When I woke up on Jan. 7 to get the day’s edition of Pasadena Now out I had everything.
One day later, all I had was one pair of shoes, one pair of socks, one pair of pants, one shirt and one pair of underwear.
I didn’t even own a toothbrush.
I lost my home in the Eaton Canyon Fire.
I watched the fire from my front lawn as winds slammed the area. The fire was far enough away and like so many others in Altadena, I had seen fire on the mountain countless times growing up and they never came close to Altadena Drive and Marengo Street.
Sadly, this time it was different.
The power went off early in the evening and came back on at 11 or so. The evacuation order reached Allen Avenue.
But when I woke up at 3:30 a.m. I couldn’t see the fire on the mountain or anything else. The air was thick with smoke.
All I could see was the reverse lights on my neighbors’ cars as they raced out of their driveways.
The fire was in the neighborhood and minutes later, the fire was in my backyard and moving quickly.
We got out, and through the smoke and soot we made it to a hotel.
A man leaving the hotel gave us his room. Thank you Hunter Baldwin wherever you are.
The next morning at first light, I tried to get back to the house.
There were fires everywhere. Sadly what I did not see was firefighters.
A lot of us will have something to say about that later.
Fires on Lake Avenue, Santa Rosa, Santa Anita and Marengo. Tried to get to Fair Oaks Avenue via Calaveras Street.
Every house on the block was on fire and then a burst of wind brought a sea of embers towards my car.
I had no choice, but to hit reverse and get the hell out of there.
I got the news later from a neighbor. Every home of the block was gone, and then saw the shell of the house on the news.
Survivors’ guilt was my initial response.
I battled with not doing more to save the house, but I decided not to do that to myself.
Now all I keep thinking about are those stairs in the house.
I ran down the stairs when I was six and jumped over the last three.
I fell down the steps at eight clowning around with my brother.
I slid down the banister when I was teenager.
And I was married at the bottom of the steps later.
And then I carried my daughter Lauren up those same steps when she was a newborn. My brother taught my niece Deidra to count on the steps, taking her up and down the steps counting as they went.
When we first moved there, I was five and I shared a room with my sister Sholanda, the two youngest in the smallest room.
I was in the top bunk bed in 1971 when the San Fernando Earthquake struck at 6 a.m. My father William Coleman dove into the bottom bunk and held the top bunk up while my brothers got my sister out and I climbed down.
Two years later, my brother Greg joined the army. Sholanda, the only girl, who was just 7, got her own room downstairs.
I wasn’t jumping up and down about that at the time.
Derek, the second oldest and always the coolest, got our room.
I was shipped into a room with Carlos, who was just two years older than me, to have endless arguments over who would turn off the light at night.
It was the biggest room, and eventually Carlos moved out and I got it to myself when I was a junior in high school.
We cried there after we lost my father when I was a boy. We cried together there again after Carlos died.
And as a family, we healed there after each loss.
No matter what was going on, when I went home to 354 E. Altadena Drive, it got a little easier and the victories were always a little sweeter.
All of the photos of my grandparents, my parents, my brothers, my sister, my nieces, my nephew are gone.
Altadena is gone.
I lived in a town with a few sidewalks. In that town, I lived in a home that used to have a treehouse in the back, and in that house I received all the love and support I needed.
All that remains now are the memories.
Maybe one day they will be enough.