The Palisadian-Post presents an homage to Will Rogers’ column, “Will Rogers Says,” with a column by Palisadian Jimmy Dunne—on life in the “greatest town in America.”

Every time I come back and drive through the Palisades, I feel like I’m thawing out. Thawing out a little bit.

I keep thinking I’m over the shock and awe.

I’m not. One thing is for sure.

The Palisades fire may be long-gone from the national news, but we’re living it.

Today and tomorrow.

Since we were all little squirts, we had firetrucks. We’ve had it ingrained in our DNA that if we ever had a fire, firetrucks would come and save us.

You could count on it.

Here’s what we’re all coming to terms with.

There are certain things that we just count on our city doing. Our tax dollars doing. “Daddy” doing.

“Daddy” didn’t show up.

And a lot of his firetrucks and hydrants didn’t work.

But what really pricks at me is all the homes, and condos, and businesses, and schools, and churches that burned down on Wednesday and Thursday—because “Daddy” didn’t let the firefighters stay and do their job.

And the more I thaw out, the anger keeps boiling, thinking about the inexcusable dysfunction of our city’s leadership.

If we had known “Daddy” may not come, I can guarantee you this.

So many Palisadian moms and dads would have stayed longer and put out some of the fires. Palisadians would have bought stuff and found a way to tap their own pools. Lots of things.

And they absolutely would have been back the next day to put out the small, smoldering fires still simmering all over neighborhoods—just waiting to take down more homes and buildings.

So. What do we do about it?

I know what I’m not going to do. Whine on “Nextdoor.” Or, until I’m six feet under, pout to everybody I know about who’s to blame.

In the second grade, I was in the Cub Scouts. I’m picturing Mrs. Cook, who ran our troop, Johnnie Cook’s mom.

Loved my Boy’s Life magazine that came in the mail every month. Had my name on it. Loved that, too.

Thinking of that blue outfit. And that gold scarf thing. Had some badges stuck on my chest to remind me and everybody how I was a spectacular kid.

And our troop’s camping. Not exactly roughing it like the adventure stories in that magazine. Our big camp-out trip was in John Hostany’s backyard in a couple very-used army tent things. We ate our tator-tot casserole with ground beef on TV trays some mother made until we got too itchy from the bugs crawling on our necks, or just too scared from Chris Golaszewski’s dad’s exaggerated army-days stories.

I remember holding our three fingers together and saluting each other in those uniforms. Barking out “Be Prepared”—about three octaves above middle C.

Now that I’m 800 years older, I’d guess the adult version of that would be “self-reliant.”

Maybe Ralph Waldo Emerson had it right. But he sure didn’t have it right, deciding to use Waldo as his middle name.

I’m picturing his best buddies saying, “How’s it going, Ralph Waldo?” You beat up a kid just for having that name. Today, he would have changed his name once he thought he was going to be famous. Something like “Sting.”

I’m thinking of those plane rides we’ve all had. Some voice on a blown speaker, about two inches from your ears, yapping that if the plane explodes mid-air or something, to put the oxygen mask on yourself first. And then put it on your kid next to you.

I think the Cub Scouts, and the stewardess on the plane, and Ralph Waldo were right.

When things go off the rails, the best thing we can do first is to be “self-reliant.”

Putting one foot in front of the other.

It doesn’t mean we’re not grieving. Grieving the layers of what we’ve lost.

But I think there’s something we’ve found.

We found it in the overwhelming kindness and good deeds we’ve all been recipients of.

I found it watching Jed Weitzman, standing just outside Regal Cleaners and giving the wonderful owners, Cira and Antonio Flores, a big, long hug. He never asked ’em how he could get his shirts that were still in there. He just wanted to let ’em know he loved ’em.

I found it in Tom Hathaway, so passioned to work out how we can still have a 4th of July Run—to bring us all together.

In countless stories of Palisadians like Steve Robinson, of Sam Laganà, of Mary Ellen Kanoff, of Steve Guttenberg—of so many Palisadians selflessly helping their neighbors on the night of that fire, in the days after that fire. And now.

What we found is that Pacific Palisades is more than a place.

Pacific Palisades is a belief.

A belief that being there when your neighbor needs you—matters.

A belief that integrity, caring and decency matter.

A belief that, despite of spite of the fire, there is so much for us to be grateful for.

For who we are, and for who we love. And for who loves us back.

And we now have the amazing opportunity to build back a place, a special place—that is a mirror of those beliefs.

With so many Palisadians passionately driven to do just that.

And the new “Daddy” in town?

You. And me, and everybody else in town.

That’s a “Daddy” I can count on.

Jimmy Dunne is a modern-day Renaissance Man; a hit songwriter (28 million hit records), screenwriter/producer of hit television series, award-winning author, an entrepreneur—and a Palisadian “Citizen of the Year.” You can reach him at j@jimmydunne.com or jimmydunne.substack.com.