The scars left behind — charred hillsides, entire neighborhoods like checkerboards of ash and rubble — reveal only a fraction of what January wildfires took from Southern California.
A month after the first signs of smoke and flame, victims are still mourning the loss of small things, a snapshot or a teacup. Communities have been robbed of the parks and libraries and churches where they used to gather.
The Times asked readers affected by the devastation to tell us about what they lost and what it meant to them. Their stories reflect a jumble of emotions that catastrophe inevitably leaves in its wake. “It causes so much disorientation,” says Claire Bidwell Smith, author of “Conscious Grieving.” “This isn’t what our lives should look like.”
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Homes can be rebuilt. People can buy new televisions, cars and refrigerators.
No insurance can replace a stuffed animal that held memories of childhood. Or a quilt made from scraps of old dresses. Or a piano that had been in the family for three generations.
More than just physical possessions, these things bind us to the past, give us a sense of order and continuity. As Bidwell Smith says, “So much of what has been lost is truly irreplaceable.”
My attachment to stuff
Mostly I feel relieved that I get to start over and not buy more than I will use. Not to get attached to our stuff, but to the friends and family that have reached out in support. It’s the best part of losing almost everything. People.
Besides china, silver and crystal, I lost two paintings, painted by my father and great-grandmother. For the most part, I lost my attachment to stuff.
Remains of John Portaro’s home. The sky is hazy but blue and rubble is still burning. "
The sweater coat my grandmother knit
It had flair and a timeless style, and I wore it with everything when the evenings were cool in fall and winter. She also made one for herself in something of a mauve color that my sister has and which she gave to me first thing after the fire.
The pistachio green sweater coat that my grandmother knitted for my mother in the early 1960s.
Jodi McLaughlin smiles and wears a pistachio green sweater coat, knitted by her grandmother for her mother. "
Family's livestock
I'm just really sad that my dad lost his livestock. Some of them survived, but not all of them. I used to love to feed them. My dad would take me and my brothers with him on the weekends and when I didn't have school. We would just hang out and swim and take care of the animals.
Family's ranch at the top of Fair Oaks Avenue with three cows, a bull and a bunch of sheep.
Livestock, including a cow, goats and sheep"
A hand-stitched quilt
I lived in my home for 52 years, but now it’s nothing more than a chimney. The quilt made me think about my mom and my childhood in Louisiana. I still haven't had a good cry. The Lord blessed me enough to let myself, my son and his family out safely. But I know something good is gonna come out of all of this. I feel like Job. I know I will get more out of this than what I had before. That's all we can hope for, and I'm glad I'm alive.
I lost a king-size quilt that my mother knit for me. It was made of bits and pieces of fabrics from some of her dresses.
Illustration of a hand-stiched quilt, with a primarily blue-green color."
Echo Mountain trails
I’m a runner, and a friend of mine up there is a runner, and we used to just run through the mountains. Normally right now, when it’s snowy, we would actually hit the trails and run up and into the snow, just because it’s such a crazy thing to be able to do in Los Angeles, of all places, to run in the snow. Being so close to the city, but then also being able to go out and be so remote so quickly, gave me a kind of daily peace. It’s all just broken hillside now; even if I wanted to, I couldn’t get up there. The trails are gone, and what that was, it won’t be for a very long time.
All of the beautiful mountain trails are just gone. All the foliage that held the mountainside together is burned away, and so there’s nothing holding the ground together anymore.
A person runs up a hill of snow at the Cobb Estate Trailhead. There are clouds in the blue sky and the sun is shining. "
A hand-drawn Mother's Day gift
I was mourning that I didn’t take my daughter’s pictures she painted for me and I was just bawling because clothes, shoes, dishes, they’re all replaceable, but this stuff will never be replaced. That’s killing me. My daughter’s like, ‘I’ll paint you a picture now,’ but she’s 25 – it’s not the same silly dinosaur drawing that hung in my kitchen.
All the pictures my daughter painted me. One, of her and me and our old English sheep dog that she painted in second grade, was her Mother’s Day gift.
Illustration of letters and a child's drawings, including one of a mother and child."
Where three generations of our family lived and loved
This was our sanctuary that saw decades of our family’s lives: Christmases, first birthdays, first steps, dance parties, adventures in the jungle-like backyard and many wonderful dogs. All set against the dramatic background of the San Gabriel Mountains. The world got to see how special it was when it was featured in a 1989 L.A. Times article about a remodel we did to add some much needed space. Then came that horrible night when the Eaton Fire took our old home, and it was suddenly gone. We will miss it and our beloved Altadena, but, thankfully, we have our memories forever.
We lost our former home on Reposa Lane in Altadena where three generations of our family lived and loved from 1959 to 1993.
April 2, 1989 copy of a Los Angeles Times page with a portrait of a couple"
The renovation of our happy place in the trees
Hundreds of thousands of dollars up in smoke. It was my child’s future, our starter home, our nest egg. Our happy place in the trees.
The period-accurate Midcentury Modern renovation we had been planning for years and were in the middle of when the fire started.
Outside of a house with roof beams exposed while rebuilding roof."
A ceramic bunny toothbrush holder
This weird little bunny in overalls that held your toothbrush. I'm not sure of its origins, but it was always on the bathroom counter at dad's house, ever since I can remember. As a young adult, I cleaned my dad's house, and took special care to clean the thing, and it would always bring a smile to my face when I would see it still there. Who knows where it came from, but it was a constant at dad's house.
I lost my father's home, but the one thing I keep thinking about is a ceramic bunny toothbrush holder.
Illustration of a ceramic toothbrush holder in the shape of a rabbit wearing overalls and standing upright. It contains two toothbrushes."
Our children's childhood home
Out of everything we lost, and we lost everything, what hurts the most is losing the only home our two daughters ever knew. They lost their safe space, their rooms, their neighbors, their playgrounds and the youngest lost her school. Not a day passes when they ask us if we can go home, and it breaks our heart because they can never go home.
Our children's childhood home.
Two young girls playing in an inflatable pool outside."
My family's archival collections
I'm very much about the preservation of materials and making them accessible — digitizing so that the materials could be available broadly. Prior to the fire, I started to apply for grant funding to help document these collections. Such a loss is unfathomable and heartbreaking for an archivist (in training).
Archival collections from my family's time in American Samoa, WWII letters from my uncle who was killed in that war, Holly Woodlawn's press archive from the 1970s to 1990s.
My grandparents' wedding photo from 1914, Chihuahua, Mexico
After my mother passed away, I hung the wedding photo in my hallway, so I could see it first thing each morning.
My maternal grandparents' large framed wedding photo from 1914, Chihuahua, Mexico, that my late grandmother had hung on her wall in her bedroom and my mother in hers.
A framed black and white photo of a bride and groom"
The Shabbat candlesticks my great-grandmother brought with her to America
Those candlesticks were all that remained from my grandmother's family. We believe my great-grandmother must have hidden valuables inside the hollowed-out base during their journey from Europe.
The brass Shabbat candlesticks my great-grandmother brought over on the boat from Austria when she immigrated with my grandmother at the turn of the 20th century.
Illustration of two brass candlesticks. Each candlestick has a scalloped top and a wide base. "
Southern California has always been vulnerable to a lethal mix of dry brush and fierce winds.
Still, no one expects the flames to come their way.
“So many people are angry that this has happened,” says David Kessler, a Southern California grief specialist and founder of Grief.com. “They’re asking, ‘Why me?’”
Nature devoured heirlooms that had endured for generations and paintings and backyard gardens into which people had poured their hearts. Fire destroyed block after block but occasionally skipped past a particular home. There was no apparent reason or fairness to it.
The piano
My aunt and my grandmother would play it at my parents' house. My sister and I took piano lessons - I think we were in middle school. Our teacher, Miss Anita, tried to keep things relevant for the times, teaching us the basics but also "Windy" by the Association and "House of the Rising Sun" by the Animals. The irony is that my father, my aunt and my grandmother played by ear with near perfect pitch though I don't know that any of them could even read music, and though I could, I never had it in me the way they did down through their soul.
The piano. It had been in my family for three generations — an upright of quarter sawn oak that probably hadn’t been properly tuned for years.
A piano in Jodi McLaughlin’s home. Framed photos sit on top of the piano, below a stained glass window. "
The Kern Weber airline chair
The chair was replete with a cigarette burn and the inventory tag from Walt Disney Productions. It was a sister chair of one I would settle into in my father’s cutting room on the mornings I drove into work with him to the studio. During the summers, I interned with the animation department as a gopher. He liked to go in early and have coffee with the other editors - the rooms were always dimly lit and I remember the faint smell of the oil from his moviola infused with the scent of freshly brewed coffee.
The Kern Weber airline chair that I snagged from a dumpster at Disney Studios back in the mid-1980s.
Jodi McLauglin’s Kern Weber airline chair. The seat is brown and the arms are made of wood. "
A collection of videotapes
These videotapes consisted of family events that held personal meaning, and historical events and moments. The archive that I wanted these to go to [required] that I catalog each tape with a log of what was recorded on them. I did not have the time nor energy to do this job on my own.
A collection of videotapes that was yet to be moved to an archive.
Illustration of a stack of homemade VHS videos."
Prized artworks and skateboard memorabilia
The thing is no one ever really owns art. It always exists and is moved from one person to the next, whether it's passed down or if resold. To me, it’s not about the monetary value at all. It’s that these pieces will no longer live on.
Prized artworks and sports memorabilia, including painted skateboards, as well as a novel manuscript.
Two people holding up a rainbow surfboard"
Family photo albums
There’s a picture of when my grandma was 5, I think, maybe younger, and it’s her dad, her mom and a bunch of other very old people. I can’t even identify who’s who, and it’s probably one of the only pictures that they have from those days – it’s like in Armenia. And it used to be a really tiny picture, and they got it enlarged, and so the quality is awful. But it used to be above the bed that I was sleeping in. I love that picture.
We had big picture albums. For days, I didn’t want to ask my parents [if they grabbed them] because I think that would have been like rubbing salt on the wound.
A framed black and white portrait of six people. "
Love letters
I had this whole file of letters, you know, they write you when they’re babies, "Mama, this is you and me," and then sweet letters from my current husband, love letters, you know. I left them, so that’s what tortures me.
Letters from children and love letters.
Illustration of letters and a child's drawings, including one of a mother and child."
Community
It was all my kids knew about community.
My neighbors and the structures that hold our memories together.
My writings
To lose my collected art, beloved books and clothes is to lose my cultivated self, the things that made my home a sanctuary. But to lose my journaled writing is to lose the only record that existed of my true self through time. I went to the page with feelings that could not be fully expressed to another human being. I wrote from the deepest joy and the greatest pain, through everything I've ever experienced, most recently nearly debilitating grief. Some of my writing has been put on computer, even shaped into final creative projects. But so much of the raw chronicle of experience is gone.
The freehand writing not imported into my computer. All the youthful diaries, the “ideas”’ folders and the journals that helped me survive my brother’s suicide last year.
Stacks of books on a wooden surface, including spiral bound notebooks and paperbacks"
The 200 letters my mother wrote to my children
Those letters symbolized the great and consistent love my mother has for my children. I was saving them to one day give to my children (now 25, 22 and 16) when she passes.
Over 200 letters my mother in England wrote to my children over the span of 23 years.
Two vases from my Mormon pioneer ancestor
Just before my mother passed, she pointed out two vases in a display cabinet, telling me they had belonged to her great-grandmother, Alice Ann Creer, a Mormon pioneer who crossed the plains in the 1800s. I lost these cherished items in the Palisades fire.
Two vases from my Mormon pioneer ancestor.
Two pink floral vases."
Camp Josepho
Not long ago, I spent a day there with my grandson and was able to share where his father and I grew closer together. Dozens of nights in camp were experiences that my son and I share, including his development as a leader, an Eagle Scout and a good man. We often talk about particular adventures we had there and have spent much time reminiscing since the fires. We dream about what could have been with the next generation.
I first visited Camp Josepho in the 1980s with my son and his Scout Troop.
Outdoor view of a wooded campground, with a sign reading "Rifle Range"."
My best friend’s house of 40 years
That’s where we'd always go for parties. I had my baby shower there for my daughter almost 40 years ago. There were just a lot of memories made there.
My friend’s home of 40 years is gone.
The last handwritten note by my mom
Pinned on my office bulletin board, the note was my constant reminder that my mom was always present with me, even as she faded into the long goodbye. I grieve not seeing that note every day.
I lost the last handwritten note by my mom, who passed away from Alzheimer’s disease in 2012. It read, in immaculate script, “I love you daughter. You are the best.”
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Now that fires from Pacific Palisades to Altadena to Castaic have finally subsided, thousands upon thousands of residents are returning to a life dispossessed of its least common denominators. No nearby school for the kids. No grocery store down the street.
When daily life gets turned upside down and shattered into pieces, people are bound to feel cast adrift. Kessler saw it when attendance for his online support group swelled to 700 last month.
“I call it ‘grief brain,’” he says. “You’re literally in survival mode and in shock.”
My son’s stuffed Pooh Bear
That Pooh Bear held a special place in my heart, because looking back at it I’d remember all those times as a kid where he’d drag it around, and how we’d have to go back to retrieve it after he inevitably forgot it somewhere. Or when he needed soothing and I’d be holding him and Pooh Bear in my arms. My boy is 20 now, but having that memento close by would take me back to those special days when he still wanted me to cuddle him, and of course Pooh Bear. I’d stare up at the shelf in my office with all the memories of my son I collected over the years, that Pooh Bear was my favorite.
I lost my son’s stuffed Winnie the Pooh. He carried it with him everywhere when he was a baby.
Gabrielle Ybanez's son sucking his left thumb and holding a Winnie the Pooh bear's ear with his right hand. The stuffed animal has bandages. The photo is dated April 8, 2007."
My parents' wedding china
Most of that original set was destroyed in the Northridge earthquake, save for a few saucers, a cream pitcher and a cup or two, which is pretty much what now survived the fire. All now jumbled together in this box with the white stuff that was their replacement set. … I can’t help but think that they had something to do with keeping those all safe as a remembrance, and a reminder that life is a continuum, rubble and all. As I told my children, we’ll always together have that house, our home, as a part of the collective memory of our lives there. A gift from the ashes that belongs only to us.
I'm breaking your rules here and adding something of what was found ... what’s left of my mother’s and father’s wedding china.
Pieces of Jodi McLaughlin’s parents’ wedding china in a cardboard box. Some of the china is chipped and ashy. "
The Rosebud Academy
We had just finished our school project before the electricity went out. We cut out pictures, did the poster board and everything. She was ready to present it in front of the class. Then overnight everything changed. ... I always try to let her know that it's gonna be OK and that we're gonna be able to go home at some point. She’s used to playing with her dolls, doing homework after school and going to church on Sundays. But so much of her routine has been lost to these fires.
Granddaughter's school, Pasadena Rosebud Academy.
Children standing on a stage in Christmas costumes for a Christmas concert. People watch from the audience in an auditorium. "
Sacred Heart of Jesus statue
We had the statue at the side of our front door and every morning we'd leave, say goodbye and ask him to watch over our family. So when we first went back to what was left of the house, we were so surprised to find him still there. He was covered in ash and dirty, but he was intact. We left him there, thinking he would continue to watch over us. But someone took it. I hope whoever has it sees it as a miracle and that it helps them build their faith. We would love to get it back, but we know he served our purpose. Now, hopefully it's protecting someone else who loves it.
Sacred Heart of Jesus statue.
Sacred Heart of Jesus statue"
My safe space, my heart
The Palisades is one of the few enclaves in Los Angeles with multigenerational native Angelenos. A small town of good people in a big city. We've not only lost our homes, we've lost our entire community in one night. We will rebuild and be stronger for it, but we'll always long for the glory days. An Elysian dream.
I lost my childhood home, my safe space, my church, my hiking trails, my preschool, my kindergarten, my elementary school, my library, my park, my summer camp, my heart.
Remains of Luzanne Otte's home after the Palisades Fire."
Early childhood home recordings
There’s one that’s so funny. It’s my brother. He’s about 1 year old and he’s on the couch with my grandma, and my grandma was making fun of him, maybe tickling him or something, I don’t remember exactly. And then my brother turns to my grandma and just sucker punches [her] – it was so funny. It was just unexpected because he was like laughing and smiling and then went completely serious. This baby just lands like a perfect punch off my grandma’s face. It’s so funny – I think that was my favorite video.
Lots of VHS tapes of things, like of me and my brother when I was a baby and up to a toddler. For years, my mom has said, "I’m gonna go digitize these."
Illustration of a VHS video playing on a television. There is a woman and her baby onscreen."
My mooring
The house is/was our sanctuary. My wife's family lived there 60 years; the last 12 was she and I until she died there in October. Her favorite places were Aldi and Daz-E Thrift Shop, gone. I wonder if it wouldn't have been better to lose the house to fire, too, since everything else is gone. The best thing is our neighbors had bonded because my wife was such an inspiring, creative "let's do 'X' together" person. We all text and share every day. For that, I am grateful and we will recover.
Like Bill Plaschke, our house survived, but at what cost? Feeling unmoored from reality being able to now go in but not stay in our home.
O Happy Day Vegan Eatery
I was in my 20s when I first set foot there. I'm 58 now and heartbroken by the loss of a place where I left part of my soul. It was a safe haven from the rest of the world. A place where all who entered felt loved and cared for and where you could get a cheap, delicious, nutritious meal.
O Happy Day Vegan Eatery and John, who owned and ran it, embodies the spirit of Altadena like no other.
My current body of artwork
The meaning is so poignant to me — both the loss of art and income and house melded with the hope and resilience brought by the firefighters who saved a few of the houses that had caught fire.
My drawings of the humblest of birds, sparrows. I came home to find them scattered on the floor, with footprints of firefighters running through ash and soot.
Drawing of sparrow on a brown canvas."
A daily reminder of love, written on a Post-it note
The bright yellow Post-it on my fridge was more than just a note — it was a daily reminder that I was loved. Every morning, those words anchored me. When the fire took my home, it took that note too, but not the feeling it gave me. My dad has since passed away, making the loss even heavier, but his words will live in my heart forever.
I lost a Post-it note on my refrigerator door. In my dad’s handwriting, it read, “Hi Honey, We're so proud of you. Love, Mom and Dad.”
A post it note signed with Love, Mom and Dad"
The best neighborhood I ever lived in
After living all over the country, in cities and towns, in different parts of L.A., houses and apartments, for summer jobs and real jobs, I had finally found the place I wanted to stay for the rest of my life: Altadena. I'm sad about a few belongings I lost, but I'm truly mourning the loss of my tree-lined street, with wonderful, kind and diverse neighbors, where my dog and I could walk to the diner and the hardware store. It took me decades to find it, but only one night to lose it.
The best neighborhood I ever lived in.
A orange truck in a street full of pine needles."
Bronze dog statues
There was one dog standing on its legs and one laying on the ground and I always thought of it as one looking over the other. I'm divorced, but I always loved those and it somehow made its way into my heart. I know bronze melts at about 1,500 degrees, so I'm hoping … maybe they'll still be there.
I have always cared about my bronze dogs. They were little statuettes, made in Thailand. My husband gave them to me when we first met.
My parents' wedding photos
My mom died when I was 13 and the photos of their bohemian Big Sur camping wedding was a treasured connection to who she was as a person. The photos showed her creative hand in her self-made dress and the shirt she sewed for my dad. I always thought I'd be able to look at them to feel close to her over the rest of my life.
All of the photos of my parents’ wedding.
Disaster is a merciless teacher.
“How do we want to live going forward? What matters to us?” Bidwell Smith asks. “Grief asks these questions.”
For some, the answers can be surprising. One reader vows to focus more on relationships and less on material possessions. Another feels unexpected gratitude that even a few pieces of her parents’ wedding china survived. Bidwell Smith says: “The truth is that loss transforms us.”
What did you lose?
The Times will continue to build this community page for friends, family and fellow Angelenos to remember what we lost in the Eaton and Palisades fires.
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If you are in a safe area and would like to share a memory about things you lost in the fires, please fill out the form below. Your stories and photos of what was lost will be added to this page.
Submissions will be open for several weeks. We may not be able to respond and publish all submissions, but we read every one. Multiple submissions are welcome.
Top animated illustration by Daniel Savage, who was displaced by the Eaton fire. “I love Altadena, and if any community can persevere, it’s this one,” he said.
Additional art direction and design by Allison Hong and Hamlet Nalbandyan. Additional development and production by Vanessa Martínez. Promotion and engagement by Beto Alvarez, Seth Liss, Defne Karabatur and Brenda Elizondo. Additional illustrations by Lorik Khodaverdian for the Times.
Hanna Sender and Alice Short edited this piece with copy editing by Gerard Lim and Francesca Bermudez and photo editing by Kelvin Kuo and Juliana Yamada.
Memories and photos of lost items were provided to the Times through an online survey with guidance from licensed marriage and family therapist Daniya Ahmed. Several stories were collected by the Times through in person conversations in the weeks after the fires. Interviews were conducted by Cerys Davies, Kaitlyn Huamani, Sandra McDonald, Malia Mendez and Marie Sanford. Submissions were edited for brevity and clarity.
Phi Do is a data journalist for the Los Angeles Times. Before joining The Times in 2018, she helped develop databases for Voice of OC and wrote for the Santa Barbara Independent and the Hollywood Reporter. She graduated from UC Santa Barbara where she created a new data journalism section at the student newspaper, the Daily Nexus. When not reporting, she spends her time making films and playing D&D. Tips can be sent to Signal: (213) 267-3953.
David Wharton has filled an array of roles – covering the courts, entertainment, sports and the second Persian Gulf War – since starting as a Los Angeles Times intern in 1982. His work has been honored by organizations such as the Society for Features Journalism and Associated Press Sports Editors and has been anthologized in “Best American Sports Writing.” He has also been nominated for an Emmy and has written two books, including “Conquest,” an inside look at USC football during the Pete Carroll era.
