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I’m wiping my house off my shoes.

As I ran yet another sanitizing wipe over my New Balance 990’s – now the only pair of shoes I own – it struck me that I was removing particles of what used to be the house I thought I’d spend the rest of my life in.

We’d been told in no uncertain terms that the ash left by the fire was toxic. It was likely full of microscopic residue from melted plastic, exploded propane tanks, and whatever happens to electronics when they burn real good. While we haven’t started sifting through the rubble, we did take our first direct look at what used to be our house, after driving through some of the other parts of Altadena where houses and businesses used to be. And it was a punch in the gut, just as we knew it would be, and just as it’s been for thousands of families burned out by the LA fires.

To pick up where we left off, we got back to Pasadena from the Central Coast on Wednesday night. Right away, Pasadena seemed different. It was quiet, still, and reeked of a fireplace that’s been left smoldering too long. The fires are almost entirely contained, but the air smells of soot, stale smoke, and char. It feels gritty – if air can, indeed, feel gritty. And there are firefighters and utility workers and tree surgeons and county officials everywhere. Just in the few minutes it took to go from the freeway exit to where we’re staying, one truck zoomed by with its lights and sirens blaring, and we saw at least two others. Sirens seemed to be constant.

It was better in the morning, at least in terms of air quality. Not in terms of exhaustion, dislocation, anger, and malaise. That’s not better. Morning doesn’t work miracles. Finally, after a day spent in the customary fashion of trying to get a dozen things done at once and accomplishing maybe three, we decided to head out to see the house. We’d tried twice before we evacuated, but couldn’t get close. The fires were still burning. The air was at its grittiest. But that was two weeks ago. It wasn’t time then. It was now.

I’ve never been in a war zone, but I’ve seen a lot of them on TV. Altadena might not look like an actual war zone, but it certainly looks like one on TV. It has the distinct patina of newsreel footage of Dresden after its February 1945 firebombing, or a BBC remote from Baghdad after an IED went off in front of a market. Massive stores, gutted and hollowed out. Homes reduced to crumbled plaster and charred wood. And just for good measure, armed soldiers in the streets in the form of National Guard members, assault rifles at the ready, there to prevent looting. The city looks like it’s been the subject of a strategic bombing raid, with some homes and shops untouched, and others destroyed.

We drove past the homes of our neighbors and friends, now just empty shells with melted cars in front. But nobody was home. Indeed, nobody was out anywhere in Altadena, except for a few other folks taking pictures of their burned out homes, sitting on their curb muttering, or talking to the utility workers that have suddenly become ubiquitous in the Pasadena area. Our street was once bustling with folks walking their dogs, kids on bikes, hikers on their way to or from the mountains, or families out for casual strolls. Now it was empty. Silent. It was just us and the gritty air and our dread over seeing the ruins of our forever home and at the long road ahead.

A particularly apt line from Bob Dylan started careening around my head:

And the only sound that’s left/After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up/On Desolation Row

Finally, we drove up to the house. It was unrecognizable. The coral tree in the parkway was dead. The lantana plants in the front yard, usually bursting with purple flowers this time of year, were charred twigs. The wisteria that covered the fence between us and our wonderful neighbors to the south was gone. We could see through to the house behind us, through a wooden fence that no longer existed, that delineated the backyard of a house that no longer existed.

Nothing can prepare you for this. Nothing should have to. We got out and slowly walked up the driveway, taking pictures because we needed them for insurance and to remember. Close up, you can start to see the ephemera of a life, but it’s burned and scattered, decontextualized and in the wrong place. The springs from the sofa, but nothing else. The TV, only recognizable from the bracket that attached it to the wall. The washer and drier, tossed and charred. Our basketball hoop, crushed by the falling garage door from the garage that was totally annihilated.

We probably shouldn’t have, but we walked the ground. Through the yard, up to the edge of the front porch, down the north side of the house, once nearly impassable due to rose bushes. We moved slowly, trying to take it all in – with no real urgency, because the clock had stopped ticking weeks ago. When it was time to go into the backyard, there was no need to open the gate to the back, the gate we’d prop open so the kids could ride their bikes or race their RC cars. We could just walk through the giant hole in it. It was a truly ugly sight. We saw dead and melted avocados on the grown, the skeletons of patio furniture, bits of glass and nails, and random crap too burned to identify.

A few metal things could be identified, but not salvaged – the base for our Christmas tree stand, the skeleton of the hammock I got for my birthday one year that I used to lie in the early morning sun and listen to podcasts, the kids’ bikes.

Taking the advice of smarter people, we didn’t touch anything. That will likely happen today, Friday. It’s supposed to rain soon, and we want to get into the ruins and sift before it turns into sludge. So we got some free PPE from the County and the Red Cross, and will go play scavenger in our own stuff. I doubt we’ll find anything, but you never know. One neighbor found a Christmas ornament of ours that survived, a piece of Polish pottery that somehow made the trip from the attic to the burning ground without shattering. There have been some other nice stories about people finding wedding rings and inspirational signs and things. But it looks bad, and if we find anything, it’ll be a nice surprise.

It’s even more desolate at night, a neighborhood once bustling with families and love that’s now unlivable. No light, no movement, no people. The standing houses are yellow tagged – they were spared but not habitable for the moment. And it’s going to be that way for months, most likely. Nobody knows when the disaster abatement is going to start, when the wreckage will be removed, and when anyone is going to be able to even start rebuilding. Or how much it will cost, or who will have the financial capability to do it. It’s a complete mystery, and until it’s solved, all that will remain is the desolation.

When we got back, I wiped my house off my shoes and went inside.