Imagine: Your neighborhood gone

Happy Friday, friends.

I’ve been looking at today’s photo several times in the last few days trying to figure out exactly where I’m standing.

And wondering if it’s still there.

Deb and I had taken a trip to Los Angeles, visiting with her Aunt Lois in Dana Point, a quaint little hillside town south of the city.

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We took a drive one day along the coastal highway and stopped somewhere scenic where Deb grabbed this photo of me pondering life while staring out across the Pacific Ocean.

During that same trip, we spent a few days an hour away with my friends Jeff and Paddi. Jeff is my oldest friend; we’ve known one another for 50 years. We caught a game at Dodger Stadium, took a tour of a movie studio, and did a lot of driving in and out of traffic jams.

It was my third trip to the Left Coast, and the first in nearly 18 years. My recollections are a city filled with energy, community, and breathtaking views.

Until now.

I’m stunned at the devastation to homes and businesses brought about by wildfires and saddened by all of it.

Jeff and Paddi are OK, as is Lois. I don’t pretend to know the greater L.A. geography, so I won’t even make an attempt at it. They’re far enough away from the wildfires to be safe, that’s all I know.

But, geez, entire neighborhoods were wiped out. Celebrities in mountain retreats and poor folks in tiny mobile home parks. Pacific Palisades, a community of 23,000 people, is virtually gone.

The wildfires have burned 370 square miles. Citrus County is 582 square miles. Gives you a feel of the size of what they’re dealing with.

Take a walk through your Citrus County neighborhood. It’s friendly and colorful, with a character or two mixed in. It’s home and familiar.

Now blink your eyes. All ashes. Reduced to cinder.

I saw an interview with one of the California fire victims. He noted the people they usually would lean on during times of disaster — school teachers, police officers, and clergy — were dealing with the same fate. Where were they to find their strength for another day?

I honestly cannot even comprehend it.

Floridians are quite familiar with natural disasters. Just the other day, Citrus County commissioners heard from a couple of FEMA officials regarding the Hurricane Helene fallout. We have numerous citizens on the coast living in FEMA trailers or otherwise needing assistance.

A few hundred homeowners have been told they need to elevate their damaged homes to avoid future floods. Very few insurance policies are going to cover that expense. I don’t know what they’re going to do.

We also know that’s the risk of Florida coastal living. We’ve become accustomed to tropical weather. 

Fire, though, that’s a whole other animal.

Jeff has the same affection for L.A. as I do for Citrus County. It’s not where he resides, it’s where he thrives. I’d imagine hundreds of thousands have a similar view.

Where do they go with this tragedy? I’m not talking about government help, though that’s likely a nightmare scenario. No, I’m referring to their spirit. The eagerness most of us have each morning to start the day. One day all is well. Next day, it’s hell. And hell every day since then.

How do they recover from those scars?

All I know is this: I mourn for these California neighborhoods. And I feel helpless.

I’ve been texting with Jeff this week. I asked if he could suggest where Just Wright Citrus friends could donate.

He suggested Dream Center, a community outreach. Its mission should sound familiar to Citrus Countians who do the same thing for our neighbors:

“The Dream Center serves as a resource center focused on providing support to those affected by homelessness, hunger, and the lack of education through residential and community outreach programs.”

California is far from here, but not that far. Prayers and healing for our L.A. friends.

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