January 2026

Getting Mail, A Glimmer of Altadena Spirit Showing Through

“6299 Loma Alta,” the tall man with knitted hat said into the temporary mic. “6299 Loma Alta.”

The postal worker next to him lifted a bull horn. “2022-and-a-half Fair Oaks Avenue. 2022-and-a-half Fair Oaks Ave.”

Two people wove their way through the crowd waiting to claim its mail. They showed their photo IDs while grabbing the elastic bound bundle of letters and magazines the postal worker handed them. They knew the faster they did this without dropping their IDs the quicker the next people could be called.

“307 Windsor,” the knitted hat man began again. “307 Windsor.” He paused, then “5977 Mariposa. 5977 Mariposa.” 

I was fortunate to have a chair someone had put out. There was a handful of them. I’d been here several days before, and it had been less than a half hour wait. This time, the Friday before the Dr. Martin Luther King holiday, it was taking much longer. We were outside the main Pasadena post office where postal workers had set up a table. It was a cramped space with four or five of them coming and going with bins of mail, sorting through them, and arranging for those being called. The Altadena post office had burned to the ground, so they were coping with mail that was stuck in trucks, beginning to be forwarded and plenty more.

Sporadic conversations emerged around me. 

“Hi, how are you doing? I’m so relieved to see you. Do you know where Harriet is staying?”

“I think she’s with a cousin in Pasadena.”

A neatly dressed woman to my right with a bright scarf wound around her head greeted the man next to her. “I have a picture of your house.” 

“Yes. I’ve seen it. Thanks. I think I can repair it afterwhile. How are you?”

“Mine’s gone. I’m with my brother in Inglewood right now.”

The postal workers continued calling addresses. I sat back trying to absorb it all again, what happened is unfathomable. I have lived in Altadena for over fifty years and recently moved to an Altadena retirement community, MonteCedro, that is a new building of concrete and steel. It now stands, surrounded mostly by ashes. 

I stood up to make room for someone else to sit and noticed a friend nearby. She’s a videographer and a dedicated volunteer for the Sherriff’s Department. I’d done my first website video in her garage studio.

We hugged. “It’s so good to see you. Where are you staying?”

“John has a friend with empty space near Caltech for us and the dogs.” That’s no small accommodation, I thought. She has two large German shepherds. I asked about their house, but was sure I knew the answer.

“All gone. That whole block of Marathon is gone.” 

I heard that over and over. Each time, it seemed there were no words to express the horror and sympathy. “I’m so sorry” was too insipid.
The postal workers were taking turns – verifying IDs, noting addresses so they could get the mail from their bins of elastic tied batches of mail, hauling more out from the back.

 As evening shadows began to form, a person with the bull horn asked, “How many of you have been here more than an hour?” Half the thinning crowd raised their hands, including me. They started searching through some of the bins again, some went back into the main post office building. Someone brought out a large battery powered lamp. The sun had set and it was getting cold. 

Several of us gave our addresses again. I live in a large apartment complex and three other apartments from there had been called. I thought maybe mine was lost. Workers were explaining that mail was being rerouted to this central facility, but it was a slow process. They would find it all, they said. They were obviously determined.

The postal workers were so kind. They must have been exhausted. They reflipped through what remained in the bins and then said they would “look in the back.” 

I had a friend waiting for me in the parking lot and texted her to see if she needed to go. I could get a Lyft. No, she was getting work done. I had now found an abandoned chair near the postal workers’ table. After 10 more minutes I asked if I should just return another time. 

“No. They’re looking in the back.” I tried to relax.

 “Are you open during the weekend,” someone called from the back of the crowd? 

“Ten to five, this Saturday, Sunday, Monday.” I hoped they were going to get overtime. I was sure some of these workers had lost their houses like the thousands of Altadenans. Like the man who came to fix my shower in the hotel I’ve been staying in for a few days. 

 A while later a postal worker handed me my bundle of mail. I showed him my ID and threaded my way through those waiting and those just arriving to pick up their mail. The workers would be there until 7pm.

*This submission is part of a four piece post. The other contributions are entitled:

The Pasadena Civic Center
Pasadena Village
Family Hunt for Our Old House