Laguna Beach Ca Reconstruction

During 22 years of living in the peaceful hills above this city's downtown, Christian Werner had never learned the name of a single neighbor on Buena Vista Way--a quiet, winding street lined with hedges and high walls that provided the privacy he cherished.

An American Indian with long black hair blessed the four corners of Main Beach with incense and an eagle feather on Saturday. A group of Hare Krishnas played drums and chanted a song. And the Supreme Master Ching Hai, a spiritual leader from Taiwan, distributed candy to children, gave discourses on life to anyone willing to listen and served vegetarian Vietnamese meals to a crowd of about 500 people. "It hasn't felt this relaxing here since the fire," said Holly Shulman, a three-year resident.

They live on streets where houses have vanished, children no longer play and a walk down the block is a heartbreaking journey. In the four months since a capricious firestorm spared their homes while annihilating their neighborhoods, these surviving families have been trapped in a nightmare world with a warped and eerie landscape. They feel sad, lonely and guilty. And they apologize for complaining.

They were once trinkets in a house filled with ancient Chinese artwork, antique jewelry and silverware. One is a lumpy clay pencil holder covered with blue hearts, the other a ceramic four-leaf clover. Exhumed from the blackened rubble of Sigrid Kielty's fire-blasted Laguna Beach home this week, they are now treasures of the heart for the fire survivor. "Look at these," said a smiling Kielty, holding out the charred knickknacks fashioned by her children several years ago.

Inside the meeting room, Jim Allen listened quietly, his face expressionless, a loyal neighbor at his side, as this city's oft-maligned Design Review Board all but assured him he could go forward with plans to rebuild on his fire-ravaged lot. Once outside, however, the 63-year-old Allen released the breath he had seemed to be holding throughout the hearing and broke into a grin that left his ruddy face aglow.

As the city grapples with rebuilding a year after the disastrous firestorm that consumed some 400 homes, it can count one stroke of fortune: Homeowners have fared better with the insurance industry than other scorched Southland communities have. State regulators and many of the city's fire victims give reasonably good marks to insurers, who have processed nearly 2,600 claims totaling more than $350 million in the aftermath of the Laguna blaze.

Residents whose houses burned down or were seriously damaged in the recent fire can see a possible vision of their new home at a collection of architectural drawings at the Laguna Art Museum. About 50 Southern California architectural firms are represented at the museum, which is granting free admission to the show. Museum officials said they wanted to give fire survivors a stress-free environment to look over samples of architectural work.

News of Monday's firestorm in Lemon Heights brought back painful memories to Sheila Patterson. Her heart went out to those who lost their homes. "These poor people are going to be in for quite an adventure," said Patterson, whose own home burned to the ground in the 1993 Laguna Beach blaze. "At first, they'll be in shock. But soon enough they're going to realize how really bad it is. People have no idea."

The American Red Cross, which sent more than 1,200 volunteers to Laguna Beach to help victims of the recent fire, has been swamped with calls from people who want to learn how they can help. More than 1,500 people have offered to aid the Red Cross since the Oct. 27 wildfires, said spokeswoman Kara Lakkees. "But there's a misconception that you can just show up at a volunteer center and start working," Lakkees said. "We prefer to have our volunteers trained."

For 18 years, Michael and Lynn Lindsey cherished their lives in Canyon Acres, a tiny, cockeyed community known for its rustic old houses, breezy ambience and laid-back residents, many of them artists. Their days were brightened by simple pleasures and gentle surprises: a peacock napping on a chicken coop, chickens roosting in the apricot tree and neighbors chatting around a fire pit after sundown. To many, this jerry-built enclave was "old Laguna," a haven for free spirits.