, one shared by Maria Shriver, that I found extremely powerful: "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'" Here are some of The Helpers: World Central Kitchen. "World Central Kitchen’s Relief Team is in Southern California to support first responders and families impacted by wildfires in the Los Angeles area. Our teams and partners have mobilized across the region to provide nourishing meals to people in need." DONATE NOW. Letters Charity. "With a focused emphasis on historically underserved neighborhoods where resources and attention are often overlooked, we're responding with immediate, unconditional grants to help these families rebuild their lives, preserve their community, and maintain their dignity while on that road." DONATE NOW. WalkGoodLA. WalkGoodLA, a community wellness organization located in mid-city LA, has turned its studio into a donation center. They are assembling items and goods that can help families who have been affected by the wildfires. They also have a track record of providing mental health services to underrepresented and underserved LA communities. If you are in the LA area, you can drop off requested goods at The WalkGood Yard (4019 W Pico Blvd). You can also make a monetary donation to WalkGoodLA: DONATE NOW. Pasadena Humane. "[W]e are actively serving animal needs in disaster-affected areas .... We are prioritizing reports of animals seen alive in the area and in urgent need of medical attention, as well as cases where owners have informed us they were forced to leave their pets behind.... This is an operation of unprecedented scale and complexity, and we are doing everything in our power to meet the immense challenges of the situation." DONATE NOW. Agoura Hills Animal Shelter. I run by this animal shelter often. I've just discovered that they are among the shelters accepting animals that have been abandoned or displaced (not necessarily on purpose) as a result of the wildfires. In lieu of monetary donations, you can provide the shelter with things on their Amazon wishlist. DONATE NOW. Los Angeles Fire Department Foundation. It is estimated that a staggering 15,000 firefighters are actively fighting the wildfires in Southern California. Only 3% of the city's fire budget is allocated to life-safety costs of the LA fire department. The LAFD is a non-profit providing funding for essential tools, equipment, and programs (like mental health resources and training) for firefighters. DONATE NOW. If you or your loved one has been affected by the wildfires, this spreadsheet provides a list of resources in and around both LA and Ventura County. Parting Thoughts. I have a lot of thoughts about the wildfires, especially as we continue to learn more about how they may have been started. But that's not for this email (or any other email, maybe). Of all the feelings I have, though, the most overriding is one of gratitude: for the friends who let us crash at their home and for the fact that we are all safe and sound. My heart goes out to all those who've lost loved ones or the only homes they had. For my fellow Californians--those living through this--I wish you safety. When life returns to normal (our home is in a "Particularly Dangerous Situation" until Wednesday evening according to the National Weather Service), this missive in your inbox will start to look a lot like the ones you're used to. In the meantime, I thank you for your patience and support. Wishing you all the best,
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