Dearest Sunset League,
Dearest Sunsetters; I miss you all so much. I wanted to share a story in the town paper and on jimmydunne.substack.com yesterday about our town.
My Dearest Palisadian family,
Two weeks have passed...
We’ve been finding each other scattered around the Westside of LA in hotel lobbies, in apartment rental offices, in the temporary post office line—places like that.
Sharing stories of our homes. Of our families. Of our friends. Of our town.
This is mine.
Unable to get a car in, I rode a bike into our town after the fire.
I first drove through the Huntington part of town.
It looked completely different than the pictures we've all been seeing.
Brick chimneys defiantly remained.
Home. After home. After home. After home. Both sides of the street. Our comforting town trees, only days before graciously draping like blankets over neighbor’s homes—now black and gnarled, twisted and scorched.
Things still smoldering pricked at the fact it wasn’t over—it was still sparking, crackling in these deathbeds. Random flames flickered and danced, stubbornly clinging to life, burning with a vengeful fury.
Wires lying everywhere. Charcoaled, charred, fried cars with the skeletons of their tire rims all looked exactly the same.
.
Got off my bike. Stood there. I was just numb.
This was our town. Our town.
I drove slowly. I was no longer seeing the missing homes.
I was seeing the missing families.
Mike and Kathleen McRoskey’s house on Ocampo. Nothing there. Where I sat so many times on Mike’s backyard patio, slurping a snappy cocktail with so many Palisades buds.
.
Drove past scorched, dried swimming pools. Imagined the moms and dads, and grammies and grampies—puttering around with little squirts in ‘swimmies.’
Went by where Becky and Jai Winding’s house was on Alma Real. Thought about the wonder that would dance out of Jai’s prized grand piano.
Stopping for a second in front of Corpus, I pictured the one-two knock-out punch of Sister Patricia and Father Kidney—giving a seventh-grade kid so much more of an education than any book you could ever, ever read.
Marquez. Calvary. Village. Corpus Christi. Presbyterian Church. Palisades Elementary. Methodist Church and pre-school, home of our founding fathers.
Thought of the humungous beating heart of Omid Heidari at Calvary—who raises the world’s bar in the art of “playing.”
Drove my bike across Sunset into the Alphabet Streets—and down Iliff.
Now a ghost town.
I imagined the treasure chest of the absolute greatest, happiest, full of life, full of families that all just loved each other—and that would do anything, I mean anything in the world for their neighbors.
We sure lost a lot more than books or walls at our town library.
We lost an enchanted place for Palisadians to get lost. To get lost in the wonder of anything, anything you dared to open—once you wandered inside these mystical doors.
Biked into our town park. To Veterans Gardens.
I don’t care what trees were missing, or what plants and bushes were burnt to the ground, or the benches that were scorched—when I looked at those bocce courts—they shined to me.
They shined.
.
And all in a moment, I saw all the faces, the thousand faces of the happiest, most beautiful, most loving, most caring, most giving Palisadian friends I’ve had the honor of sharing the most joyful days.
I pictured them all hugging on those courts. Loving each other. Loving the privilege of being here. In this moment. No fire could ever, ever, ever take that away.
What once was our Starbucks in that historic building—now kind of looked like our Roman Coliseum.
.
All I know is I sure wish I could just have one more 5:30-in-the-morning with the fantastic Jake Steinfeld holding court to a full table of the greatest Palisadians, wetting their pants at some stupid story—knowing half of what Jake was saying was a bunch of you-know-what.
Hard to tell where Joe Almaraz’s Palisades Barbershop used to be. Not one clue in the rubble.
Joe walked from his house on Sunset to cut the heads of his loyal customers for almost 50 years. You’d sit in that chair, and everyone would wave to Joe from the street as he’d just snip away. He’d tell you some story about how wonderful the guy was. Or about how wonderful his old man was.
.
I never thought a restaurant could ever, ever top Greg’s Grill.
Cafe Vita did. Their waiters and waitresses were the sweetest peas. It was like a dog pound on that patio—I’m sure completely illegal. Who cares.
I drove by Gelsons.
Still smoldering. Smelled like metal.
Thought about sweet Susie in the bakery. Always throwing in an extra cookie I shouldn’t have—with love on her face.
.
All the “baggers” were so happy to see my football-sized Louis—even though he’d snap at ’em with his horrifying breath every single time I’d go through the line.
Driving down Storybook Lane, behind the Palisades Village—I know a bunch of those fantastic families.
I pictured the family dinners with young parents looking across the table into the eyes of the most precious gifts of their lives—imagining where promise will one day live.
As I drove west down Sunset, I imagined the terror of the moms with their kids in car seats behind them stuck in traffic on Palisades Drive—watching the angry fires roaring towards them on both sides of the one-way out of the Highlands.
I biked over to where we raised our kids in Lower Marquez. Broke my heart seeing Vittorios—just having their 40th anniversary.
.
Pictured tasting the love of Vanessa, Sabrina, and mom Mercedes; and Chefs Mario, Lazaro, Eliseo, and Julian—in every one-of-a-kind thousand-calorie a-bite garlic balls.
Rode by our old house where we lived for 37 years on Bollinger Drive. Stephen Wright, the new owner (a great, great dad), had texted me that the only thing that survived the fire was my two daughters’ handprints in the driveway.
‘
Stephen texted that he’s building another house on that spot and saving those handprints—to keep a memory of the story of Bollinger alive for the new families on the block.
When I saw the hands, I got down on my knees and cried.
I saw an Instagram post of a lovely Palisadian woman. I didn’t know her.
It was a picture of the Palisades. And the caption said, “I miss the Palisades already.”
.
Wherever we all are, we’re like her. We’re missing our town.
Truth is, it’s not the beach. It’s not the view. It’s not the buildings.
It’s the trust and belonging we genuinely shared—that you just can’t buy—with so many people in our churches, and synagogues, and schools. It’s the friendly ‘hellos’ with all the pals we’d bump into at our “Farmers Market.”
It’s cheering together in the stands for baseball teams at our town park.
Walking into the dry cleaners or familiar restaurant and getting the most endearing smile.
It’s taking off at the starting line with 3,000 other Palisadians at the crack of dawn in the 4th of July Race with a sea of strollers, and kids, and moms and dads, and grandparents.
It’s hooting it up for kids and parents we know on floats in the Palisades Parade.
It’s walking down your street with your dog at sunset and bumping into one of life’s greatest treasures—caring neighbors.
That’s what we’re all missing.
.
On the front lawn of a home that burnt to the ground, I saw something remarkable.
Out of the burnt-black covered soil, small, stunning green blades of grass we’re breaking through.
You just knew how magnificent, and how strong these blades were determined to be.
Maybe nature’s way of saying, “We’re coming back.”
My friends, we are.
We’re coming back.
Better than ever.
And we will never, ever forget how precious and fragile every moment is.
As our town song says,
“… How beautiful life is around me
With family and friends that surround me
The mountains and the big blue sea
There’s no place that I’d rather be
I’m so happy I can say
We live in the greatest town…
Pacific Palisades”
Jimmy Dunne is a modern-day Renaissance Man; a hit songwriter with songs on 28 million hit records; songs, scores, and themes in over a thousand television episodes and many hit films; a screenwriter and producer of hit television shows; award-winning book author; an entrepreneur—and his town’s “Citizen of the Year.” Reach out to him at j@jimmydunne.com and his creative home at jimmydunne.substack.com.
Well said! Mission Imbocceball will reunite also.