I suppose it would be easier if I were just to get over the fires in Los Angeles. After all, but for the grace of God I am not there, or so some say. I might even tell myself that there is really noting I can do about it so why should I be so obsessed with the disaster. Some might even say, “It is what it is” and urge me not to become so twisted with horror and grief because of what I see happening. In spite of the usual platitudes about being stoic in the face of destruction and sorrow I cannot think of much else than what has happened to the people who live there. I somehow feel the pain that must be haunting their days just as they are haunting my dreams. 

I wonder if my thoughts are related to childhood memories of long ago when I lived in North Hollywood with my family while my father looked for a job. It was the spring of 1957 and we rented a stucco house that might have been used for a movie set the twenties or thirties. It was perched atop what seemed like a hill to me and I found it to be quite enchanting. 

On the day that we moved into the home we are advised on what to do in the event of an earthquake. My horror over the thought of such a thing only intensified when the movie San Francisco ran on television that every night. As I watched the buildings crumbling and catching on fire I secretly wondered if we were going to be safe living in a place built on top of a fault. 

I went to a school that was even higher up the hill on which we lived. The bus drove past gorgeous homes that I felt sure had to be the residences of famous folk. I liked sitting by the window and imagining what life was like in the place that was still so foreign to me. I wanted to be back in Texas but I witnessed how much my father wanted to build a new life in California. He was eager to become part of the era of growth and opportunity that seemed to be bustling all around. He loved the beauty of the city of Los Angeles and the closeness of the Pacific Ocean. 

Unfortunately for him there was no work to be found so we shortly thereafter said goodbye to California and to relatives that I had never before met and would not ever see again. We headed back to Texas where Daddy did find a job. Only weeks after our return he died in a car accident on his way back from Galveston. Somehow it has always seemed fitting that he was able to see the Gulf of Mexico one last time before he left this earth because he was deeply in love with the sea. 

It would be many years before I returned to Los Angeles, once to visit a friend who had moved to the area and later with two grandchildren who had selected the city for a vacation. By the time of my last journey there I was noting that the natural surroundings looked like kindling and I was far less concerned about an earthquake than the possibility of a fire. In fact, I was so anxious that I confided to my husband that if a fire broke out on or near our campsite we would agree to flee in our truck and leave our trailer behind. 

Fortunately we were safe from fire but images of the dry land remained in my thoughts. Not long after there was indeed a fire near the place where we had camped, assuring me that my cautiousness had not been unwarranted. 

Not even in my wildest worries did I ever imagine the scenario that has let created a hellscape in Los Angeles and surrounding areas. A grandchild had outlined such a scenario in her concerns about climate change but when she insisted that we were already too late to stop the horrors to come I thought that her forecasts were erring on the side of hysteria. 

For the past several years I have watched as proof of the damage we have done to our beautiful earth has mounted. I’ve witnessed days of relentlessly heavy rain where I live turning my city of Houston into a water world of destruction. I’ve watched the fires in Maui with horror. More recently I have been stunned by the unbelievable impact of hurricane Helene. Each time I have circled back to the arguments from my granddaughter that we have to do something now or regret the price we must pay later. 

I have a daughter who lives in the hill country of Texas. She thought she had found her forever home but of late she wonders if she needs to leave. There has been little rain for many years. The water wells near hear neighborhood are going dry. She sometimes imagines a fire starting somewhere that will wipe out the serenity of the area that she so treasures. She has spoken of finding a more climate friendly place to be. 

My granddaughter is still focused on climate change. She will soon be embarking on earning a graduate degree in the study of climate change and what we humans must do if we are to survive the coming difficulties. None of this will help the people in North Carolina or Los Angeles who have already lost their homes and their sense of security but perhaps she will be able to help to outline a newer way of living that she believes must ultimately be embraced by all of us lest we continue to destroy our planet with abandon. 

I woke up this morning with an anxiety attack. I dreamed of a scene in a Christmas movie that I watch each year, The Holiday. Jack Black is talking to Kate Winslet whose character is from England. She has swapped houses with a screen writer from Los Angeles. She finds herself in a beautiful home in the hills on an evening when the winds are heavy. Jack Black tells her that they are experiencing the Santa Ana winds and when those winds come there is no telling what will happen. Sadly now we know what can happen when those winds unite with land as dry as kindling because there has been no rain. Now we have a tragedy that will become as infamous as the destruction of Pompeii. Hopefully we will learn to change our ways. The alternative cannot even be imagined by the most gifted writer of tales.