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Banner Image above: Joan and Larry sift through the remains of their home
Larry Himmel
The Saturday night before deadly and destructive wildfires first swept through San Diego County at the end of October, KFMB-TV reporter Larry Himmel told his wife, Joan, and 15-year-old son, Miles, that the following evening he wanted to gather together to watch home-taped family movies — nothing out of the ordinary for the tight-knit Himmels They didn’t have the chance, however. On Sunday, Larry was called on to cover the developing Witch Fire. By the next morning, that same fire was inching uncomfortably close to the Himmels’ hilltop Rancho Bernardo home. Larry instructed his wife and son to evacuate immediately. Shortly after, he and his news crew drove up the steep, smoky road to his house, accompanied by a fire truck.
What happened then would be broadcast around the world. As the fire moved down the hill behind the Himmels’ property, a few of the surrounding trees caught alight. Within minutes, a 30-foot-high wall of flames engulfed the two-story house. All of this happened on camera, with Larry reporting valiantly as his house and all his family’s belongings burned to the ground.
"If I’d just been sitting there watching it burn, it would’ve been overwhelming," he explains. "I had a job to do. I had adrenaline pumping and I was thinking of the thousands of San Diegans whose homes were burning too. I much rather would’ve known what happened than to have been sitting in an evacuation center for four days, not knowing."
A couple of weeks after the fire, the Himmels returned to the site of their former home to meet with contractors and visit their dogs, who were boarded with a nearby neighbor.
"I said to Larry, ‘This is a very good way to de-clutter the house,’" Joan jokes with a tired smile. She points out where things used to be: Miles’ bedroom, Larry’s "very cool room," a grown-up clubhouse with a vintage jukebox and slot machine, as well as a home radio setup.
Larry spots the burned-out carcass of the slot machine and picks it up with gloved hands. He shakes out a few blackened quarters that were still inside and hands them to Joan. "Put them toward rebuilding," he teases her.
Joan tries to keep up the good humor, but as she looks around — from the hillside where her neighbors’ house had burned toward the valley where neat rows of houses had escaped unscathed — she appears incredibly weary.
"I lost ten days of my life," she says. "I looked in the mirror and thought, ’I’ve aged ten years.’ I feel like a zombie."
When Larry had called to tell his wife and son to evacuate, Joan thought they’d be back in the house in no time. They’d been evacuated before and everything had been fine. She escaped with her wedding ring, rings that had belonged her mother and mother-in-law, and an armful of framed photos that she’d scooped off the top of the piano. Miles had grabbed his retainer and cell phone.
"If I’d known it was the real thing, I would’ve taken more," Joan says. "Why didn’t I throw the silver in the bottom of the pool? Why didn’t I get the photo albums? It was so early and I just didn’t have the presence of mind." Larry says he was most distraught over the destruction of his family’s irreplaceable home movies.
"They had my son’s first steps and him saying, ‘daddy,’" he laments. "And us singing along to the jukebox. ‘Light My Fire’ and ‘Go Cubs Go!’"
Joan thinks that the fire has been hardest on her son, who’d always been a happy homebody. Two years from now, by the time the house is rebuilt, he’ll be heading off for college. Until then, he’ll live in a rented home without any of his beloved childhood possessions.
"[Kids] don’t understand this kind of loss," Joan says.
But in spite of all this, the Himmels are ready to move on. The weekend of our interview, they invited over several close friends to help them sift through all the rubble.
"Part of the closure is you go through and see if you can find any treasures," says Larry, surveying the mountain of debris. "I’ll be glad when the demo crew gets everything cleared away. It’s the next step of grieving."
Down by the driveway, a nearby church has dropped off sifting boxes, with "How can we help?" and a phone number scrawled in black marker. An anonymous do-gooder had also left shovels, a bag of protective masks, and a potted orange tree — a vibrant green symbol of hope against the charred landscape.
"I’m very lucky," Larry says. "I have my family. And people have been so kind and shown such compassion. If people would keep treating people the way they have been, all of the world’s problems would be solved."
— AnnaMaria Stephens, photos by Kristy Ann Mann
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