Thoughts on the Palisades Fire… from a Malibu resident and writer for The Malibu Times
By Judy Abel
Three a.m. thoughts post Palisades Fire.
I need nothing. I need everything. That is what I now answer when friends and acquaintances ask how they might be able to help me.
People I haven’t heard from in years, close friends, family, they all truly want to help make my life even just a tad easier, to shoulder some of the burden that comes after losing my home in the Palisades Fire. And I would want to help, too, if someone I loved was in my position.
For some background, I’ve been a member of the Malibu community for almost three decades. I raised my two kids here: Webster Elementary, Little League, soccer, karate, Malibu High, MJCS, and my old Sea View Estates neighborhood. I’ve gotten to know a lot of residents through these associations. But in my decade now of writing for The Malibu Times I’ve gotten to know so many more in our community from law enforcement, city government, business and so many more who make our community work through their volunteerism and the countless charity organizations I’ve written about.
Unfortunately, most of my writing the past six years has been about Woolsey Fire victims. What a struggle they’ve faced trying to rebuild while being displaced.
I always knew I could be in the same situation, I just didn’t think it would be so soon after an extensive and drawn-out remodel using best practices to mitigate for fire threats.
I thought I saw my new home burning on TV but wasn’t sure because it was too smoky to see. It was my house or a neighbor’s, so either way it wasn’t looking good. I received a slew of messages asking if my husband and I were okay and if we lost the new home we had just finished, having installed the light switch face plates just Monday! I said yes, we’re okay but it wasn’t looking promising on the house.
For the next few anxiety-filled hours I reached out to anyone I could think of who may have stayed behind and could possibly check our address. But there was no one Wednesday. And really, who would stay behind in that fire storm?
At 3 in the afternoon, my daughter in New York called to break the news. One of our new neighbors, a childhood friend of hers, had returned to our neighborhood (I’m not sure how) and took video I haven’t been able to bear to watch. How sad he must have felt when he told our daughter, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, if you didn’t know, your house burned down.” He also texted her three photos that I finally looked at.
My first thought seeing just a pile of rubble was no, that’s not our house. That’s what I told my daughter over the phone! She said, “Yes mom. It’s ours. Look at the address.” But I couldn’t see an address, only a pile of gray. She told me to look at the mailbox. Mailbox? I couldn’t make one out.
When I zoomed in closer I finally found it, a teal mailbox now ghostly white and blending into the rubble that used to be my beautiful new home. There were the numbers, clear as a bell even though everything else was obliterated.
Soon after that confirmation, another blow. Our son texted a screenshot of a burning home, the home where we lived as a family for a quarter century. His friend, watching TV coverage, recognized it and took a photo to break that news to us. While we put five long years into a remodel we were destined to enjoy for a scant eleven months, seeing our old house and the house of my dear old neighbor up in smoke was perhaps even more heartbreaking for my family. Crazily, our beloved dog of nearly 15 years had died suddenly the Saturday before the fires. A friend says we are living a country music lyric: My house burned down and the dog died.
Now life is completely different. Destroyed no, shattered, yes.
We’re in our small apartment downtown. I have a roof over my head and a very helpful community in my building. I’m not sleeping on a cot in a shelter. I know I remain very fortunate.
The rest is messy. People from far and wide are reaching out at all hours. It takes a long time to answer, but I feel I must, even just to let people know we’re ok but that our house isn’t. And I feel a desperate need to check on so many others who were in harm’s way. It takes time. I have elderly friends who no longer drive. Did they get out? Are they safe? After three days of being worried sick, I finally heard back from one friend who never received my messages because there was no electricity at the hotel where they evacuated. Why won’t my insurance agent get back to me? Turns out she lost her Palisades home so she’s a little busy.
So many people have asked what I need. Do I tell them I need underwear, a hanger for the one pair of pants I currently own? Shampoo and a laundry basket, because the few clothes I do have are in a small pile on the closet floor.
With so many unanswerable questions, I’m finding it hard to sleep, eat, even drink. I’m worried I can’t make a trip to visit a sick friend. I have no clothes or suitcase. The stress has quickly shed those two pounds I needed to fit into my favorite outfit, but oh wait, that was in my Malibu closet. That complicated cable knit sweater I proudly made myself was always a comfort. Gone too. A slew of my hand-crafted pieces. My kids’ memory boxes. My husband’s irreplaceable record collection, his childhood baseball cards. Our love letters.
People ask me what I need and I say I don’t need anything, but I need everything.
I recently wrote about Malibu resident William Woodward who lost his home in the Franklin Fire. He still put up a Christmas tree with a message of “hope over heartbreak.” His message sticks with me.
A friend from Malibu who moved to Europe emailed asking if I “dodged a bullet.” I replied unfortunately, I did not. How could we dodge a bullet when the whole area was hit by artillery fire? I know too many others in my same situation. How will we all rebuild at the same time? How will this work? Can we all afford it or even have the stamina to get through another living hell in a rebuild with 9,000 other households?
I know I’m going to try until I give up. I stand with you all who lost homes and those who luckily still have a home to go back to and I’m really happy for those people and I’m heartsick and proud of our community. So really, I have nothing, but I have everything.