A year ago, wildfires ravaged a large portion of Creek County. Tulsa World Staff Writer Rhett Morgan and Staff Photographer Mike Simons returned recently for an update on how affected residents are recovering from the devastating disaster.
Bettie Neely: "It's just too devastating."
When the Creek County wildfires bore down on Bettie Neely on Aug. 4, she hightailed it from her beauty shop, the searing heat singeing her hair and melting the tires on her truck.
"I drove it out of here on the rims," she said.
Neely lost practically everything but her life.
One year removed from the disaster, she is still trying to put back together what the blaze ripped apart. About five miles west of Mannford, she resides in a portable wooden building one might see in a building supply store parking lot.
"It's better than living in a cardboard box," Neely said. "Other than that, I can't say."
Over about a week and a half last August, the Freedom Hill wildfire destroyed 376 homes and 58,500 acres in Creek County, leaving hundreds of people homeless.
Today, much of the county's color is back, having gone from scorched black to luscious green.
But many of the victims remain suspended between recovery and despair. Some people left the area, unwilling to put down roots amid the kindling.
Others, such as Neely, dug in their heels.
"It's very hard," she said.
Including Neely's add-on, her residence is about 480 square feet, a fraction the size of her previous two-story home.
She said she received $30,000 in assistance from the Federal Emergency Management Agency - money "that goes nowhere when you're trying to build a house."
"I just bought me a little bitty air conditioner, and it doesn't cool but right in front it. But that's all I could afford."
Neely has maintained her hairdressing business.
But instead of doing heads at her place, she works out of a friend's kitchen in Tulsa.
"You have to go on," she said. "I'm grateful for what I have."
Neely, however, longs for what used to be.
Her 62-year-old sister lives in a portable building similar to Neely's. Her brother, who built the home she used to live in, died about three months before the wildfire.
"I don't know how anybody else is doing, but I know my family is miserable," Neely said. "It's just too devastating.
"You'd have to see it to believe it. It's terrible."
Steve Janzen: "It has been a good experience for us"
The wildfire at the Steve Janzen place became so hot that the septic lines melted. He drove his two tractors into his pond so they wouldn't burn.
His home was destroyed, as well as a pole barn.
But Janzen's metal barn was basically unscathed.
"I think, because it had a steel frame on the inside instead of wood," he said.
So when he and his wife, Jo Ellen, rebuilt, they went the unconventional route.
"We actually built a house inside of a metal barn," he said.
The 1,500-square-foot steel-framed home has a Western theme. With a huge assist from neighbors and volunteers, the residence went up in three months.
The Janzens remain floored by the outpouring of support they received during the crisis. Strangers even came by to feed their dogs and deliver hay for their livestock.
"It's amazing what a disaster can do to make your realize just how lucky we are," Jo Ellen said. "We didn't lose our lives. We lost things. But you can replace them because you're still alive, and you have a lot more friends than you had when you started. It has been a good experience for us."
Sandra Jordan: "Every little noise I hear, I think it's going to be a fire."
Even above the din of the television and chirp of her pet cockatiels, one can hear the pain in Sandra Jordan's voice.
"I just can't get myself to be where I'd like to be" she said.
Around Christmastime in 2009, a fire possibly caused by a leaky propane tank ripped through their 80-foot mobile home, reducing it to ashes.
Then last August, a wildfire again destroyed their residence.
The memories keep Jordan up nights.
"Every little noise I hear, I think it's going to be a fire," she said.
Insurance has paid for a new home. And she and Richard still will share a love seat, a testament of their 47 years of marriage.
But the joy comes reluctantly, she said.
On top of the aftermath of last year's fire, Sandra deals with multiple sclerosis. And about three months ago, she had an uncle and brother die on the same day.
"I don't see any kind of happiness, as far as I'm concerned," Sandra said. "I'm in a very sad world, and I don't like to live that way. ...
"Everything's just empty. I feel like I have nothing."
Jacki Norrid: "You find out what you can live without."
When Jacki Norrid recalls the horrors of the Freedom Hill wildfire, she also remembers its mercy.
"My husband (James) was out front with the fire department," she said. "It came up over my husband and the fire truck and hit the house. And the house went up (in flames). That was what was good about it."
The downside has been dicey.
The fire claimed their home, truck, recreational vehicle and a pair of outbuildings. A new 30-by-60-foot metal home is going up on their eight acres. But in the meantime, the couple is coping in an RV.
"It's been tough living in close quarters," she said. "We're trying to keep a sense of humor."
Times were toughest for Jacki at Christmas because all the decorations from her favorite holiday burned. James likes to keep the acreage presentable but now struggles to manage the place with makeshift Weedeaters, chainsaws and lawn mowers.
"You find out what you can live without," she said.
"If we hadn't have had all the help, it would have really been bad. Mainly, the churches around here really stepped up and helped everybody that they could. And they did it while maintaining our dignity.
"We worked too hard to get this place. We've put a lot of sweat and blood and tears in it. ... Now, it's kind of a start-over thing, but we'll get there."
Johnnie Keeling: "You kind of feel like you're back in the 1800s or 1900s."
As the Freedom Hill blaze began to target Johnnie Keeling, she reached for the satchel containing her grandchildren's birth certificates and guardianship papers.
"That was the only thing I could grab," she said..."As soon as it (fire) hit the section on down, it was 15 minutes and it was through here."
Gone were a three-car pole barn, her vehicle and trailer she lived in with her two grandchildren. Church volunteers have added skirting and a porch to the trailer she resides in now with 12- and 14-year-old grandkids.
"The walls are falling in," Keeling said. "The back one is about to fall completely off. ...
"We have two bedrooms, me back here and they're up there. It really ain't big enough. But you make do."
Keeling estimates that three-quarters of the people affected by wildfires didn't move back. Having raised her kids there, she said she never gave that a thought.
"You kind of feel like you're back in the 1800s or 1900s," she said. "It really gets bad. You just keep going along.
"You do the best you can with what you've got, pray to God everything will work out. So far, he's done pretty good. He's helped a lot of people."
Joe Anaya: "The end result will make us better people ..."
Near Oklahoma 48 in the bowels of Creek County lies a tiny camper in the shadow of large house, still under construction.
Joe Anaya is living in the former while erecting the latter.
"It's been hard being away from my family," said Anaya, whose wife and three children have been living with relatives since the Anaya home was destroyed by the Creek County wildfires last August. "But by building it ourselves, we can make that insurance dollar stretch."
Anaya has designed his new place with an eye toward compassion. The second level of the 4,800-square-foot home will be self-contained with kitchen, living and entertainment areas, making it big enough to accommodate victims of the next tragedy, should one ever arise.
"We decided to go bigger and better," Anaya said. "But we wanted to be able to open our house at a moment's notice."
Boosted by help from neighbors and businesses, Anaya hopes to complete the home within six to 12 months.
"As a family, we've become very, very strong," he said. "And, as a community, we've become very, very strong. I'm saddened by so many people having to go through what we went through. But the end result will make us better people ...
"People aren't looking for a handout. They are looking for a hand up. That one little push means a whole lot."
James Sparr: Living without a retirement
Local
Jimmy Nazario Jr. was scheduled for trial on a second-degree murder charge in October — but defense attorney Kenneth Rhoads was killed in a motorcycle accident in July.
The public is not allowed past the elevators and all court records are sealed, making it impossible to know what the meetings are about.
Continuing coverage: Read more on the Baby Veronica custody battle here.
