Disruption

A tribute to by beloved Los Angeles

As of this writing (Wednesday, January 10, 2025), numerous friends of mine have had their houses burned down by the Eaton fire. I would want to say unthinkable tragedy, but tragedy, yes, but totally thinkable to me. I lost my home in Beverly Glen as a child when I was ten years old, a few days after Christmas, and 60 years later, I still remember every toy and record I received that Christmas I lost when the house went down the hill. It’s the inventory of loss or dread that I have kept for decades from childhood to adulthood. My new unheard copy of Herman’s Hermits on Tour was destroyed in the mudslide, but I found it in the dried mud a few days after the incident. It was unplayable, and the cover was caked with dried mud. A small thing in the world, but for me at that age, it was like looking at a dead body that represented a life at one time, but now it’s over.

Through the kindness of Santa Claus, I also received The Man From U.N.C.L.E.: Napoleon Solo Gun toy set. It came with the classic Napoleon Solo pistol, but you could convert it into a rifle, which one could see on numerous episodes of this great TV show. With the gun, you also received a business card identifying you as a member of U.N.C.L.E. and a badge from that organization. So, for at least 24 hours, I worked as an agent for this fine organization. I lost all of it in the mudslide, except for the business card I had in my pocket when I raced out of the house before it crashed onto the hill. Come to think of it, my escape from the house was very much like out of an episode of the Napoleon Solo show. My mom dragged me out of the house, and then we were out; we witnessed the house being torn into splinters and realized that our whole world would now be changed. For that entire year afterward, I have kept the business card from Mr. Solo in my pocket in case my services were needed for the cause of good.

The next day, to see if anything still survived the mudslide, and it was still raining, were a few strangers on our property trying to find treasures for themselves. When my dad confronted them, they acted like this was all up for grabs—a yard sale where they didn’t have to pay for anything. Our neighbor down below insisted that my father clean up the mess that reached the outskirts of his property. Due to being in shock or having my memory destroyed due to trauma, I have no recollection of what happened to our ruins. More vultures were coming in the early morning or late evening to see if there were jewels or something worth reselling on the second-hand market.

From 1966 to 1979, I lived in Topanga, and I think I worried about a mudslide blocking Topanga Canyon Boulevard from the Beach entrance/exit or the route to Woodland Hills in the San Fernando Valley. Another significant worry was the brush fires that occurred regularly. I remember staying with my Grandmother in town because we had to leave the canyon. In my humble opinion, Topanga Canyon didn’t want any humans living on the premises. The land was once part of the Tongva Tribe, which has existed since 5,000 BCE. In the 18th century, when the Spanish colonizers established missions in California, the tribe was forced to relocate. I have always felt that I didn’t belong there, so as a young adult, I moved as soon as possible.

This piece above is dedicated to those who lost their homes in the fires of Los Angeles 2025.