A Profound Sense of Loss

Will Rogers State Park

Cousin Kimberly called today. She was checking in from Nashville, concerned about the fires and our well-being. She’s always been good about this sort of thing. “How are you?” “Are you safe?” “Yes Kim, we are some 60 miles east of harms way.” But, even before I finished those words my voice began to crack. I didn’t quite get to blubbering status, but I was choking up, welled up eyes and all. It took a couple of minutes to gain some semblance of composure. It all just hit me, a pent up cumulative wave of emotions. Always appreciative of my cousin, her voice and the fires were just the final straw.

Having lived and worked throughout Southern California, I have fond memories of many, many places. Along with the south bay, the west side of LA and Pasadena are at the top of the list. My history of these locales go back to the late 1950s. As a child, we lived in Culver City and Venice. That was back when going to P.O.P. and Sunday family drives were a thing. My parents loved cruising Sunset Boulevard down through the Palisades. My mother loved looking at the homes, homes she and my Dad could never afford. From the bench seat in the back, I would slide from one side of the car to the other checking to see what was around the next bend. A stop at Will Rogers State Park for a picnic was not unusual. If we were lucky, we’d even catch a polo match, a glimpse as to how the other half lived. The riders, the horses, and estate itself are now gone. As a high schooler from Torrance, and later as a “Bruin” living on the Strand in Hermosa, much of my solitude was derived from driving up the coast, solo, top down. Just taking it all in, I would usually turn around at the Malibu pier but I was known to drive all the way up to Santa Barbara. Someone had to keep up the family tradition. During my weekend night shifts, I took turns experiencing damn near every music emporium in Hollywood; Trips to recording studios, Wallach’s Music City, and Tower Records not withstanding. As it bore down on the Walk of Fame, the short-lived Sunset fire came within a mile of changing that history as well. The memories of what was are in conflict with what is.

As an adult, my wife and I were married at the Inn of Seventh Ray in Topanga Canyon. The weather was perfect. Ironically, it poured the day before and the day after. As of this morning, the Inn was bracing for the westerly advance of the Palisades fire. Before moving to Pasadena, we lived on the westside of LA in the Pico-Robertson neighborhood. Since she was working for the City of Santa Monica, our recreational time was divided between all three venues. We were “DINKS” living the good life. Although it was years later, I found myself serving the City of Pasadena as the Interim Director of Housing and Development. (I should have accepted the permanent position). As of yesterday, some of our Pasadena friends have been evacuated.

There is a point to all of this. We have roots in these areas. Our daughter lives on the westside in the Cheviot Hills neighborhood of LA. Her life, her family, and UCLA, keeps us connected to that side of town. They are safe. So are we. Still, we have lost. There is an empty hole that will take time to fill. Although it’s been half a life time ago, a good part of ourselves are a part of these communities. Our hearts go out to all of those that are facing this unimaginable devastation.

As for Kimberly, she never complains. She’s one that endures. She’s also the proud mother of three remarkable adults. In many ways she’s like my sister Jamie. Being strong just doesn’t cover it. But it is their type of strength, their resolve, that is evidenced by the actions of fire victims helping each other. Knocked down, but always getting up.

Even with the relentless narcissistic vitriol and political nonsense of our times, there is hope. Kimberly reminded me of that.