On that fateful Tuesday night in January, my sons, Jack, Sam, and I were leaving for the movies around five o’clock. Earlier that day, we dropped my daughter at the airport for Ireland. Everything felt lucky.

As we were heading out, news broke of a fire in Eaton Canyon, a few miles away. Living in the mountain foothills all my life, I had grown cavalier about forest fires. Still, in the end, we decided to skip the movie.

A powerful windstorm erupted, with wind gusts to 80 mph. Fire evacuation warnings soon became evacuation orders as the fire headed east towards us.

My phone lit up with texts. The fire is out of control. It’s burning through the canyons. Altadena is engulfed in flames. Altadena Country Club is gone.

We filled our cars with boxes filled with personal items. Evacuating is a bizarre situation. What to take after you have already secured the obvious valuables? Sam filled his car with his instruments and cameras. Jack grabbed his computer. Me, well, I grabbed a new jacket that still had the tags on it and a couple of good books. It never crossed my mind that I could be living in these clothes for days, weeks, or forever.

At midnight, the police drove by with a blaring, “Evacuate immediately!”

I stood transfixed in our driveway. I had never seen anything like it before. The mighty winds pushed the flames, and my heart sank. It felt like Atlanta burning from Gone With The Wind.

“Mom, mom. We got to go.”

I took the two dogs with me inside the Honda. Sam took the cat with him. We swerved to miss falling branches. The main road was a long line of red taillights. All hotels for miles were booked. Many had offered their homes as a refuge. I wanted to stay close. Our caravan turned onto a residential street lined with expensive homes.

I texted the boys, “Let’s park here for now.”

There was barely enough room for me inside my stuffed car, let alone a golden retriever and a Jack Russel. Socrates squeezed in my lap under the stirring wheel. Poor Lucky looked like a contortionist dog with his head down and legs pressed against the window. No one barked, not even when the homeowners looked inside my car. Seriously?

I awoke at 6:00 a.m. The air was thick with smoke, but the fire had passed.

“Mom, did you sleep?” Jack texted. “We didn’t sleep at all.”

“This proves I can sleep through anything. Let’s go see what’s happening.”

We drove back towards our neighborhood. Police officers blocked all the street entrances, fearing looters. Every lie I used in the past didn’t work this time.

“Follow me,” Sam texted.

That crafty kid knew a secret alley that had not been blocked. Only the locals knew about it.

I have never been so happy to see my house before than I was on that day.

Then came the reports of friends who lost so much. The tragedies are too large to wrap my mind around. Also, there are stories of heroes. Friends of mine with garden hoses risked their lives saving landmarks, houses, and their neighbors’ houses.

The next morning the boys left for Colorado. I stayed home with the dogs and cat in my house with no electricity and questionable water, but grateful… so grateful.