That’s how many we (I) got at
486 East Concha Street, Altadena, California 91001.
Too few,
Considering me and my two siblings were supposed to inherit the house
Some day.
Grief is a strange thing,
Though, to be fair,
Every thing in life is a strange thing.
(What is time, for example?)
I remember
My 7th birthday in the backyard, where Raphael from Ninja Turtles made an appearance,
and I remember
my infant brother covered in ants in a patio that no longer exists,
and I remember
my Bushhouse, which my dad built cuz we didn’t have a treehouse tree,
and the time capsules I buried
and the Christmas tree ornament stand I manned on the street (in lieu of a lemonade stand)
and learning to swim, saving my infant brother from drowning,
Pool parties,
Countless parties,
It was the party house for many years.
Everyone had a good time there, for sure.
I remember
My brother’s band practices
And my band Whatnot’s practices this past year and a half with Zakk
And “Go Banana” stunts in the early 2000s
And filming movies with RJ and Raf and Jared and Daniel and Colin
And Nintendo Blowouts with Joey and Brian and Damian and Paul and Ian and Nick and Andy and Miguel
And my dad filming Christmas mornings on his crappy camcorder
Like when I got the Nintendo 64 (unknowingly then the greatest day of my life)
And visits from Santa
And memorizing my lines for the next day’s scenes of “Problem Child 3” or “Jingle All the Way” or “BASEketball” or “Walker, Texas Ranger” or, or, or…
And my surprise 18th birthday party
And sneaking into Farnsworth Park with my friends in the middle of the night
And dressing up for Boy Scouts and karate
And reading Goosebumps books, instilling a life-long love of reading
And my small room before my dad added onto the house
And spending time with my Irish grandma and grandpa (man, I wish they met my daughter)
And preparing for my trips abroad (30+ countries, most of them launched from Concha)
And experimenting with new technologies
Like DVD players and computers
And my own phone line
And watching “The Daily Show” and “King of the Hill” religiously
And losing my virginity on a mattress on the floor of my second floor bedroom
I remember the self-destructive mistakes I made in that upstairs bedroom
My dad built for me
Just as high school was getting going,
What a fateful room that turned out to be.
I guess karma is real—couldn’t’ve happened to a nicer person, right? Right.
And my brother’s wedding in the backyard
For which I served as best man
And teaching my daughter how to swim in the same pool I learned
Now strewn with charred, jagged detritus and unrecognizable memories.
I remember
Too many memories
To remember.
I remember
My whole life
There
on Concha Street.
It was all destined, somehow, all along, to burn to the fucking ground.
Houses aren’t just homes.
They’re settings and even characters in our lives.
They provide the walls and the doors and the windows and the spaces in which
We reach each other,
And perhaps, sometimes, connect.
One thing did survive: the stone castle, in the front yard,
Transplanted from my late grandparents’ home in lower Hastings.
A survivor.
But nothing else.
The worst part about pain
Is that you have to endure it alone,
No matter your support network or community
Your loss is yours to feel and experience alone
Just like death.
Perhaps Freddie said it best:
“Nothing really matters,
Anyone can see…”
My dad’s 33 years of sweat equity
In which he quadrupled the size of the house?
Snap! Gone.
Altadena’s history and identity, of which I was so proud to play a small part?
Roasted like chestnuts on an open fire.
Strange memories on this emotionally depleted night in Pasadena,
Cuz that’s all we homeless refugees have left.
But of course,
This wasn’t just a personal loss
Or a familial one,
Though it was certainly those two, too.
It was an entire community wiped off the map
Like we don’t matter.
Because, perhaps, we don’t.
What strikes me most is the utter meaninglessness of it all.
This wasn’t a terrorist attack,
Or a Russian nuclear strike.
It was an Act of God,
A freak accident of nature,
No rhyme nor reason discernible in the rubble.
The entire district that I represented on the
Altadena Town Council—
Census Tract 4602 (mostly residential), and beyond—
Completely decimated
Like it never existed.
Fire, like life, is a cruel, shark-eyed cleanser,
Taking no emotion or sentiment into its calculus.
No, fire is Magic,
Which giveths and takeths away
At will.
We’d been here before, of course.
I remember it, I was eight, just two years older than my daughter is now.
1993, the Kinneloa Fire, which started just before dawn on October 27, first as a small campfire lit by a schizophrenic unhoused man living in the hillsides, until soon
The entire fucking mountain was in flames, the same mountain currently ablaze.
My brother was barely one, my sister a year out from conception.
Our car at the same house was packed, ready to go,
School was canceled,
But the fire never reached out from the hills to kiss Concha Street,
Perhaps imbuing us with a false sense of security.
‘We’re by the foothills so surely we’re protected.’
Sure, protected for another 31 or so years,
But no more, no less.
This time, in the Year of Our Lord 2025 (because who can truly reconcile their Faith in a time like this, both locally, nationally, and internationally?),
We battened down the hatches following warnings of severe winds
And we cast a wary and weary eye on the sprouting brushfires, especially the one
Picking up clip in Upper Hastings Ranch—
the Christmas lights neighborhood (please tell me Harbeck Lights survived?!),
Which we enjoyed perhaps for the last time just a couple weeks ago—
Just like we enjoyed Christmas dinner at Concha Street exactly two weeks ago today, our very last Christmas at home—
And we held out the slimmest of hope as January 7 turned to January 8,
But, alas, awoke (though we never fell asleep)
To behold the charred landscape
The eviscerated memories at
Fox’s
Christmas Tree Lane
Rite Aid
Eliot
St. Mark’s
Aveson
Odyssey
Waldorf
Altadena Hardware
Rancho Bar
Steve’s Bikes where my sister worked
And countless other beloved businesses and establishments
Up and down Lake Avenue (ironically named),
A sea of loss, pain, devastation
A sea of ash, crispy memories
A sea of singular nothingness.
All aboard the Ghost Train.
It only took a few measly hours to wipe out our entire lives,
To execute a Scorched Earth Strategy on an entire vibrant community.
The point was driven home with a glaring lack of subtlety:
Nothing lasts forever, don’t you remember?
So enjoy what you’ve got while you’ve got it.
Cuz it’s going to be over soon.
Sooner than any of you even realize.
Oh, Altadena (the “Dena,” to those in the know)—
You were my favorite place
on earth.
*
Many of you have heard of the devastating fires in Pasadena and Altadena that have destroyed so many homes and local businesses and have taken lives in these past few days. Pasadena is a touchstone city for Culture Honey that many of our writers, contributors, and readers hail from and several of our writers have completely lost their homes and everything that they own as a result of these fires. If you are one of our dear readers who have lost their homes as well, our hearts break for you. We want to be there for you in any way we can.
In times like these of hardship and devastation, it is truly the strength of the community that can help those in need to rise from the ashes. Thus we at Culture Honey would like to encourage our dedicated readers to help the writers who have brought so much joy and insight over the years. Every donation will go toward helping these writers cover immediate expenses such as food, clothing and shelter as they work to recover from this tragedy. We thank you for your empathy and generosity and are truly thankful to have you all as part of our Culture Honey community.
Justin Chapman is an author, journalist, travel writer, actor, poet, musician, and politician. He was the youngest elected member of the Altadena Town Council at age 19. He is the writer, host, producer, and editor of the shows “Well Read with Justin Chapman” and “NewsRap Local with Justin Chapman” on the Pasadena Media TV channel and streaming apps. He serves on Pasadena Media’s Citizens Advisory Committee and is a member of the Los Angeles Press Club.
Justin, his wife Mercedes and their young daughter lost their home in Altadena. You can read a guest story from Mercedes on their experience of the fire in this week’s edition here. The family in total lost two homes, two cars, and most everything else. Donations to help the family get back on their feet can be made here.
