2025 Rearview Mirror – The Palisades Fire

Videos: MATT MCROSKEY

(Editor’s note: Teddy Ray a resident, is  chronicling his life after the fire. This is his third piece, which describes January 8.)

 By TEDDY RAY

 To my friends who reached out again and again – this is for you. I am deeply appreciative of everything you have done: the calls, the texts, the quiet check-ins, the help offered without being asked.

As 2026 arrives, I quietly close the door on 2025. Without you, that year would have broken us. It nearly did anyway. But your care, your presence, and your simple question—are you okay?—kept us standing when so much else fell.

This week marks the anniversary of the Great Los Angeles Fire. “Great” is the word history will use. It is not the word I would choose.

Altadena. Pacific Palisades. Malibu. Entire communities erased.

If someone asked me to name three dates that shaped my life, I would say December 7 —though I wasn’t alive for Pearl Harbor. September 11 –  when I lost friends and watched the world harden, and now January 7.

But January 8 is my day of remembrance.

And it is also the day I learned something far more unsettling: that in moments when leadership matters most, it can simply be absent. That systems we trust can freeze. That those with authority can choose optics over urgency, protocol over people.

On the morning of January 8, the day after the January 7 Palisades Fire, my sons and I began walking from Santa Monica toward our home near the Alphabet Streets in Pacific Palisades. No one in cars, not even residents, were allowed back into the evacuation zone.

 At 7 a.m., the sky was still dark and gray. The wind had died. The air was still.

We moved through the Huntington stairs, avoiding authorities and into the neighborhood, sending text messages to friends whose homes were still standing, and saying nothing at all to those whose homes were not.

 Some truths are too heavy to text.

As we descended Albright and reached Monument, much of the street was intact. Houses stood. Trees stood. My sons ran ahead—grown men suddenly hopeful—thinking they were seeing our home.

They weren’t.

We saw smoke first. Then small flames—almost polite—flickering up from the basement.

Our basement.

The room where we watched movies, played pool, argued over football, laughed too loudly. The place where my children became adults and my grandchildren became part of the story.

A fire hydrant stood nearby. The swimming pool, full, was feet away. The fire looked like something that could have been stopped with a hose.

Instead, we stood and watched our home die. January 8 left me feeling nauseous. The sight of the remains of my burning home will be forever etched in my memory.

I thought about my wife. My children. My daughter. The grandchildren running through that house. Twenty-nine years of life lived inside those walls—birthdays, baptisms, graduations, weddings, funerals, Thanksgivings, Easter mornings, Christmas nights.

I could have stood there forever.

Then the house behind us exploded.

My son said, “Dad—we have to go.”

January 8 marked a turning point for me. Multiple fire trucks sat idle on the beach, while hundreds of our bravest men and women engaged in card games, ate burritos, and watched as the bank, school, dentist’s office, piano teacher’s studio, yoga studio, Ralph’s grocery store, and countless other businesses, services, and family homes were engulfed in flames. The reason behind this inaction was that they were instructed to stand down.

It wasn’t the firefighters. Many wanted to act.

It was command.

On January 8, seventy percent of the town’s buildings stood. That day had begun with calm winds and clear blue skies, as Palisadian Vin Scully would say, a picture-perfect day for Dodger baseball – or battling a fire.

At 9 a.m. that morning, the Methodist church, Chase Bank Building, Ralph’s Grocery Store and hundreds of homes were standing.

Two hours later the Los Angeles Mayor and California Governor were photographed in front of the Chase Bank, by now a fire had started on the roof, spread and the building was engulfed in flames. Not a single fire truck attempted to extinguish it.

By the afternoon, the town was deserted, save for people like me and numerous looters entering homes that had not been burned.

My grandsons, four and six years old, will remember that day. Not the fire itself—but the tears. The confusion. The sound of adults breaking. They remember their grandmother crying, their mother shaken, their grandfather angry in a way they had never seen before

What stayed with me was not only the fire, but the silence where leadership should have been.

In the hours when decisions mattered most, those with titles were missing in action.

Systems froze.

Protocols overruled judgment. Responsibility dissolved into press statements and photo opportunities. The people we assume will lead in moments of crisis simply did not. And when that realization settles in, it changes you.

And yet—amid the ashes—goodness arrived.

One of the coolest organizations I never realized existed was Samaritan’s Purse, a Billy Graham organization.

These people came after the fire and went through our ashes just to try to find some of our precious mementos. We were all in hazmat suits. They wanted to begin in a circle and say a prayer before we started. I wasn’t in the mood for a prayer, but of course, I did it anyway.

People worked and sifted and dug through fire debris for four hours. They found nothing. These people are truly sent from heaven. Just to be ear for all of us was a blessing.

One guy handed us a Bible and said, “I hope this is something you can use. You know that we’re here for you and care for you.”

I was disappointed that nothing material was found but things beyond material was found. I’ll never forget that group. What I found is that you’re never alone in a disaster.

I was leaving and was halfway back to my car when one yelled out, “Hey Teddy.” I have something to give you.”  I responded, “You gave me a whole day of work and the Bible. What can you possibly give me?”

He handed me four bars of soap. “Is this a hint?” I asked. He said no. “My hobbies are making soap. Go cleanse yourself.”

I had no idea what that meant then, but I have since. I’ve used it ever since. It was handmade, and a kind gesture. Some guy I have no idea who he was or what his name was, why he makes soap, but he gives it away. That night I showered, and I was clean.

Every time I spoke with my insurance company, I followed it up and took a shower with that soap. If you’re from Los Angeles and dealing with insurance, the soap is perfect to get the scum that you have been dealing with. I say prayers of thanks for these good souls of Samaritan’s Purse.

This fire marked the end of an era for us. After enduring numerous years of premium increases and undergoing several remodels, January 8 was the day I reached out to my insurance company.

My one-year opinion of experience is insurance is a highly profitable yet unethical business. I’m fortunate that my insurance matters are behind me, and our family can move on. Yes, I’ve been compensated, but the games, the inequity, and the unethical practices of insurance companies are not forgotten.

My advice today is to record your home, send the video along with a letter confirming that you’re paying X in premium for Y in coverage. Document every possession. Lastly, if there’s a state, animal, or farm associated in the name of the insurance company, cut bait and find a different company.

But something unexpected happened in the vacuum.

In 2025, several individuals discovered their life’s calling, and that’s being a leader. Most of you reading this letter may not have heard of these people, such as Sue Pascoe, who writes a local factual, truthful, and pointed news column. She also organizes groups to gather and voice their frustrations or simply to have a place to go and enjoy a cup of coffee with one another.

Then there’s Jimmy Dunne, who writes a positive and upbeat column titled “Jimmy Dunne Says.” He has provided Duffy boat rides in the harbor at Marina del Rey for hundreds of people as a gesture of kindness. He has taken this disaster and made it his mission to put smiles on people’s faces. I spent my day yelling, begging, pleading, and praying about insurance matters. I would go to him and read his column or have a conversation to get uplifted.

Jim Craig, our American Legion local leader, has provided his facilities and services to many citizens of Palisades. He ensured that many elderly citizens had a place to go. Sue Khol, our Pacific Palisades Community Council President, has spent countless hours working with all departments and aspects of the city.

Councilmember Traci Park, you might someday hear about. She is our local government elective official who has risen to the top. She has provided countless hours, days, and man-hours of service to all of us.

Rick Caruso, who you may know from a couple of years ago when he lost his mayoral race, fortunately, for those here, he has demonstrated that he is a great neighbor and leader. He could have easily walked away to continue to build his fortune, but he didn’t. He was here for his community. His family lost homes. He founded an organization called Steadfast, which has already begun work on a new Palisades Recreation Center, replacing a park that was destroyed in the fire.

None of these people waited for permission. They answered phones. They stood in parking lots and church halls. They listened. They carried others when the weight was too much.

Because of these leaders vs city leaders it gives me hope to rebuild. I am exploring daily what direction to explore custom vs modular vs design build.

In the meantime, my neighborhood has sinkholes the size of moon craters with the city saying to me it doesn’t make financial sense to repair until more homes are built. The power line and utilities that were approved to go underground hasn’t happened.

Again, when you see your Mayor take photos while the town is burning you kind of want to wait to rebuild. Someone said, what do you expect her to do pick up a fire hose and put out the fire herself? No, I don’t expect her to pick up a hose, but what I would’ve done if I was Governor or Mayor is get on the phone tell the fire chief to get these guys up here to put the fire out.

The Mayor and Governor walked by a burning building. There were no firefighters putting the fire out.

I want to say this clearly, because it matters: our family is doing well. We are different, but we are strong. In the aftermath of everything we lost, something unexpected happened—we grew closer. We leaned on one another in ways we hadn’t before. We listened more. We showed up for each other. The disaster took our home, but it did not take our family. In some quiet, unexplainable way, it reminded us of what truly holds us together.

Because this story is not only about loss. It is about what remains.

We will rebuild. But I will never stop looking in the rearview mirror—not to stay there, but to remember. January 8, 2025, changed us.

I grieve for the elderly who lost not just homes, but belonging. I grieve for children forced into new schools, new lives, new normal. And I marvel at the Palisades High School football team—displaced, scattered, grieving—who somehow went undefeated – that matters.

And when I tell my grandchildren about that day, I will tell them two stories: one about leadership that failed to lead—and one about ordinary people who showed up anyway.

That is how I will honor what was lost.