Busytown Altadena

I putt-putted up the hill to Altadena, which these days is a Busytown of deconstruction work. There is enough heavy equipment on parade up there to make a toddler cry for his nap.

A line of trucks—dump trucks and articulated haulers—move like ants in lines up and down the hill, each bearing on its back a mound of dirt. Bright streamers of danger tape flutter gaily in the breeze and the wails of backup sirens join to form a chorus that sings the song of our lost town.

I find my Hunny Bunny on the curb looking at the construction equipment parked on our driveway. Today our address is on the Army Corps of Engineers docket for rubble abatement. We have driven out from Eagle Rock to bear witness to the scraping of our land.

I wantt to feel hopeful about this new beginning. We have been contemplating “the pit” for over four months. But in that time I have grown fond of my rubble. Yes, it was smudgy and probably poisonous, but it is was also last tangible proof of the life we built together and loved. That ash was deeply personal to us. It was made of our Christmas tree ornaments and board games, our love letters and our good French bistro knives.

Most of our neighbors’ lots have already been scraped. They look like startled, buzzcut army recruits. They stand in tidy, blank obeisance, wiped of individual character and contour, sprayed in a billiard-felt-green weed retardant. You’re in the army now, Altadena.

The Busytown workers are all friendly and respectful, but they have a schedule to keep. The bucket loader is parked on our driveway, its engine going thrumedy-thrum, the teeth of its scoop resting on what was once our garage floor. On the side of his cab it says “Cat” but it is being driven by a friendly Labrador who sits in the cab scrolling his phone, hoping for overtime pay.

Sheila, the raccoon in charge, stands under a bright blue shade canopy tilted against the sun, frowning at her clipboard. Her job is to make sure everyone is on time for the job, but the dumptruck is late and nobody can start until he gets there.

What do people do all day? Some people dig holes, some comb twisted metal scraps out of debris piles, while others deliver Port-A-Potties or drive loads of toxic dirt down the hill to dump in someone else’s town. There are arborists and soil testers and people who stand in intersections with tripods to survey the scraped land. There’s so much to do in Busytown that independent contractors are driving their big trucks clear across the country to get a taste of that sweet, sweet government cake brought to you by the historic Eaton and Palisades fires.

Hooray! Here comes the big, white dump truck, chug-chugging up Glenrose Avenue! It turns with a groan onto our street and comes to a halt with a heavy sigh. A happy pig with pink cheeks sits behind the wheel, chewing gum. He waves hello to Sheila who chatters into her walkie-talke. Finally, everyone is ready to start work on their very important jobs.

I have brought a fiesta-themed beach towel that I spread on the lawn of our neighbors house. Me and Hunny Bunny settle in to watch the show like we’re tailgaiting a football game. But the fact is, we are just two very sad rabbits, crying into our kerchiefs, waving bye-bye to our once-beautiful home.