Like many, I hold the belief that my hometown is one-of-a-kind. Even today, if someone were to say that Santa Rosa’s suburban charm exists elsewhere in America, I would be skeptical.

As the largest of the small cities in Sonoma County, Northern California, Santa Rosa boasts a faded art-deco aesthetic, featuring a prominent clock tower that seems to have stepped out of “Back to the Future.”

I grew up in a house with a green door, just off Fourth Street. A Foster’s Freeze was conveniently less than a block away, where a $2.50 treat could remedy many of life’s troubles—sprinkles included at no extra cost. My mother would mark our heights in pencil on the closet door, while my father would yell at the radio when Barry Bonds struck out. I suspect you can relate, or know someone who would.

There, I worked as a waitress at the Omelette Express, burning my wrists on sizzling chilaquiles, and every year at Temple Shomrei Torah during Yom Kippur, I solemnly recited the lines of atonement: who by fire and who by flood, never realizing that climate change would make such phrases feel painfully relevant.

Then, eight years ago, disaster struck. The Tubbs Fire of 2017 consumed nearly 37,000 acres, ushering in a new wave of calamities for the state, much like the current crisis unfolding in Los Angeles. A couple of years later, the Kincade Fire inflicted further damage on the county, causing destruction over an area exceeding 77,000 acres.

I was away at college during my parents’ first evacuation, allowing me the distance to fully grasp the damage only when I returned home for the holidays. I found vacant lots where neighborhoods once thrived and charred hillsides lining the highway.

Though our home remained intact, the Tubbs Fire obliterated 5,636 structures, both homes and businesses, and tragically claimed 22 lives. Recent images from Los Angeles reveal a similar—if not worse—scenario, with the Eaton and Palisades fires raging through densely populated areas, surpassing the devastation witnessed in Northern California while joining forces with several other smaller fires to wreak havoc across the southern part of the state.

In wildfires, memories are consumed along with the land

There was an old, neglected stretch of land between luxury homes in my town known as “Top Of The World.” We would sneak there in the evenings for a bit of solitude. It was lost in the Tubbs Fire, taking with it the memories of all the times we stood there, feeling as if we were on top of the world.

A lesser-known effect of such tragedies is that when a place occupies a space in flames, it’s more than just the land that goes up in smoke; it’s the memories that that land encapsulates. Residents may struggle to link the now-ash-covered ground to the vibrant stories that once unfolded in those spots.

In the years following the Tubbs Fire, my parents would call to inform me of their last-minute evacuations to my relatives’ home in San Francisco, prompted by evacuation warnings for nearby areas. Before wrapping up their careers, they frequently had to take extended time off from their school jobs due to fire closures, while Pacific Gas & Electric often preemptively cut the power during dry, windy periods to avoid disasters.

The adjustment to this new reality was gradual for them, but for me, it felt abrupt. Whenever I came back home to a sky tinted blood orange or enveloped in thick smoke, it struck me like a reunion with an old friend who had faced hardships. I remembered the fortunate days of riding my bike inhaling fresh air and crafting construction paper decorations throughout school years uninterrupted by air-quality concerns.

Tom Waits, and confronting the fires we face

In recent times, I’ve found no better reflection of the profound sorrow stemming from these fires than in the music of Tom Waits—one of Sonoma County’s celebrated figures.

A blend of gritty charm reminiscent of Springsteen, his song “I Hope that I Don’t Fall in Love with You” beautifully articulates the complex grief I harbor for my hometown.

In a March 2017 interview with The New York Times, Waits recounted his brief experience as a firefighter. After undergoing rigorous training and preparing for numerous scenarios, his first call was to a chicken ranch engulfed in flames.

Waits humorously describes this absurd situation—the farmhouse ablaze, the scent of fried chicken wafting through the air, and a classic American couple watching stunned. He then uses this as a metaphor for inspiration, stating: “It was an emergency… and when dealing with emergent behavior there is nothing to do but respond. I was in the moment. And it was not the fire I imagined or dreamed of. It was the fire I got.”

Waits’s words, like his music, encapsulate profound emotion and tell deeply personal tales of everyday struggles.

Wyatt Mason, the author of that interview, noted: “Waits’s body of work has the remarkable ability to create a space, drawing you into a distinct emotional landscape with its very first chord.” I can personally attest to this, as every time I listen, I am transported back to Santa Rosa—my mother on the porch eagerly waiting for the newspaper with her hair wrapped in a towel, my first slow dance wearing a midnight blue hand-me-down dress, with clean air surrounding us.

“Well I hope that I don’t fall in love with you falling in love just makes me blue,” Waits croons, his characteristic sadness laying bare the pain of cherishing something that isn’t straightforward. Much like a state with breathtaking landscapes prone to calamity and a world that’s sick but resists healing due to the costs involved.

His voice carries depth and understanding of the love we accept as we outgrow romantic ideals and cope with repeated misfortunes. It’s the only voice that can express nostalgia tainted by ashes.

There once stood a sign on southbound Highway 101 in Santa Rosa that read “From the ashes, we will rise.” This has proven true for the city, and it will hold for Los Angeles, albeit at the cost of unimaginable grief.

Thus, I turn once more to Waits, the mythical guardian of the Sonoma Coast, urging us to tackle the fires before us, rather than the fires we wish we could handle.

Because make no mistake, as we face a worsening climate crisis, the children of Sonoma County and all regions lining California will dream of fires, whether we choose to confront them or not.

The narrative of a community’s transformation from what it once was is a subtle kind of loss in a world influenced by extreme weather. It serves as a wake-up call that the climate crisis extends beyond singular tragedies. It affects not just the practical aspects of life, but also the emotional facets of human experiences. As Waits suggests, it’s about adapting to the situations we face: fight the fire you encounter, or risk being consumed by it.