Standing in the ashes of their once-beautiful homes in San Bernardino last November, the Daughertys and the Goldsteins made a bet. The first family to rebuild would throw a block party to end all block parties.
Almost a year after one of worst wildfires in state history laid waste to their Del Rosa neighborhood, there's no contest.
The Daughertys' luxurious two-story home is almost finished. Its stucco exterior rises toward the parched flanks of the San Bernardino Mountains, where the firestorm that rained down on this close-knit community started Oct. 25.
"I'm doing great; everything's falling into place," said Bill Daugherty, 69, a UPS retiree who has spent 12 hours a day, seven days a week at the site overseeing reconstruction. "Our goal is to be back in by the anniversary of the fire."
Two lots away, the Goldsteins have spray-painted "Underinsured" and "God Bless -- Keep Believing" in white letters on their cinderblock wall -- all that remains of their three-bedroom home.
"I still cry almost every day," said Tami Goldstein, 41. "Let's just say it's not assuring to be insured."
The wildfires that ravaged Southern California in October destroyed more than 3,600 homes, killed 26 people and burned more than 738,000 acres.
Twenty of the 39 postwar homes in this horseshoe-shaped Del Rosa enclave burned to the ground on a single Saturday afternoon. Today, North Dwight Way, East Ralston Avenue and North Camellia Drive are lined with both nearly finished homes and charred lots.
Many residents have endured a year of struggles with insurance adjusters, architects and contractors, months of sleeping in unfamiliar beds, and a daily seesaw of despair and gratitude.
"It's quite something on a daily basis to be displaced," said Tami Goldstein, who said she and her family have carefully stored the "new house" shower gifts in the emptiness of their rental home. "It's just not your house. We don't hang up anything on the walls. You just survive. It's odd."
Inside her new home half a block away, Della Boehler, 60, says little things can still bring tears. "I went for my old potato peeler, and I realized it wasn't there," she said. "I just cried and cried."
At the Daughertys, workers' trucks, portable toilets and a trash container compete for space with a gas barbecue grill and Kathleen Daugherty's tomato plants.
Inside, a sense of loss still lingers.
