Santa Rosa, California is the County Seat for Sonoma County, one of the largest and arguably the most beautiful county in the state. Its Western boundary is eternally washed by the rugged Pacific waves pounding the coastline, the east segues into beautiful Napa Valley, to the North Mendocino County extends the Sonoma coastline and is home to gorgeous Redwood and Sequoia forests, and to the south, Marin county borders San Francisco Bay and is home to the south terminus of the Golden Gate Bridge.
We loved the area. Vineyards as far as the eye could see, each meticulously patterned, the Pacific Coast a short twenty-five mile drive, an economy thriving on Tourism and the wine industry which produced some the finest wines in the world, Napa Valley thirty miles to the East and Alexander Valley about the same to the north.
Our home was located near the north east border of Santa Rosa, perched atop Parker Hill at eight hundred fifty feet elevation. Situated off the main development street, Wedgewood Way, it lay at the foot of a common driveway serving four homes, one to our left, two to the right. A very private location in a tranquil neighborhood of fifty-six homes. It was a large home, two stories, with ver 3,600 square feet.
From our rear balcony our we had a view south and west to the Santa Rosa Valley which was dissected by US 101, the main and only highway to points north and south. The view was obstructed by multiple hues of green from a variety of trees that had slowly reached skyward in the fifteen years of our residence. Only a few of the twinkling valley lights we enjoyed in our early years were visible.
U.S 101 was incessantly under construction; the North Bay area grew and the traffic followed suit exponentially. Commutes became long and frustrating. The cost of living rose on all fronts adding to the many challenges of living in a desirable part of the world.
For several years prior to the summer of 2017, we had contemplated the next chapter of our life, one we hoped would be defined by a simpler lifestyle in a smaller home. Realistically we knew that next chapter would not be in California. So early in the summer we began to aggressively research potential areas for relocation.
In July, we took a short sojourn to South Lake Tahoe to celebrate our 47th anniversary. While three we drove into Reno, Nevada to explore options available to us. We found a home we really liked, one we felt would meet our needs then and well into the future. It is in the Washoe Valley which is bordered by the Sierra Nevada to the West and the Virginia Foothills to the East. The hills and mountains cradled a fifty-five plus community that appealed to us on many levels. The topographic beauty and the friendly, outgoing residents convinced us the area was one we could enjoy for many years.
For the next couple months we weighed the pros and cons of buying the home we favored in the community. The process surfaced a few trepidations, not the least of which was leaving beautiful California, a place we loved and our home for more than twenty years. The sadness of having to say goodbye to friends and family was somewhat mitigated by the fact that the distance between them and us would be relatively short.
So on September 7th, 2017, we returned to Reno, having made our decision to sell our home and move to Reno.
Little did we know that a month later that decision would prove to be a seminal event in our life. We went with our gut, as we had many times when the outcome of a decision could not be known.
Once again it proved to be a reliable guidepost.
October 7, 2018
It was a typical fall day in Northern California: beautiful blue sky, a wisp of clouds here and there, warm temperatures and a mild breeze. It was also a typical day for us, running errands like the cleaners, grocery store and the mall. We also spent some time tweaking the landscaping and arranging the deck. We wanted the house, painted just two months earlier, to be bask in its best light when the photographer arrived at five o’clock to take stills of the exterior.
One of the pictures he took is at the top of the page. He took many more photographs, a collection of which would have made a beautiful collage in our listing, scheduled for February 1, 2018.
As evening approached the breeze was holding steady. The weather forecast for the night and next day was for increasing wind speed that could lead to a Red Flag Warning, though none was issued at that time. The drought-stressed trees, the summer scorched brush, low humidity and a strengthening high pressure ridge off the Pacific coast was potentially a perfect meteorological fire storm.
We went to bed a little uneasy wondering what the next day would bring.
You can be “the other guy.” It can happen to you. Live by that mindset to remind you to be diligent, to plan ahead, be prepared. Have a plan no matter how rudimentary it may seem. Talk about what you would do in the event of a fire, earthquake, flood. Have an “escape bag” that you can grab and go, filled with essential papers, meds, jewelry. Know who’s going to do what. Think of it as disaster planning for your life. It could be the difference between life and death.
Steve
Ground Zero
The neighborhood was open to residents on October 21, 2017. Sonoma County, FEMA, the SRPD, County Sheriff, Highway Patrol, and the National Guard joined forces to assure residents could return safely to their homesites and to prevent looting. Access to the area was strictly controlled by local law enforcement or National Guard troops stationed at every entrance, checking each vehicle for the proper credentials. Residents were provided safety kits containing goggles, air-filtering masks, gloves and a bucket to use as a collection vessel for whatever was recovered.
After obtaining our kit and credentials, we entered at the Fountaingrove checkpoint, meandering slowly up the hill, aghast at the destruction we saw — and didn’t see. Some structures spared, others piles of twisted metal and mysterious debris, trees scorched, some fallen, others standing in defiance, burned out vehicles, tires and wheels burned to the ground, parked in ghostly driveways leading to a wasteland where once stood its home.
We were driving through nature’s war zone.
When we reached the top of the hill and turned onto Parker Hill, the entrance to Tuscany, our development where 56 homes once stood, the full magnitude of the furious fire was laid out before us. Not a single home was standing, all reduced to piles of unrecognizable rubble, trees scarred or destroyed, twisted metal sculptured into grotesque forms, a scorched landscape dotted with pockets of surviving vegetation, their color and hues in sharp contrast to the black and grey rubble. A few remnants of infrastructure remained standing among the flattened homes, somehow surviving the consuming fury of the fire.
Left: Before Right: After Photos by Sonoma County
Fire Station No 5, about two-tenths of a mile from our home, was completely leveled, the steel structure of the water control system the only hint that it once played a key role in supporting resident safety.
We turned down the private driveway that led to our home and the other three homes that shared it. We paused at the top of the common driveway, gasping in disbelief. All four homes were gone, a few parts of the respective structures mysteriously still standing. It was inconceivable that four large, two-story homes could be reduced to a relatively small area of charred remains.
We pulled into the vacant area of our driveway, parked next to Lusi’s completely destroyed Fusion.The metal from the aluminum wheels had solidified into free flowing rivulets, its windows completely shattered, the interior laid bare, the body of the car junkyard ready.
Lusi’s car totally destroyed as was the garage and vehicle inside. The front door frame and the outer wall of the in-law suite stand in defiance.
We exited our car, donned the masks provided for protection from the toxic particulates that permeated the area. Seeing what was left of our home, standing in the driveway from which we escaped, seeing the fire’s fury up close, the full magnitude of the disaster was driven home. We held each other for comfort while we sobbed. It was painful beyond words.
Jane and Iprotecting ourselves against the ash toxins.
Jane and our friend prepared to start searching.
We wandered around the ruins in disbelief, looking for anything that could be salvaged. It was immediately apparent that the lower level was beyond salvage as the upper level had completely collapsed and buried it and all it held. We started gingerly rummaging through the the upper level debris, careful to avoid glass shards and metal spears, unrecognizeable forms and shapes of materials. It was a dangerous task.
We left a few hours later, exhausted from the physical and emotional stress of walking around and through the graveyard of our life.
We returned several times with our dear friends whose love and support made the scavenger hunt at least bearable. They carefully filled their homemade sifter with debris, shaking it slowly so as not to discard anything that might have emotional or financial value. We were able to approximate the location of our master closet and focused on trying to find the in-wall safe. We found it buried about two feet under the debris in the back of the collapsed garage. The steel frame safe was intact, but the heat had popped the door open.
The contents were either damaged or completely destroyed, but a couple pieces of Jane’s jewelry survived with varying degrees of damage, some of which proved to be repairable. Despite hours of searching and sifting, we could not find Jane’s Mother’s wedding ring. A really tough loss.
Our other “fireproof” safe was fairly easy to find in what was left of the laundry room: it was a stack of what appeared to be white pulp, easily spotted because of the stark contrast with the scorched black and gray ash around it. It was the cremated remains of important documents we had placed in it weeks before, after closing our bank safety deposit box.
Over the course of the next couple weeks, we took a few more trips to the ruins, each excursion yielding less and less, dashing any hope we had of finding something, some part of something, anything we could rescue and include in our life going forward.
We took our meager findings to my sister’s garage where we laid them out in a makeshift mortuary, trying to identify their DNA, evaluating the potential for repair.
In addition to the jewelry, we salvaged a beautiful ceramic swan, once gold plated, now blackened inside and out. It had been passed on to Jane through two generations. The family lore attributed the origin to the 1906 Worlds’ Fair. It was still intact, its finish now scorched to an uneven gray and black.
It would later be restored by our local jeweler, a compassionate and empathetic woman whose love was obvious in her actions and artistry. She hand finished the exterior with gold leaf; the interior was left in its scorched state as permanent reminder of our survival.
We believe the swan survived to remind us of the qualities we would need to forge our new life. We are inspired by its presence.
Swan is a symbol of grace, beauty, devotion, love, fidelity, purity, peace, partnership, elegance, energy, protection, calmness, creativity, and transformation. Combining the elements of air and water, they also embody eternal life.
The shell of Lusi’s car rested silently on the concrete of the driveway, destined to be violently crushed and then dropped into some unknown junkyard. Several times we looked at the rivulet of worthless melted aluminum that once represented four of the spokes on the car’s rear wheel. The shape had a flowing quality to it and Jane thought we might be able to make a sculpture out of it, so we carefully collected it, wrapped it in bubble wrap and stored it.
Shortly after we moved into our new home, we contacted a metal artist and asked him if he could make a sculpture from the aluminum remnant. The sculpture is pictured below.
Can you see a rabbit? A cat’s face? An elephant, a Hippo, Snoopy? What else do you see?
The forward element was face up next to the wheel, the back piece was face down on the driveway pavement. The artist mounted the pieces on a half inch steel platform. The dramatic sculpture has many symbolic elements, including animal shapes and embedded pieces of glass on the back piece whose rough surface is the impression of the driveway concrete.
The overall feeling is one of frenzied motion, fleeing, escaping. We see it everyday on our library shelf, a constant reminder of the chaos of our escape and the transformation of our life.
From A to Z
Some of the things destroyed in the fire we lost were irreplaceable, like the dozens of albums of pictures – weddings, birthdays, graduations, reels of eight-millimeter film from Jane’s childhood, one of a kind artwork and furniture, jewelry and a myriad of keepsakes from our travels around the world.
We had ample time and opportunities to preserve our cherished photos and film, ample time to scan them or convert them to digital files, ample time to upload them to the “cloud”. So many times we looked at the albums, film cans and slide boxes, each time acknowledging that “we need to do something with all this”. And that was the extent of what we did. Our regrets for this procrastination will be with us always. Don’t let it happen to you.
Steve
Most of the things lost were things that make life work — furniture, kitchenware, clothes TVs, shoes, cars and on and on. It was mind boggling to try to remember of all the things that were turned to ash, so many of which would have to eventually be replaced as part of our new life.
But remembering was exactly what was required to do by all insurers: every piece of personal property had to be documented in detail in order to collect the contracted personal property coverage.
Documentation was to include when and where we purchased an item and the price we paid for everything we could recall, from the number of avocados in the refrigerator to the number of Ziploc bags in the pantry. While we had several pictures of furniture and artwork, receipts and letters of authenticity were now ashes as we regrettably didn’t think to develop a digitized vault for insurance documentation.
We worked on our inventory every day. It felt like we were being forced to relive every horrible moment of the fire, invariably envisioning how each piece had been consumed in the inferno. Time was of the essence. Even though we had two years to complete the inventory, submitting partials along the way, each day our recall was less focused, the particulars less clear.
I stared at each line entry, trying to remember the details, straining to recall each nook and cranny, cupboard, library shelf, tabletop, wall, drawer. Room by room we sifted through our memories, verifying details, gathering what phoots we had for inclusion in the worksheet, wondering how long it took for the inferno to transform the items into grotesques figures or anonymous ash.
The process added new dimensions to the meaning of cruel and unusual punishment. As I said in my letter to our adjustor, we were being crushed by “… the persistent stress of trying to build a new life while trying to build an inventory of the one we lost. It is a depression-inducing task, stressful punishment for having done nothing wrong…” I was angry, frustrated and at times overwhelmed.
We weren’t alone in facing the egregious personal property task. The hotel lobby soon became a gathering place for lawyers and inventory consultants willing to help with the inventory, or to file a suit for a percentage of the total settlement. While well-intentioned, it nevertheless felt like the lobby had been invaded by vultures hovering over the road kill of peoples’ hopes and dreams.
We decided that we would appeal to the State Insurance Commissioner for empathy and compassion and some relief from the requirement. Many others did the same as outrage over how the victims were being treated grew louder with each passing day. We plodded along everyday driven by wishful thinking that we would soon be relieved of the burden.
Our daily routine also included follow-up calls with our insurance adjuster, attending informational meetings and updates. We enrolled in the FEMA debris removal program, requested new Social Security cards, new driver’s licenses, marriage license, birth certificates and other important documents.
Shopping for replacement clothes, shoes, eyeglasses and other longer-term needs like dishes, silverware, utensils, pots and pans, bed linens and, of course, furniture, was an almost daily occurrence as we started to accumulate the bits and pieces that make life work.
The most indelible lesson is that things are not what is important. It’s the memories associated with them — memories of the people in our lives and the love we share. Fire can destroy things but it can’t take away memories — only time can do that.
Jane
Returning from one visit to the site, I began to feel unwell as we approached the hotel. My left arm was tingling, I was flush and felt faint. Luckily my friend was driving, and we arrived in the valet area in about a minute where Jane was waiting for me so we could run a few errands. Instead, she drove me to ER where for the next five hours they checked everything that made me tick.
I was fine. A stress-induced syncope was the diagnosis. Rest and reduced stress was the remedy, both highly unlikely as we struggled to stay afloat in a pool of swirling emotions: anger, denial, hope, frustration, self-pity, guilt, gratitude, uncertainty and grief. And there was a growing sense of relief. With each passing day, the fire was further behind us, the future was inching nearer.
But of all the emotions swirling about, the one that stood out for us was that of vulnerability. For the first time in our lives, our sense of security was gone. We could no longer look forward to the comfort and safety of our home, the presence and love of our resident family, the cozy curl-up in the bed we had slept in for over 30 years.
Our hope was the new life we were trying to build, piece by piece, tear by tear, would ease our sense of vulnerability, but it was the love and support of family and friends, old and new, that began to give us a greater sense of security, allowing us to move forward on the path to a new normal, one more informed about the precarious nature of life and the need to cherish each day.
As we awaited details on the debris removal process, our new home in Reno demanded our presence. On November 11, we drove to Reno for what was scheduled to be a two-day selection process for the myriad of details we had to choose so construction could begin in earnest. Weather in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, however, forced us to condense the activity to one day, a twelve-hour marathon that left us reeling, but feeling good about what we had accomplished.
Our Santa Rosa lot was certified for debris removal on November 17, with no specific date for the process other than in the next thirty days. We would be given twenty-four-hour notice so we could be there when what was left of our museum would be scrapped, loaded into a front loader and dumped into waiting haulers then whisked off to some anonymous graveyard in Sonoma County.
Knowing we had some time and feeling in dire need of a change of routine and scenery, we set off for Indianapolis to celebrate Thanksgiving with family and friends in the Hoosier State.
