Southern California Reconstruction

The Miracle House that came to symbolize the whims of the wildfire is a home that To Cong Bui no longer wants. Bui's rambling hillside-structure, with its thick, white concrete walls and tile roof, endured the fire like Gibraltar in an eerie moonscape of ravaged Mystic Hills houses. But instead of rejoicing over his luck, Bui is planning to move.

Dick Harley mentally checks off the critical details of Thursday morning's landslide in Laguna Niguel. South-facing slope. Rain-soaked ground. A hillside slowly succumbing to gravity with a crescendoing rumble. Familiar description. In fact, it sounds like a morning nearly 20 years ago, when Harley's house was one of 24 destroyed by a massive slide in the Bluebird Canyon area of Laguna Beach. The Harleys found themselves suddenly homeless, owners of land too unsafe even to walk on.

It was one year ago today that the first of 17 firestorms swept through Southern California's bone-dry forests and foothills. Adding to the frightening specter of the rampaging flames was the fact that the worst of the blazes--in Malibu and Laguna--were ignited by arsonists. In all, the flames claimed three lives, more than 200,000 acres and caused untold millions of dollars in damage. Underlying those numbing statistics are hundreds of stories of adversity and resiliency.

Along the bare, wheat-colored slopes of Laguna Beach and Emerald Bay, fate is as capricious as a wind-blown gust of fire. Some families who lost everything a year ago to an untamed 2,000-degree blaze are flourishing, grateful that their memories are more durable than Christmas ornaments and sterling flatware. Others, who survived with their ocean views and luxury houses intact, see no charm in their luck. The Oct.

Along the bare, wheat-colored slopes of Laguna Beach and Emerald Bay, fate is as capricious as a wind-blown gust of fire. Some families who lost everything a year ago to an untamed 2,000-degree blaze are flourishing, grateful that their memories are more durable than Christmas ornaments and sterling flatware. Others, who survived with their ocean views and luxury houses intact, see no charm in their luck. The Oct.

The rooftop is a special retreat for Laurel and Michael Harden. A year ago, the Hardens--armed with garden hoses--waged their last stand there against the wild blaze that showered their Emerald Bay home with burning embers. "It never occurred to us that we had any danger. We had three hoses, water pressure and a way out on the Pacific Coast Highway. And we had each other," recalled Laurel Harden, 43. "And we had that sureness that comes from adrenaline."

The mudslide that dragged Steve Young and his truck down Pasadena Glen did not drive him from his home. Neither did the firestorm that incinerated his house last fall. Catastrophes are part of life in this rustic enclave in the San Gabriel foothills north of Pasadena, where nature often reminds residents that they remain at her mercy. "It has its disasters around here, but you go with the flow," Young said with a shrug. Adversity of a man-made kind is a different matter, though.

On Christmas Day, the tree in the Rach household will be decorated with shiny, new ornaments purchased at a post-holiday sale. A slightly scorched and blackened ceramic angel will also be part of the trimmings. "It's weird having so many angels make it through the fire, but they did," said Laurie Cooper, 29, a law student who was the first to see the smoking ruins of her mother and stepfather's Emerald Bay home. Inside were all her Christmas ornaments and childhood mementos.

You've lost your house in a catastrophic fire. You can afford to rebuild, now that help from your insurance company is on the way. Now what? First, you'll need a construction permit from your municipality's building department--or if you live in an unincorporated community, from the Los Angeles County departments of public works and building and safety. County officials said Thursday they hope to streamline this process by opening what they call a "one-step permit center," starting Monday and running through Friday (8 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.)

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.

The rooftop is a special retreat for Laurel and Michael Harden. A year ago, the Hardens--armed with garden hoses--waged their last stand there against the wild blaze that showered their Emerald Bay home with burning embers. "It never occurred to us that we had any danger. We had three hoses, water pressure and a way out on the Pacific Coast Highway. And we had each other," recalled Laurel Harden, 43. "And we had that sureness that comes from adrenaline."

On Christmas Day, the tree in the Rach household will be decorated with shiny, new ornaments purchased at a post-holiday sale. A slightly scorched and blackened ceramic angel will also be part of the trimmings. "It's weird having so many angels make it through the fire, but they did," said Laurie Cooper, 29, a law student who was the first to see the smoking ruins of her mother and stepfather's Emerald Bay home. Inside were all her Christmas ornaments and childhood mementos.

The Miracle House that came to symbolize the whims of the wildfire is a home that To Cong Bui no longer wants. Bui's rambling hillside-structure, with its thick, white concrete walls and tile roof, endured the fire like Gibraltar in an eerie moonscape of ravaged Mystic Hills houses. But instead of rejoicing over his luck, Bui is planning to move.

It was one year ago today that the first of 17 firestorms swept through Southern California's bone-dry forests and foothills. Adding to the frightening specter of the rampaging flames was the fact that the worst of the blazes--in Malibu and Laguna--were ignited by arsonists. In all, the flames claimed three lives, more than 200,000 acres and caused untold millions of dollars in damage. Underlying those numbing statistics are hundreds of stories of adversity and resiliency.

The mudslide that dragged Steve Young and his truck down Pasadena Glen did not drive him from his home. Neither did the firestorm that incinerated his house last fall. Catastrophes are part of life in this rustic enclave in the San Gabriel foothills north of Pasadena, where nature often reminds residents that they remain at her mercy. "It has its disasters around here, but you go with the flow," Young said with a shrug. Adversity of a man-made kind is a different matter, though.

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.

With the worst wildfires in recent history quickly burning into memory, Southern Californians turned Sunday toward a long and daunting recovery--seeking spiritual balm in their churches, preparing for the seeding of hillsides in an effort to ward off flooding and even finding time to celebrate Halloween.

Twice, sculptor Tony Duquette watched fire devour his life's work. Twice, he gathered himself up, shoveled away the ash and carried on, finding the strength to work in a searing image that drove him. In 1988, a toppled heater ignited a blaze that burned the San Francisco pavilion-studio shared by Duquette and his wife and fellow artist, Elizabeth.