I felt like a tourist on my first encounter at a theme park when I walked up the dusty embankment that led to a small gate on Nov. 21, 2008. As my eyes rose above the gate I was greeted by what looked like a black desert of char-grilled nothingness. The area looked like an ash-covered ghost town or the recent sight of the dropping of a test bomb. You could only imagine what once stood there. A teenage boy stood next to me and pointed to the area right ahead and called out a number identifying where he used to live. His eyes were alert and full of excitement I couldn't tell if the gleam in his eye was because I was a visitor he had never seen before or if it were a sign of the post traumatic stress that takes place after such an event has occurred. Besides, the brush fire spread rapidly engulfing everything the community once knew as home.
"That was the club house" he said while pointing to the middle of what looked like a massive crater. He described how he and his friends played there, but there was no longer anything to see. If Steven Spielberg wanted to make a science fiction movie he could use this site as the place where the alien space ship launched its escape from planet Earth. The air was still smoky; a constant reminder of what
Mary told me her story. Her family managed to evacuate just in time and her home was one of the few that was unharmed by the unforgiving blaze. Her mother and father had been visiting from
I asked her if she was afraid on that evening and she replied, "No." She described the energy in the air as simply "flight" mode, but not fear. The family acted more on the kind of rational thinking that says 'pack up and get out fast.' Mary told me that this was third fire that the family had survived and that she was now encouraging her husband to move. She briefly described one fire that took place in the 90s when her son, Tyler, was only about 3-years-old. Her husband had a soft spot for the community but she no longer wanted to be there. The fire moved down the hill and invaded the Oakridge Mobile Home Park in
"You can replace items, but not lives," Mary said as she looked into my eyes with intensity and wisdom. My father, John, who stood nearby grabbed hands with the families mourning the burial site of burnt dwellings and we all prayed. The focus was simply thankfulness to be alive for the holidays. A Latino family walked up and grabbed our joined hands. They said that they spoke little English, but understood what this symbolic moment meant. Then we hugged one another and some of the former residents cried. This is where I stepped outside of being a journalist. If a photographer were nearby this would have been the most powerful and compelling photo of the evening. As we left the site Mary carefully made her way down the embankment and said, "I refuse to be a victim and will call myself victorious."

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