It's Just A Lot
Moving Forward After The Eaton Fire
My recovered wedding ring in a gloved and ash-covered hand.
S.W. Lauden is my pen name. The person behind it is Steve Coulter.
My family and I sadly lost our Altadena, CA home to the Eaton Fire. We are all safe, but the road ahead will no doubt be difficult.
These “Vodka Sauce” posts are more Coulter than Lauden, but I’m trying to spread them out between our regularly scheduled “music, books and music books” programming.
It was the second time I’d been to our burnt out property to dig through the rubble and ashes.
I was there—covered head-to-toe in PPE and armed with a shovel, trowel and hand rake—to retrieve a few indestructible objects from of our old life. The Eaton Fire had taken so much from us, so quickly, but I was determined to have the last word.
I surveyed the devastation that stretched out for blocks and blocks in every direction, feeling for all the world like a space traveler come to explore the ruins of a distant planet—cold, detached, a man on a mission—slowly transforming into a ghost as I heaped debris into the makeshift sifter; wandering between rooms that no longer existed, searching for proof of a past irrevocably severed from the future.
Pacing off the wall of our old living room, I dropped to my knees about where the entertainment center used to stand. There was a glass cabinet in the upper left corner where we proudly displayed our daughters’ clay and ceramic art, precious family treasures shaped and adorned by little hands. I quickly struck a vein, my ragged breath echoing inside the N95 mask as I uncovered the cracked and crumbly artifacts.
I moved to the master bedroom, carefully walking the distance from the missing window to where my nightstand should have been. In the race to evacuate on that fateful Tuesday night, I’d left my platinum wedding ring sitting there beside our bed. I dug and raked, widening the search area inch by inch until it suddenly appeared.
Spotting the ring in the sifter among the bits of drywall and bent nails was like being called up from the audience to take part in an elaborate magic trick; waking up on Christmas morning when I was a little kid; the moment Charlie Bucket peels back the foil chocolate wrapper to reveal a Golden Ticket.
I held it up in my gloved hand to let it catch the sunlight poking through rainclouds that arrived a week too late, and was instantly crushed by a wave of sadness.
This 360-degree view would have been houses in every direction before Jan. 7.
It’s hard to justify feeling sorry for myself when so many others have suffered the same tragedy—much easier to feel sorry for our kids who had their childhood go up in flames—but those self-pitying thoughts do appear.
Why me? My exhausted brain asks as I wait (and wait…) for our insurance adjuster to answer our endless questions. How did this happen to my family? Loops through my brain in the middle of the night when I desperately need to sleep. When will it get better? I wonder as we meet with another architect to discuss rebuilding a house projected to take 2-3 years, and likely to cost much more than we have to spend.
There is no real answer to any of those questions, of course. Even the bleak pearls of wisdom handed down by our forebears (“To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering,” “Bang-ups and hang-ups can happen to you,” etc.) fall short of providing any real solace in those moments.
I’ve found it’s best to just breathe and let the thoughts pass, however long it takes. Or get outside for some exercise, sunshine, and fresh air whenever possible.
Some of the local wildlife I’ve spotted around our Altadena neighborhood over the years.
One of the many amazing things about the house we lost was that I could walk out the front door and be on a beautiful waterfall trail in less than 20 minutes.
I’d often encounter peacocks and coyotes along the way, and occasionally spot a rattlesnake, deer, bobcat or bear on my hike. And I’d always see a few friendly neighbors gardening, pushing their kids/grandkids in strollers, walking dogs, riding bikes, or otherwise enjoying everything that a truly magical place like Altadena offers.
These days I find myself exploring foreign foothill streets instead, receiving suspicious glances from strangers who don’t know how I ended up in their neighborhood. I look at the charming houses lining those suburban sidewalks and wonder if the people inside have any idea how quickly it can all be taken away. I certainly didn’t before it happened to me and my family. I’m starting to now.
It used to be that I’d come home from those many hikes and sit on my deck with a cup of hot coffee, listening to the birds while typing on my laptop. Now I fumble with the lock of our latest AirBnB and try to make myself comfortable in somebody else’s home until our long-term apartment is finally ready in March.
I reluctantly check my email (still no response from our adjuster…), look into furniture rentals, consult with lawyers, doom scroll prefab house floor plans, and read countless articles about debris removal and soil toxicity.
Lucy checking out the remains of our house for the first time on a visit home from college.
And once the debris is removed, the place where our little home used to stand will just be a lot—a blank slate, an empty canvas, a healing wound.
Conventional wisdom says that this is how large scale disaster recoveries shake out:
A third of people will immediately sell their land and move on.
A third will eventually sell after trying and failing to rebuild.
A final third will successfully rebuild.
A 33% success rate isn’t exactly promising—especially when hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash and equity are on the line—but I suppose the odds of finding my wedding ring in the remains of our home were even slimmer.
So, we’re moving forward the best we can with the help of family, friends, neighbors and an expanding network that reaches around the globe.
For that we’ll be eternally grateful. It means more than you can possibly imagine.
It's hard to lose your childhood home, and to see it in piles of ash. I dug through my dad's house looking for anything that remained. The fire left very little behind. He wasn't allowed to rebuild due to city restrictions that were quietly added over the years since our neighborhood was in a slide area, so he had to move elsewhere. It's been years now, and some neighbors fought the city to rebuild. I hope you have an easier time, but it is a hard, long road. Much love ❤️
Well said, Steve. I hope you'll get some resolution from the insurance company soon... they must be inundated. How does insurance work on something like this, anyway? I've never been a homeowner, but I thought "acts of God" were not covered...?