Wednesday, January 8, 2025. The day had aspired to be like any other. Instead, dawn ushered in a mere shadow of normalcy as the Palisades Fire took hold in Topanga.
Despite evacuation orders, many canyon dwellers stayed behind—some out of sheer confidence that the fire would never reach their neighborhood, others out of sheer confidence it would. They remained vigilant, some banding together to form citizen firefighting brigades. These brave souls extinguished burning embers when they saw them, and contacted the authorities if the situation called for it. In Viewridge, a neighborhood at the northern tip of Topanga that abuts the well trod Santa Maria Canyon Trail, a night patrol formed.
On Friday January 10, orange flames could be seen from a lookout point on Chagall, ready to crest the ridge. Estimating the fire to be too close for comfort, local Mehdi Abderezai rallied his neighbors. A friend with a generator provided a home base with internet connection, and from there plans were formed to take watch in shifts. Pool pumps were offered, hoses and nozzles located, and coffee supplied. “Together,” said Abderezai, “we stand a chance. The fires will return, but so will our resolve.” The days progressed. We found ways to cope.
On Saturday Jan 11, my husband purchased a bag of roast beans; he would hand them off to Abderezai at the Mulholland and TCB checkpoint. He described the interaction like being at the Korean divide; two friends stood apart, one not allowed any further up the road. The National Guardsman posted there, in a gesture of compassion and common sense, suggested a hug would be acceptable. A brief back slapping embrace communicated what words sometimes fail to convey: appreciation, apprehension, and above all wishes for both parties to stay safe.
By Monday January 13, everyone was an uncomfortable combination of numb, restless, and sleep deprived. That afternoon I made my way to the Valley Country Market. One of the stores there, Composed Living, had expanded the operation of its 501(c)(3) non-profit division, Composed Giving. What I saw was a mountain of donations: clothes and shoes, toys, toiletries, backpacks, and books. As things got sorted, a sense of purpose emerged for some volunteers. Kate Kimmel, co-founder of the Topanga Farmers Market, told me, “Helping out at the donation center was the best thing for me to do to get my mind off the fire threat to my own home and focus my attention instead on helping gather items for people who need support far more than me.”
There were displaced persons shopping for sanitizer, diapers, and other forgotten essentials—all provided by the community at large. People who, on short notice, cleaned out their closets.
There were also those who had lost everything in the fires. Some people were looking on behalf of friends or coworkers whose homes burned to the ground, collating items into care packages.
I stepped in to help, and realized the family we were packing for was one that I knew. They had lost a home on Saddle Peak. My heart ached, the tragedy taking on new weight. I wanted to do more. Kimmel’s gentle wisdom resonated, “Many of the people who experienced big losses don’t know what their next steps are, and may not have a space to put too many items right now. Bags with hand-selected items are more of a comfort, to let them know we all care so much and that we will be there.”
She told me that some friends who lost their homes weren’t ready to share a specific list of needs because they were still in shock. She offered forthright advice: make your questions specific. Instead of asking, ‘do you need anything?’ perhaps ask, ‘does your daughter need fresh socks’, or, ‘are you stocked with enough pet food?’
Elsa Elbert, owner of Composed Living and a professional organizer by trade, is connected with local charities. She found that when clients shift their living space, either to a smaller home or simply a more organized one, there is often an excess of goods to get rid of. She welcomes anyone to drop off items ready to be passed to a new owner. In addition, Composed Living, the retail store, has a free clothing closet. The framework was there. The Composed team simply had to scale up.
Kami Engel responded to their all points bulletin. I spoke with her as she collected items for a local boys and girls home on the north side of Topanga.
Her friend, Janiese Finney, runs Loving Hands, a place for special needs children ranging in age from two months to 11 years old. Finney, a registered nurse, has a staff of two who assist her in making a loving home environment for children who have experienced tragedy. Many were born to addicted mothers, others had their parents taken from them in a car crash or other accident. If families cannot be found to foster or adopt, Janiese becomes home. She maintains relationships with LA County hospitals and the Department of Child and Family Services (DCFS), the latter of which has an open case on every child at her facility.
When her zone was asked to evacuate, Finney faced a choice. She did not want to go to unknown circumstances, or have to split up the kids—that would be adding trauma onto trauma. She got on the waitlist for subsidized housing through Airbnb, hoping to have a chance to relocate together. Meanwhile, Sheriff’s deputies told her to shelter in place with cars packed, and to be ready at a moment’s notice to leave with the kids. The community came together to find shelter for the animals that share Finney’s acre plus of land, including chickens, goats, bunnies, a turtle, and a dog.
The first few days passed without incident; however, when power was cut new issues arose. “The babies are cold,” Engel reported, as she and I loaded the trunk of her car with diapers, wipes, sheets and blankets, and a few picture books. For four long days, Loving Hands was without power. Winds howled around them, threatening to bring down poles and power lines, while ash and smoke filled the air. Through it all, Finney and her team utilized solar generators, lanterns, and their vehicles to charge phones and equipment. They transformed the living room into a vibrant indoor camp-out filled with tents, games, and art activities.
“We care for medically fragile kids,” Finney explained. “We had an emergency when one of the babies pulled out her feeding tube. As the Registered Nurse on staff, I attempted to reinsert but was unable. I called 911, and while the paramedics swiftly transported us to the hospital, I was consumed with worry—not just for the baby’s health, but for whether we would be allowed to return home. We had nowhere to go.” Ultimately, Finney and the baby were permitted to return. Soon she faced a new dilemma; medication was being turned away at the blockade. Thankfully, she found advocates to help. A sheriff’s order was given to allow prescriptions and essential supplies through. Finney credits Lost Hills Sheriff Station officer Sergeant Wax with this accomplishment, stating, “My faith in humanity is completely restored.”
Finney is proud member of the Topanga Chamber of Commerce, and mother to TWO adult biological children, ages 29 and 19, and three adopted with a fourth adoption pending. One of her board members has adopted five. Someone else on staff adopted two.
In the wake of the fires they have been inconvenienced, but not devastated, and that is something to be wildly grateful for.
Sunday, the 19th, I was back at Composed Giving, this time picking up bags of clothing going out for delivery. Requests were coming in from fire victims forced to find temporary housing out of the area. I got behind the wheel and routed a course to Manhattan Beach, where a young woman and her father were waiting. I’m an atheist, but found myself offering the only words I found relevant, “God bless you and keep you.”
One thing that struck me as I reported on these acts of recovery and reconstruction is something Abderezia said. During his ordeal in Viewridge, some neighbors confided in him about conflicts with others, often over political views. At the end of the day, though, they were able to put misgivings aside and stand ready to protect the property of both sides of the aisle. Community transcends politics, and we are stronger when we focus on what unites rather than what divides us.
Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, we have grown stronger and more resilient after the burn. All of us have lost something, some of us have lost everything. We will rebuild, together, and move forward with the knowledge that light can be found even in the darkest of times, and this, our darkest hour, is just before the dawn.
