Features

During a recent Sunday morning run, I trotted through Live Oak Park at the start of a major civic event celebrating the activation of a system of sirens meant to sound an alert in the event of a wildfire or tsunami threat. The date marked 100 years since the horrific fire that incinerated 584 Berkeley homes in 1923.

I'd received a mailer announcing the occasion so I knew the new system involved a series of "sirens" but most of the table-sitters were unable to tell me how many sirens were involved. Several folk assumed the Live Oak siren was the only one. One of the police officers manning a table thought there were as many as "eight." (According to a City webpage, 10 sirens have been installed "from the marina to the hills" with 5 more to be added in 2024.)

I spotted the ever-reliable Sophie Hahn and she surprised me by revealing the sirens might sound more like "chimes." (She proved to be right.) 

A few hours later, as the noon hour approached, I walked out on the back deck and pointed my ears in the direction of the park. Sure enough, in the distance I heard the sound of a single chime ringing followed by silence and an indistinct verbal announcement. 

If this was a test of a potentially life-saving installation, it seemed to fall short. 

For one thing, the sound of a chime registered as soothing, not alarming. Everyone knows that a siren signals danger but this musical interlude was anything but galvanizing. To my ears, this New Noise in the Neighborhood sounded more like a Snooze Alarm. (And, unlike the long sustained wail of a siren, the broken notes of the chime would be harder to notice inside a building.) 

Berkeley's Neighborhoods: Covered with Nature's Gunpowder 

What was truly alarming was what I discovered during the remainder of my run up to the Rose Garden. The hillside neighborhood that was scorched to extinction in 1923 appears ready to ignite in another major fire in 2023. 

As I trotted uphill, I passed numerous homes where lawns were buried under carpets of fallen leaves, where broken and sawed-off tree limbs were piled in yards, where entire slopes of vegetation were saturated with dead, dry leaves, where crisp, fallen leaves had gathered in the gutters along streets and now resembled long trails of gunpowder awaiting ignition. 

Also spotted on my trot through the foothills: (1) large (city provided?) paper bags stuffed with dead leaves and yard debris left by curbs for days while awaiting pick up; (2) Several hundred pounds of woodchips gathered in a mound next to the wooden fence surrounding a multi-story wood-shingled home at Euclid and Bay View. (This apparently flammable mound at the sourtheast corner of the Rose Garden, is covered with a canvas sheet with a message that reads: "Do not remove tarp. City Project.") 

In many places, this wet year's over-abundance of foliage has left behind a vast, combustible powder covering many streets—the same streets that would be needed to evacuate in the face of a firestorm. 

According to a City webpage: "When you hear Berkeley’s new outdoor warning system, use AC Alert and Berkeley’s Emergency Map to gather critical information to help you take action." In addition, residents are encouraged to: "Practice searching for your home on the Emergency Map, which first responders use to give neighborhood-specific protective actions in real time." 

Let's Be Proactive, Not Reactive 

For the sake of the city and its citizens, let's not wait for a siren (or a chime) to sound. Let's consider a City-wide Prevention Program headed by the Fire Department that checks every block (and especially those in the hillside) for accumulations of dry, dead leaves and other combustibles in yards and roadways. Encourage neighbors to look for ignition hazards and employ the Fire Department to assist homeowners in removing debris. Consider neighborhood "Clean Sweep Days" where dead leaves can be raked from yards to roadways prior to monthly cleaning by city street sweepers. 

Worth remembering: It's easier to pick up a dry leaf than to put down a roaring fire.