'On hold until God says otherwise'

SMITHVILLE, Texas (KXAN) - A scalding wildfire on Feb. 28 broke the peace of a comfortable little community just east of Austin’s bustling city, a happy visitor's spot in Bastrop County known as the Alum Creek Center .

The fire brought almost every building inside the center to the ground - including the storied Wildfire Café - back to the very dust and foundation it was built upon.

Some 10 months later, the quaint shops that embodied the serenity of the rolling hills of Smithville are gone. The sign that once greeted visitors sways over empty land, scorched trees and memories.

Here are the stories of the people who were left to pick up the pieces and make do with what life brought them.

An attempt at making lemonade out of life’s lemons

Life hasn't been kind to Alum Creek Center co-owner Charlie Claiborne since he lost almost everything in the intrusive blaze.  

“I’m scraping by,” he said.

Throughout the decades, Claiborne had seen his eclectic mix of family businesses in Bastrop County flourish.

The eccentricity of the colorful people and quaint businesses at the center began in 1974 and continued into February 2009, with everything from a Wi-Fi business to a hypnosis center to antique shops and even the well-known Wildfire Café – a charming staple for many residents.

Losing the center to the merciless blaze was like losing a close family member for Charlie. And while he said months ago that Alum Creek would bounce back and live through it, it’s not looking like that these days.

There was no insurance on the center because it was cost-prohibitive, and making a comeback is a little harder than expected.

“I’m making life a lemonade out of lemons,” Claiborne said, on a phone in his car on the way to Houston.

Making the 2 1/2 hour trek to Southeast Texas once a week is the only chance Charlie said he has at work. He’s lost 90 percent of his monthly income since the fire ravaged the center, down from $6,000 to $600 a month – and his home is in foreclosure.

Charlie’s life has been affected by a fire before, when he lost his house to a 1985 blaze. Yet, this one was much different.

Charlie was in the middle of a divorce with his wife of 27 years when the fire hit. And he said he had also just been diagnosed with a head tumor, in addition to having broken an arm around that same time.

The fire brought the tumultuous events of his life to an instant boil - and just as he confronted the taunting embers as he watched the blaze creep toward his family legacy, he's now confronting what's left after it all. 

And knowing that it hit much closer to home than he ever thought it would.

‘Good stuff’s coming’

Mari Claiborne used to assure clamoring customers that the Wildfire Café would be back and running just as fast as she and co-owner Teri Griswold saw it go up in flames, but that’s turned out differently than they had expected.

"There's no hope, actually," Mari said.

Virtually the heart of the Alum Creek Center, the cafe tied together the eccentricity of the little nook in Bastrop County some 46 miles outside the bustling state capital.

“I miss their atmosphere out there a lot,” said regular customer Bridget Nelson, who would walk to the café each Friday from her neighboring business to get her hamburger fix.

The café had come together perfectly when it was born, even though neither owner had any restaurant experience. Neither Mari nor Teri intended to run a restaurant, which Mari said was good because they didn’t know what they couldn’t do. It turned into a second home for them, and for many in the center. Mari was co-owner of the center at the time with her husband, Charlie Claiborne.

“The café is gone,” said Mari. “There’s no hope, actually. And truthfully, I don’t think I’d want to do it again without Teri because the dynamic that we had was what kept it alive.”

That dynamic seems to have been another casualty of the fire. Once good friends, Mari said she and Teri haven’t talked much since the blaze because everything has been so hectic.  And up until three weeks ago, Mari was jumping from one temporary job to another.

Trading in her waitressing for a receptionist job at a chiropractor’s office, Mari said she’s having a blast learning all sorts of things and still getting to see some of her most regular customers from time to time.

“I feel the best that I have felt in 20 years,” she said. “I just feel like I’m starting over again, which I’ve done a number of times in my life.”

Just like she did on the day the fire hit, one day before her 50th birthday.

She walked through the ashes on her birthday morning and laid to rest something that had been part of her life full-time since 1988. 

“The Creek has been not just my livelihood, but I’ve raised kids out there, buried friends, literally,” said said. “You know, I guess it’s like losing an old friend. Said goodbye to my friend. I went back and took flowers. I just kind of felt like I needed to put flowers on a grave.”

Mari passes the Alum Creek center twice

a day, saying with a crack in her voice, “I still love it.”

“We have it for sale - don’t know the future. We’re on hold until God says otherwise.”

‘You can’t rush what you have no control over’

Retired Army veteran Mike Mallicote had recently returned from overseas fighting the war in Afghanistan and Iraq, and was settled into his strip of businesses at the Alum Creek Center when the fire ripped through.

“It is completely demolished,” he says now.

The dream of running his Cedar Chest shop full of antique furniture, impressionary glass and jewelry with his wife Sara went up in flames almost as quickly as the fire spread that February day.

The retirement funds he pumped into that shop and another woodworking business have been impossible to recoup since then, and finding other means of financial support have been desperately futile.

“There have been no loans, since I’m on a retirement budget,” said Mike. “No one’s wiling to hire because of the economy. Everything’s pretty much in limbo.”

He’s put in plenty of applications to get going again, but regaining stable ground is hard these days.

“You can’t rush what you have no control over,” said Mike. “I do little bitty things on the side, whatever else I can do.”

While there have been some job offers from Iraq in Afghanistan in security and bodyguard positions, Mike said it’s really not something he wants to return to after 30 years of that lifestyle away from his wife.

Instead, he said he’s concentrating on spending more time at home with Sara and their Chihuahua Pepe, who has gotten bigger since the fire hit when he was just 8 months old.

In the meantime, Mike will wait to see if someone’s going to buy the Alum Creek Center property to put some life back into it. He had hoped back in February to rebuild in the one building that fortuitously survived, but the outlook is grim.

He could pass the time cruising the tree-lined countryside on his motorcycle. But the used replacement for his new Suzuki motorcycle that burned in the blaze would be another reminder still of what’s left after the ashes were swept up and the debris was cleared away.

Almost nothing.

“Things could be better, but we have to accept what we have and be grateful for now anyway,” said Mike. “We’re just going wait and see what happens now.”

Rewiring life’s mainframe

Some 10 miles down the road and 10 months later, the family-run CG Communications, Inc. is up and running stronger than ever off Highway 95 South.

After the fire hit one year to the day after the wireless business opened at the center, operations were forced to relocate deeper into Smithville, where the main headquarters has always been stationed.

The office sits on land just a stroll away from two homes also tucked away on the property, where company co-owner Joanne Grohman and her mother-in-law live.

“We moved the office into the home and were in the home for about two months,” Grohman said. She then moved the company out into a little building just a few feet away from her home.

And while the move was an unexpected one, Joanne said the synergy of the outfit is something that’s working out nicely.

“It saves time. It saves fuel. It saves a lot of hassle,” said Joanne.

Employee Bridget Nelson even has a new desk to work from, a stark change from the burnt misshapen mess of what remained after the blaze scorched it.

“It’s great here,” said Bridget. “We’re all in touch here. We see each other every day.”

The last time Bridget was at the Alum Creek Center, she and Company President Chris Colvin were trying to make their way through ashes and indistinguishable debris where the business once stood.

While Joanne and Bridget said all the office furniture lost in the fire is replaceable, they both agree the filing cabinets inside the company’s office today hold some of their most priceless objects.

In the weeks following the blaze, the wireless customers’ monthly statements poured in with kind letters of support and encouragement affixed to their payments.

“It was great because I mean, we don’t talk to these customers that much, so when they sent in these letters, I was like, ‘Wow, they really do care about us,’” said Bridget. “It was great to get these.”

The newfound relationships can be likened to that of fire climax pines that grow in the piney woods: It takes the heat from a good grass fire to open the pines up so the seeds can be dispersed. Without fire, there would be no growth.

And while not all things have flourished after the fire – since CG Communications employees don’t have nearly the same amount of communication with the people from Alum Creek as they used to – Joanne said the company is growing in the right direction.

“We’re branching out, so we’re going forward,” said Joanne.

The wireless company has almost doubled its towers since February, covering about 650 square miles of coverage through a tri-county area.

The religious sign Joanne said miraculously survived the ravenous fire has taken its place once again

at the front of the building placed firmly and prominently for everyone to see: “Preserve me, O God: For in thee do I put my trust.”

Lost in the overgrowth of time and destruction

A couple of the more symbolic things that survived the February blaze were two memorials dedicated to people who loved the magnetic people and businesses at the Alum Creek Center – one a tree and the other an angel statue that once sat in a small garden.

The scorched tree stood bare days after the fire, the place of Pat Richert’s memorial where her ashes had been spread after her passing. She loved Alum Creek so much that she requested her husband Charles “Chuck” Richert integrate her into its roots.

“Pat’s Tree,” once described as a symbol for the sentiment of everybody around, almost blends into the overgrowth at the center now.

And the lonely angel that sat nearby accompanied by a colorful, sun-catching glass ball is nowhere in sight anymore. It was a serene niche for the memory of someone who loved the Alum Center profoundly but died in a car accident. The memorial dedicated to Kim McLagan is gone, either taken as a memory or cleared with the debris in the weeks and months following the blaze.

'My talent did not burn. The things that I had did.'

Billy McGlaun relied on the kindness of others after the fire took almost everything he had: His home, his belongings and his job.

He lived just next door to the Wildfire Café, at the Earth Angel inspiration gift and bookstore inside Alum Creek. Billy began working at the Wildfire Café soon after he realized that being a customer just wasn’t enough.

After the blaze, café co-owner Teri Griswold volunteered to take him and his dog under her wing until he could get back on his feet.

“It taught me to let go and let God,” said Billy. “Sometimes when you let go, something better comes along. It’s furthered me in a lot of different ways. I’m doing really well. You just got to rebuild from nothing.”

These days, Billy has his own place to live and enjoys spending more time with his father, Bill McGlaun. He also lost almost everything he had in the fire after it consumed his bronze sculpture shop at the Alum Creek Center.

Bill was out of town when the fire hit, and it fell on his son, Billy, to load what he could out of the business and into a friend’s truck. Inside Bill’s new place on Second Street in Downtown Smithville , a majestic mermaid tells a tale of survival.

Revered by the locals as “true art,” most of Bill’s artwork was lost, including all the awards he ever won and drawings dating back to pre-college. Yet, he said the greatest loss is his library.

“Art books that you just can’t get anymore, some from the royal academy in London,” said Bill.

The newest book was 110 years old, and with such profound inspiration, it’s not difficult to see why Bill’s work has been featured in the Vatican.

Bill and Billy are working together to get through what’s arguably the hardest time in both their lives.

Billy said people are still helping him, but he’s ready to stand on his own two feet and not be so dependent on others.

He said he hopes to help other people regain ground in their lives as well with a new program called Serenity Star. He’s working with Teri to jumpstart the nonprofit organization focused on helping addicts - with the goal of opening fully in Spring 2010.

“Looking forward to getting the rest of my life started,” said Billy.

As for Bill, he has a new van that’s replaced the SUV he lost in the blaze and is renewing his focus on his artwork, saying he’ll take what talent he has as far as he’s allowed to take it.

Bill’s first piece after the fire was a sculpture of the father of the Greek mythology character Icarus, who died when he flew too close to the sun, and it’s all about loss.

“I sort of used the piece to release all the angst and anxiety,” said Bill, referring to the effect the blaze had on his life. “It’s been a cleansing in my life, actually, and I’m most appreciative for it. It was time for that cleansing anyway. It was time to move forward. My talent did not burn. The things that I had did.”

A burning desire to make a difference

Amber Wilson was there in the days following the fire, picking up the pieces for many families and helping alleviate as much of the pain as possible by lending a elping hand.

Wilson devoted countless time and energy with her family and the River Valley Christian Fellowship church by clearing houses that were deemed unsalvageable and raising money for those that needed it.

“It’s definitely not my job, but I’ve been doing it ever since it started,” said Wilson. “They needed the help. Somebody needed to step up and help them.”

Months later, you can find her doing the same thing for those still dragged down by the aftermath of the blaze.

“I can’t even describe it,” said Wilson. “A lot of them are in the rebuilding stage.”

And while she would not say just how much money is left months later, she did say that a considerable amount is available