Reporter’s Notebook -- Lolita Harper

I don’t know what scared me more: the sound of my windows rattling,

the feeling of my bed shaking beneath me or the deafening sound that

jolted me awake early Thursday morning.

I glanced at the clock. It was 3:28 a.m. I opened the blinds to see

flames shooting off our neighbor’s roof.

Our bedroom window backs up to the Monticello townhome garages, where

a thunderous explosion left at least one man dead and dozens homeless. I

live in a different complex, but the two are separated by only a 4-foot

cinder-block wall.

I’ve looked out the window many times before to see one of my

neighbors leaving for work or cleaning out the garage. But Thursday, I

saw those same people lined in the alley, watching their homes burn.

My first instinct was to make sure Donovan was OK. He was.

My second instinct was to grab a notebook, pen and my shabby,

disposable camera and get to the scene.

I left my son, who was waving at me from my roommate’s window, and

went down to talk to my neighbors -- for the first time -- in my blue

flannel snowflake pajamas.

As the scene in front of me unfolded, I witnessed the severity of the

blast. People were running up and down the alley, screaming, “Get out of

your house, get out of your house!”

One woman was crying, holding her dog in her jacket, praying out loud

that everyone was OK. Another woman just wrapped her arms around her

husband’s waist and watched in amazement. Still others could be seen

packing up their cars with photo albums and boxes of memorabilia to drive

them to safety.

The last thing I wanted to do was approach these people for “official

comment,” so I waited. I waited until natural conversation started among

neighbors before I started asking questions.

Once the Costa Mesa Fire Department arrived, the initial panic seemed

to wear off, and people on both sides of the dividing wall started

recounting their experiences. Most were glad to share with a neighbor who

happened to be a reporter, but only a few wanted to give their names.

Fair enough.

I decided to hop the wall and get a closer look. As I walked closer to

the smoldering apartment, I was overcome by smoke. It was in my eyes, in

my lungs and in my mouth.

I looked down to shield my eyes and saw a license plate and part of a

bumper that had been blown onto another townhome’s front step. When I

lifted my head, I felt sprinkles from the fire hoses on my face.

My feet were soaked from the rivers of water running through the

colonial-themed complex and any note-taking was useless because my paper

was wet.

Again, I stood and just digested the scene.

Just a few feet in front of me firefighters doused the remains of the

scorched structure. Just a few feet in front of me a man died.

Luckily, a firefighter snapped me out of my daze and told me to move

back. They were taping off the area, he said.

I picked up my soggy feet and moved to the designated press area. I

was surrounded by smartly dressed TV reporters -- and their camera crews

-- flashing official press credentials and demanding interviews.

I felt a little out of place among my media colleagues. I was in my

pajamas, with no makeup and my hair thrown in a messy ponytail. But then

again, I wasn’t just a reporter, I was a neighbor and the distinction

suited me just fine.

* Lolita Harper covers Costa Mesa. She may be reached at (949)

574-4275 or by e-mail at o7 lolita.harper@latimes.comf7 .