Dear Firefighters, Cal from California Loves You—We All Do.
A letter of appreciation and gratitude from a three-year-old boy by way of his helpless Auntie in New York.
My nephew wears a good hat. Trucker hats. Carhartt beanies. Straw lifeguard. Waterproof bucket. You name it, he sports it. Chosen by his parents to partially increase his style cred, but mostly to protect his pure toddler face from the relentless Southern California sun where he lives, perhaps none of these hats look quite as cute as the one that’s too big for his head: his firefighter helmet.
According to our shared family photostreams of over 12,000 photos, he received his first one in September 2023, and ever since, the list of things he’s done while wearing it—now often paired with yellow rain boots, a “Fire Chief” jacket, backpack, and gloves—has run the gamut from eating ice cream, donuts, and even oeufs a la coque, to feeding the duckies, finger painting, playing piano, ukulele and kazoo, and attending school and a Dodger’s game.
He’s three, so the list of other things he’s obsessed with includes Spiderman, Ninja Turtles, ghostbusting, and playing every instrument known to man. And while his favorite color recently shifted from yellow to red or blue, and he’ll order “chocolate vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles” despite only ever eating the chocolate, his loyalty to firefighting seems steadfast.
When he first began to string words together, he’d point up at the ceiling inside his bedroom and pronounce: “larmalarma.” We had no idea what he was trying to say—“llama?” “Is he speaking Spanish?”— until we realized it was, “Alarm! Alarm!” and he was pointing at the smoke detector. He also has PJs with trucks on them and toy trucks themselves that he zoom-zooms on everything from jungle gyms at the park to the coffee table in his living room, and has visited fire stations locally in Santa Monica and during travels to New York, Hawaii, and beyond.
I’m aware that this is all pretty standard stuff for a three-year-old boy. But I’m also writing this on Thursday at around 7:30p.m. EST as Calvin, his 15-month-old sister Dahlia, four-legged fur brother Kunu, and his parents—my sister and brother-in-law—are headed east to the desert for fresh air and to escape the increasingly worrisome wildfires that broke out earlier this week just a few miles from where this little volunteer pretends to put them out almost daily.
Unlike so many others who tragically lost everything in an instant, my sister and crew miraculously didn’t lose power or receive an official evacuation warning, so they had time to overthink whether to leave, where to go, and, most importantly, what items to gather and stuff in their Jeep along with themselves and the dog. If I had to guess, the helmet made the cut, which seems absurd and completely appropriate.
Calvin knows something is happening not only because he went back to school after the holidays only to stay home the next day, but because when we FaceTime’d earlier this week, the news played in the background.
“There’s a big emergency,” he said while constructing a building with Magna Tiles. The following day, my sister relayed, he dubbed the building a fire station and then made up a song about the wind and the fires and just trying to “have fun and let the firefighters do their job.”
Still, I can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside his little brain, and what he’ll remember of this moment in time. I am grateful for his innocence considering the uncertainty of what lies ahead for those who managed to escape unscathed and, especially, for those who didn’t. Either way, both come with their share of unimaginable loss—of reality, of material items—costs, anxiety, guilt, shame, despair, and other topics Brené Brown has given TED talks on.
Because there is little to do as an auntie from afar but make awkward jokes, worry, donate, doom scroll, and check in…again…and again…and again, I’d like to address the heroes whom my nephew admires and emulates with his oversized helmet, yellow boots, and bulky coat:
Dear Brave Firefighters:
While I’m sure Cal mostly adores your flashing lights, loud sirens, ladders that reach high to the sky, and, of course, your badass uniforms, he’s been taught that your job is, simply, to help people so I’d like to think he’s also drawn to your commitment to service, too. In the days since this catastrophe began, you’ve upheld it relentlessly, with an unwavering responsibility through clouds of smoke and raindrops of ash. If he could type, I’d think he’d say:
Thank you for trying to rescue any of Kunu’s friends—especially the ones he barks at without reason.
Thank you for trying to protect all the playgrounds. My parents take me to them all the time. I especially love the one by Baby Sister’s school with the climbing wall!
Thank you for watering all the dry shrubs, plants, and flowers that usually make LA look like Alice’s Wonderland. We put lights on one of our palm trees for the holidays this year!
Thank you for working hard to ensure structures like the Getty Villa remain. I’m sad about Will Roger’s house because we went there all the time to picnic and hike, so I’d hate to see others destroyed before I’m old enough to enjoy them.
Thank you for also doing your best to save spaces like libraries where I take out books and play on the computer and the supermarkets where I get my Milky and Bambas.
Thank you for finding anyone who may be lost or hiding in small neighborhoods or shopping centers close to where I live, like the Palisades. Mom sometimes took me to her favorite store there, BOCA.
Thank you for trying to shield all the houses of all our neighbors, near and far. Neighbors are the best. I love it when we see each other on the sidewalk after school and miss them when they’re away.
If all he remembers of this time is a frenzied getaway to the desert, and he gets to return to his own home and community that to him may seem the same, but will no doubt be irrevocably changed, that’ll be thanks to you. And when he’s older, and able to more deeply reflect on the catastrophic first few days of 2025 in the City of Angels he was born into, I hope he acknowledges the actual angels who came to the rescue and the magnitude of what you went through as a result. By then, he’ll more clearly understand your not-at-all simple job of helping people by selflessly throwing yourselves into unforgiving flames that burn and decimate in the name of safety and salvation. On his behalf, and so many others, I extend gratitude to you—the real-life, not-pretend or make-believe superheroes—who few of us can’t fathom being now that we’re grown up, but whom we remain in awe of all the same. xx — Sara
How to Help:
Donate to Watch Duty, a nonprofit that monitors radio scanners and collaborates on reporting, which locals in LA have been relying on for updates, here.
Order a meal for a firefighter, thanks to SaMo eatery Le Great Outdoors, here.
Share posts from LA restaurants you follow who are offering free meals for relief through the new IG account LA Wildfire Community Meals. The Infatuation also has a list.
Book a room for anyone in need at one of the hotels offering discounts in the area, here.
The New York Times lists credible outlets taking donations here.
The Los Angeles Times does so here, including exactly what groups like the California Fire Foundation and the Canine Rescue Club are seeking.
Beautiful 🙏🏻