On the first day when the fires broke out, I opened Google Maps and looked at my parents’ house on Street View. Their street is sunlit and quiet—so quiet, you look up from your breakfast if someone walked by outside. If you stand in the street, you can see in the distance the rolling hills I’ve always admired. Pulling into their driveway means hugs, good meals and long talks. Looking at that screen, I wanted to be home, inside it, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to be there again.
Santa Rosa is situated among flashier, sexier Northern California spots. Sonoma is quainter; Healdsburg is ritzier; and everyone, even if they don’t drink, knows Napa. But Santa Rosa (the biggest city in the North Bay), holds its own too. Sometimes it feels more like a small town — strangers will probably nod and say hello on the street. You can safely walk alone at night. The whole downtown (about three or four blocks total) is lights out before midnight.
But it’s the eclectic and diverse faces in Santa Rosa that make it stand out from any other small town in the country. It’s just as common to hear Mexican banda music blasting from a rumbling truck as it is to hear E-40 coming from a Honda Civic. People gush about an IPA in the same way as they do about a Pinot Noir, or a kombucha they made in their kitchen. There are just as many “Coexist” stickers on cars as there are enormous pickups driven by guys in Carhartt jackets. And the taquerias rival those in San Francisco.
During the past month since the city faced these devastating fires, I’ve seen former classmates and friends rise to the occasion with heart, creativity and bravery. They’ve rented trucks to deliver food and supplies, volunteered at shelters and gathered money to donate to families and support local businesses all at once.
If you grew up there, every corner of the city pulses with memories. The Sonoma County Fairgrounds in the summer, where you float between rides, your belly full of Pasta King and photo strips in your pocket. Wednesday Night Market, where you’re sure to bump into someone you know, since most of the city is on or next to Fourth Street. Or the Veterans Building Farmers’ Market, where, early in the morning before the fog burns off, little kids make a beeline for the honey sticks, oblivious to any produce in the vicinity. The holiday months are always magical in Santa Rosa too. Virtually empty the rest of the year, the downtown mall and movie theaters suddenly bustle with extended families. We’ve all sat in the inching line of cars that snakes through Christmas Tree Lane, taking in the lights, still enamored with that wooden cutout of the Christmas Grinch we’ve seen hundreds of times. I remember once a neighbor brought in snow from who knows where so the neighborhood kids could play in it.
Texts were sent between neighbors, coworkers and old friends who hadn’t spoken in years…It didn’t matter if they were former enemies or broken friendships — we all felt the same horror and helplessness watching the apocalyptic footage on our TV screens.
During the past month since the city faced these devastating fires, I’ve seen former classmates and friends rise to the occasion with heart, creativity and bravery. They’ve rented trucks to deliver food and supplies, volunteered at shelters and gathered money to donate to families and support local businesses all at once. When I came up while the fires were still burning, I saw people standing on corners in smoke masks, giving out water and food for free to whoever needed it. I’m sure it’s what most cities do in times of crisis: you have to come together to heal. The way essential information, such as the locations of evacuation zones and shelter lists, was passed among the community (and to worried people who grew up there but were watching from afar) was remarkable. Texts were sent between neighbors, coworkers and old friends who hadn’t spoken in years. We exchanged what we knew, where the fires were headed and who had lost their homes and needed help. It didn’t matter if they were former enemies or broken friendships—we all felt the same horror and helplessness watching the apocalyptic footage on our TV screens. We all saw the same photos of local businesses that are now just ashes on the ground. The communication achieved was the work of a city, not a town.
During high school I swore I’d never leave Santa Rosa. Eventually, I moved to Oregon for school and ended up staying there for a job. I felt like I had grown out of my hometown. Every time I returned, it felt so slow and small. Then my boyfriend came home with me for the first time, and he saw what I had fallen in love with as a kid.
I took him to a little record store, where we they were playing an infectious soul song on the speakers. When we asked about it, the owner told us it was an imported album from Japan and that he had only one copy. He sold it to us anyway. My boyfriend was charmed by the unrelenting kindness of Santa Rosa’s people, fascinated by our well-worn nicknames for places around town: “Mendo” for Mendocino Avenue, the street where my high school and a few beloved taquerias are, and “The Mall” for the one shopping center everyone prefers. I just laughed off his new adoration, assuming he thought it was “cute.”
After the fires, I have so much pride and love for my city and can’t help but regret taking it for granted all these years. Santa Rosa has so much more than charm. It has depth, maturity and an unbreakable community.
I’m beyond grateful to still have my parents’ house; many I know aren’t as lucky, and it will take a very long time to rebuild. Many places in Santa Rosa, as several have remarked, will always be described as “before the fire” and “after.”
As I drive up the 101 to celebrate the holidays with my family this year, I’m still excited to see my hometown. This version will be different, but it will always be stronger and something to be proud of more than ever. Many places I remember aren’t there anymore, but the memories of them are still hanging in the air.
