Tears Finally Fall for the Loss of a Life’s Treasures

For most of the day, Gail Neuman held her tattered nerves together with a determined force rivaling that of the firestorm that consumed her home the day before.

She was calm in dealing with the crush of media, competing insurance adjusters and building contractors who descended onto her neighborhood Tuesday. She seemed almost stoic while sifting through a plastic bag of childhood mementos. She even attempted a weak smile as she talked of the wedding and engagement rings she left behind.

Then, her cat scratched her as she tried to put it into a box.

Neuman’s determination fell apart. She sobbed as her husband tried to console her.

“We lost everything. We just lost everything,” the 43-year-old woman said a few minutes later, her hand wiping her tear-stained face. “There’s not much left to say.”

Like other families on Afton Lane, Ronald and Gail Neuman returned Tuesday to assess the damage to their five-bedroom house, inflicted by the conflagration that destroyed 10 homes and damaged 23 other structures.

Some were able to carry out boxes and bags of things sentimental and mundane. Others, like the Neumans, lost practically everything. But before the incident with the cat, Gail Neuman had kept her cool.

The couple--he a doctor, she a nurse--had spent the night with friends in Tustin.

“I was hoping that when I woke up this morning, that the bad dream was over,” Gail Neuman said. “It wasn’t a dream.”

Their four children, ages 8 to 16, had stayed with various friends in the area through the night, but returned to school Tuesday while their parents sifted through what had been a spacious family home filled with mementos.

As her husband walked through the charred remains, Neuman stood in the frontyard trying to remember the hazy details of the moments before the 9 a.m. fire. She had smelled smoke, roused her children from bed and called 911. She then grabbed baby pictures and her children’s report cards--items that she had prudently stored for easy access in case of such emergencies.

On Tuesday, Neuman surveyed what was left of her family’s possessions now scattered over a plastic cover stretched across the ground:

* The boxes of brand-new baseball and hockey cards covered with soot. The melted film slides of her children’s births.

* Two collectible Barbie dolls. One’s face was melted, the other’s hair was singed.

* Trinkets, baubles and jewelry she had painstakingly placed in memory boxes over the course of her life.

From a black plastic trash bag, she took out other items, many of which had melted together and were unrecognizable.

“This was my husband’s grandmother’s wedding ring that was from Australia,” she said, trying to clean the ridged ring covered with small stones that once must have sparkled in the sunlight. “She died two years ago. I was very happy when she gave it to us to remember her by. It has diamonds, emeralds and another stone, but I can’t remember what color.

“Here’s my nursing school graduation pin,” she continued, almost to herself, palming a gold-toned pin, before picking up two smudged earrings. “These earrings my husband gave me when I had a miscarriage and was all depressed. My father gave me this little jade bird that he brought from Japan when I was a kid.”

Neuman gently put down the bag. She doesn’t throw anything away, she said, saving every little thing to pass on to her children one day.

“Sometimes you just sit back and you can remember a certain play when you were 7, or a certain gift your dad gave you when you were little, you know,” she said. “I’m 43 and I have saved a lot. And now, they’re all gone.”

The somberness was lightened somewhat when Neuman found inside one small box four S&H; green stamps, promotional stamps that supermarkets had given out in the 1970s redeemable for merchandise.

“I told you I keep everything,” she said, shaking her head. “Look at the irony,” she added, holding up the stamps. They were in mint condition.

As the Neumans took stock of what little they had left, they were periodically interrupted by insurance adjusters. The neighborhood was overwhelmed by these independent claims agents who offer their services to homeowners in return for a percentage of what they can retrieve from insurance companies.

“I’m sure you’ve been bombarded today,” one said, handing Gail Neuman his business card even after she told him that her insurance agent has taken care of everything. “I can’t stress enough. Please don’t say anything too quickly. Explore all your options.”

Neuman took a deep breath when the adjuster left at her request.

“They’ve surrounded us all day,” she said.

Her words were barely out before another one approached her--not with an offer but a gift: a bright color carton for pets. The adjuster, who had offered her services earlier in the day, knew Neuman was looking for a box for her two cats.

Neuman thanked the woman before taking the box and headed toward Benjamin, her sable-color tabby that had been prowling around some bushes at the end of the house. When she picked the cat up, it struggled.

“Hold him away from your body,” her husband instructed as he went to help her. The two tried to handle the hissing and panicked cat. They let it go when Neuman yelled in pain.

Benjamin had scratched Neuman’s forearm.

Neuman’s calm reserve--bridled tightly throughout the day--finally cracked. “I’m OK,” she told her concerned husband.

And then she cried.