Our house stood proudly on its hill, keeping watch over Mount Lassen in Northern California. I treasured my home; I loved my few acres of California turf.
My home was a place of refuge from the worldly problems that filled my office each day in 50-minute installments of troubled marriages and broken families. Until one fall day last year.
We walked up the hillside road to our vista of creation, my wife Barbara and I, because an electric pole had fallen across the road, victim to the grass fire that plagued the area the previous day. As we climbed the hill we looked for our home's roofline. We walked, and we hoped. We prayed our home would soon appear. It didn't. It had turned to ashes in the conflagration.
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