A neighbor knocked on my door. “Wake up and smell the fire!”

We stepped out onto the deck of the uninsured house I was renting at the end of Gwin Road off Broadway Terrace, high above Caldecott Field. A ferocious blaze was roaring like a gigantic fast-moving dragon, furiously devouring everything in its path. It stretched all the way from Grizzly Peak and was about to pounce on Hiller Highlands. I knew that ten thousand firemen couldn’t stop that thing and people were going to die in those houses—innocent sitting ducks on the green. I had to get out of there immediately, though the fire hadn’t jumped Highway 24 yet.

I grabbed only my purse and briefcase—they were near the front door—and, hyperventilating, drove downhill. There was no traffic, and I wondered why the hell people were standing and gawking instead of fleeing the scene.

I awoke alone in a dark hotel room in Berkeley on Tuesday morning, knowing that my house was gone. I sobbed, visualizing the objets d’art, framed paintings, photos—even the portrait of my late father—falling off the wall in flames.

I finally reached my mother by phone and told her that I had lost everything: thousands of photos, books, clothing, jewelry, art collection, 25 years of journals.

“Something good is going to happen to you,” she said.

I remember being surprised that she was aware of that old Taoist adage—that things turn into their opposites at the extreme—and how glad I was that she reminded me of it.

—Karen Klaber

Click here to go back to the main feature page.