Losing Paradise: A Personal Reckoning

In the early hours of Thursday, November 8th, a spark kindled in the dry underbrush of highway 70 in the foothills of northern California. To those living nestled among the pines, just up the canyon in Paradise and Magalia, it was cause for concern, but also a common one. Despite the familiarity with fire, I cannot imagine anyone could have predicted that 12 hours later an entire town would be indiscriminately laid to waste.

Over the 20 years I lived there, from birth to leaving for college, friends and family had gathered to view fires creep up the canyon, only to watch them eventually recede. Occasionally some homes would be lost, but these were relatively few and far between. We discussed what might happen if we faced a perfect storm - one where the fire genuinely did get into town - and we continued to live our lives.

Living here in the Bay Area, I learned of the Camp Fire in a far less frightening way than did my friends and their families still settled in Paradise. Having dropped my two youngest at preschool, I turned on the news in the car and there it was - Paradise was burning. After 40 years of facing the threat, it was happening. The only question was, just how bad was it going to be?

Back home I was glued to my computer checking newscasts and, for the first time in weeks, opening up Facebook to find it was the first and best place to find what was actually happening on the ground. The only thing I can accurately relate the impact to is the coverage of the Tohoku earthquake and tsunami that wiped out so many small towns in Japan in 2011. It wasn't simply the devastation. These were small communities - rural, less affluent, but strong. They were generational hubs. And, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

Structure Damage Map of Paradise and Magalia

As the days wore on and more news trickled in, I learned that those who lived there that I love had made it out and were safe, though many only by the skin of their teeth. Stories of heroism by kids I went to high school with, the countless go-fund-me pages started, and the boundless generosity of those who brought needed goods and succor to sprawling evacuation centers peppered the tragedy with examples of what made that community special.

It's taken me three weeks to even begin writing about my home town and the tragedy that has befallen it. Partially, it's the scope of the destruction. This is not the story of an individual home, or even an individual neighborhood being wiped out. It is the loss of a community - perhaps for the meantime, perhaps for good. Whatever the future holds, the past will not be recreated, but neither will it be rewritten.

I've also struggled to put fingers to keyboard as my relationship with my hometown has been, at best, an ambivalent one. It holds a tremendous place in my heart as the home of my childhood, the community that gave me a host of life-long friends, and the collection of hills, rivers, lakes, woods, schools, and driving roads that formed me. Simultaneously, it is a reminder of of a great deal of personal pain from that same journey through youth. Yes, that which does not kill you makes you stronger, but still, I'd rather not experience it it again. Lastly, for all its beauty and benefits, Paradise was never a town in which I felt genuinely comfortable. Honestly, I do not fully understand why, but it was not until I lived in Japan in my mid 20s, and then moved to NYC, that a community truly "clicked" with me. It was a matter of "This is my home." vs. "This is where I grew up." or "This is where I live."

The Camp Fire brought these seemingly contradictory views of my hometown to the forefront. What I needed to complete was a reckoning: a close look at what had genuinely been lost, retained, and gained - both material and immaterial - now that the fires have subsided.

Magalia:

Magalia is a small community just north of Paradise proper. Also known as "Paradise Pines" or "The Pines," it is a collection of neighborhoods slightly less expensive than most in Paradise itself. My mother, sister, and I moved here when I was in intermediate school, following my parents' divorce. For the past 30 years or so, the little home my mother bought up in the pines served as our base camp when home from high school, and later college, or even abroad. When it came time for my mom to move to the Bay Area, she kept the house, storing all our family's memories - photo albums, toys, saved school work from kindergarten - in the large external garage we'd built on the property.

Out little home was just across the street from the golf course, tucked away in trees.

It had a massive main garage where I kept my first car, in which I took my little sister to school each day, and, sadly, modeled horrific fashion decisions.

The little home played host to Christmas mornings...

...moments of sibling togetherness...

...and occasional mild annoyance.

It was one of the few places in the Paradise area my future wife was ever able to experience.

And now, like so many other homes that held the hopes and dreams of a family, it is gone. Below is the structural damage report of the neighborhood. Andover - a street that looked oddly akin to the one on which I live now - was leveled.

The once proud front yard, where my mother would plant fresh bulbs each year and set out an endless parade of holiday-themed decorations, was ash.

And our storage garage, which held so many of our memories, was also gone. Sadly, it contained the 1970 Chevelle my mother had just finished restoring - the same car she bought in 1970 and I had worked on through high school.

We're all going to miss it, but perhaps Kuri most of all.

And yet, outside of the photos, this was all just stuff. Granted, some of it had tremendous sentimental value. One of the last pieces left over from my dad's life was up there. In the late 1970s, my dad and mom "rescued" an old arcade basketball machine from the Red Lion Pizza Parlor in Paradise. It was getting a bit abused. At the time, it was a significant purchase for them, but I don't think my dad could stand to see such a beautiful piece go to waste. And so, our family grew up with a basketball machine.

I'd always meant to bring it down. I had just the spot for it. I just needed my kids to grow up a few more years so I could reduce our toy trove and make some space for it. Sadly, this simply wasn't meant to be. And while my wife is perhaps secretly a bit relieved that she won't have a massive arcade machine in her home, I can't help but think of how fun it would have been to relive that piece of my childhood with my kids.

Pentz Road:

Pentz road has always held a special place in my heart. It is the westerrnmost thoroughfare through Paradise, though only a two lane road, and eventually joins with Highway 70. Traveling north it will take you to the Skyway, where Pentz dead ends and the Skyway leads you to Magalia. My first home was off Pentz, as was my elementary school, and the homes of many of my closest friends.

In 6th grade I would occasionally ride my bicycle the five or so miles up to my elementary school. The vast majority of Paradise streets had no sidewalks, and definitely no bike lanes, so that meant riding the dirt side tracks or, if you were heading downhill, riding with traffic and hoping that the old people who filled the town were slightly more observant than normal.

The road to school was littered with homes. Some right off the street. Others, like those of my friends Dan, John, or Aaron, tucked away in the woods or off back streets for better scenery and access to canyons. It wasn't a densely populated area - no apartments or anything like that - but the entire street was lined with single-family homes, a new one starting every 25 to 50 yards or so that you traveled. As with seemingly all the structures in Paradise, but particularly the homes, majestic pines, manzanita, and various other shrubs surrounded all. Many homes presented only fleeting glimpses as you whizzed by, obscured by the underbrush.

So, perhaps you can imagine riding such a road as a young kid. The huge pines overhead, the homes of your friends peeking through the foliage. Sadly, Pentz was one of the first exits from Paradise, of which there are only 4-5, closed by the fire. Trees fell south of the hospital blocking the road rendering it impassible. Fire tore through, as we figured it well could, turning a child's ride into an escape from hell.

The thin strip in the middle of the picture is Pentz road. My childhood home is toward the bottom left and my school toward the top left. In this small snapshot alone, I lost multiple generational homes I'd floated in and out of for decades. No, I don't think I'll be taking this ride to school anytime soon.

Southern Pentz road, which also felt the brunt of the fire, was my teenage playground. The first attraction was that, five miles from my home, sat Lime Saddle Marina. This provided access to Lake Oroville. As a child, I pestered my parents from the age of two for a boat. There was something in my blood that demanded it. By third grade, I'd finally won out, despite having made a very questionable choice concerning my first pair of glasses.

By the end of high school, my friends and I would gather in the summer months after school, or early in the morning over the summer, to hit the water. Skiing, wake boarding, lounging, swimming, being on our own. We had tremendous freedom. And made the most of it.

But perhaps this road speaks most to me because of my love of cars. Lower Pentz, for at least a short stretch of two miles rising briskly in elevation from Highway 70, is a fantastic driving road. Low sweepers with changes of elevation between blend into a banked right turn (marked at 50mph) that then ascends rapidly up a straight into a series of 30mph turns that snake to the top of the hill. The first time I drove them I was heading down the hill, in my father's Beretta GTU, with dad at my side. I was 13. Earlier, on the straights above, he'd chastised me for going 45. "You want to get caught? Speed up!" Through that series of twisties I discovered my first real appreciation of BMWs, when I couldn't keep up with my dad's new (to him) '85 535i in his Beretta. Years later, heading up the hill, I passed a CHP going the other direction while doing 90+. I saw his brake lights flare and his roof bars flash in my rear view mirror. Thankfully, I was in my 914 and the twisties were coming up.

I hit them as fast as I could and headed for home, record still clean. This was also where I surprised one of my best friend's father by capping the crest in his AMG 550 CLK at over 100 (he was at my side). There was something about that road that spoke to me and I often went out of my way just to drive it.

The other remarkable aspect of lower Pentz was the view it gave you of the canyon. I remember heading out there with family, looking over the lake, to watch wildfires creep their way across the ridge - forest fires much like the one that eventually laid waste to Paradise. It was not an uncommon occurrence and lower Pentz, looking over the fingers of lake Oroville, was a perfect place to test a tragedy in the making, watching pines pop from flame with such visceral force that it would hit your gut across the canyon.

This was also where my father, one summer morning, totaled my first Karmann Ghia. As it was dragged out of a ditch across from Lime Saddle Marina, it stood gimply on but three wheels, the frame too bent to find footing for the fourth. That land was not without its dangers. It's something I think we all recognized but, living through them day-to-day, we took them as a calculated risk and moved forward the best we could.

Childhood Home: Lower Paradise:

No matter how many years you might stay away, I don't think you ever truly forget your first long-term childhood home. In the mid 1970s my parents purchased a new home up in Paradise in a neighborhood off lower Pentz road. There was no landscaping and it was 70s brown. Over the next 15 years they transformed it.

In the back yard they assembled a massive rock wall, added decks and covered patios. The walkways were cut on my dad's table saw and laid by hand.

With my little sister coming, we added a second story and great room to the home, designed by a family friend. Countless sleepovers found kids sliding down the stairs in sleeping bags or watching movies from the balcony with their legs hanging over the edge.

And sadly, like my mother's home, it too is gone. 

While it had been well over 20 years since I'd been inside, finding this home gone - the home I really grew up in - packed almost as much punch as losing my mother's place. I miss the terrible fashion...

...the fact that I used to have white hair and liked to play ping-pong in giant work boots...

...and the birthday parties. Here's Julie turning two.

In the winter, we'd often gather around the large wood stove...

...and in the summer we'd play games or run through the sprinklers out front.

But looking back, not all is lost. The memories are still there as are, thankfully, some of the special items that helped us forge them. Julie still has her massive raccoon from this picture and my kids now rock on that same rocking horse my maternal grandfather made for us.

The piano my paternal grandfather restored and presented to my parents for their wedding - the piano my dad would play at night while I was going to sleep and the one my sister and I used for practice - now sits in our living room where Mimi practices Christmas songs and Mari and Kuri bang along higher up or lower down the keyboard.

And, of course, though we have lost our father, my sister and I still have our mom, who has seen us through so much and still continues to do so.

My Own Reckoning of Paradise:

Had you asked me ten years ago to discuss my home town of Paradise, I most likely would have seemed - entrenched in my life in Manhattan - dismissive or noncommittal at best. I still stand by the conclusion that, for me, Paradise was not a great a fit, but sadly, that same notion had kept me from seeing what that town gave me. In a sense, in realizing I could not go back, in finding homes that clicked with who I am, I inadvertently dismissed all the amazing gifts my childhood in that small, strange, conflicted, beautiful town provided me.

The fire may have jumped the Feather River canyon, but, as my friend Dan Lieberman concluded a song he recently penned about the tragedy, "The Feather River still flows." In a sense, for many of us who grew up swimming in its pools, jumping from its cliff faces, and hiking the flume trails to hit the best swimming holes, the Feather River was the beating heart of our community. A place for both fun and reflection. In its waters, Paradise lives on.

The schools of Paradise were a mixed bag for me. Though a relatively good student, I loved school until about fourth grade and then, at least until college, never put in any real effort. "If I'd been given a real challenge, I would have done so much better." was my mantra for many, many years after leaving town. But now, looking back, I realize just how much utter crap I was feeding myself to think this way. Life is what you make of it, and I did little until I left. That is my own fault. Still, the schools in Paradise afforded me the opportunity to learn an instrument (saxophone), play in the school band (intermediate school), perform with the school chorus, act in several school plays and musicals (poorly), take my favorite HS class of all time (3 hours of autobody repair a day), and head to college a year early. My wife and I have worked our tails off to ensure our kids have these kinds of opportunities - ones I sadly took for granted.

It was also in the schools, particularly elementary school, that I forged life-long friendships that have stood the tests of time, distance, and, quite simply, growing up. The picture below is from 6th grade.

From left to right are me, Dean, John, Dan, and Josiah. While I've not kept in touch as well with Josiah (I've always wanted to visit his transmission shop up on the ridge), I still follow his off road exploits on Facebook. The other three, well, Dean is a helicopter paramedic in Arizona, John is a college tennis coach in Walla Walla, and Dan is an educator and musician making the most of life up in Washington state. Both John and Dan were at my wedding. More importantly, all three of these guys are part of "The Boys." And without Paradise, The Boys would not have existed.

25 years ago it was decided that our small group of friends (15-20 or so) should gather for an afternoon Christmas party. One of our own. That was the start of Boys' Christmas. This year will mark the 25th anniversary and the 25th hosting of Boys' Christmas. Over the years I've met people from all over the world, but never have I heard a similar story of friends, many of whom met in elementary school, who still get together annually to renew their friendship, exchange gifts, take on physical challenges, reminisce, and, generally, drink too much.

As a child, I remember my parents having 2 or 3 close friends from childhood with whom they kept in touch. I never paid it much notice until one night I was talking about the Camp Fire with my mom. "I have two close friends from High School," she told me, "while each year you gather with at least 15 guys we've know for 25 to 30 years." Like I've said before, I've never really heard of anything like it. And it's not like we all stayed in the same area. Yes, a few of us still live up in Paradise or Chico, but the vast majority have spread across the country, and even the world. Throughout the years we've had boys living in the Bay Area, Oregon, Washington, New York, Spain, Germany, England, Japan... the list goes on.

Perhaps it was the crucible of living in Paradise - its combination of not much to do, not much opportunity, but endless acres of the outdoors - that formed these bonds that live on. With our childhood town now in ashes, and the prospect that many of our parents may never return, it will become harder to keep this tradition alive. But I also know it will only make it stronger.

When it came time for me to, once again, settle down in California - now with two (which would become three) children - Paradise was far from my mind, but looking back on it now, I realize just how closely under the surface my childhood home was in my decision making. I knew my family would settle in the Bay Area, but what I didn't understand was just how alike the community I live in now would be to the one in which I grew up and, for years, rather dismissed. It's been an awakening.

Paradise was settled in the foothills and nestled in trees. My community now has fewer trees, but similar amounts of open space. It doesn't have a majestic river running through it, but every summer my children play in the free-flowing creek in our neighborhood park - by far their favorite activity. Both the population and population density of what has become my children's hometown is actually less than Paradise. We even pass cows standing in their field every day on our way home, just like I did coming back from Chico or Oroville as a kid.

But it has not been the natural aspects of our neighborhood that has really made it home for my family, though those help. Instead, it is a similar sense of community. The people here, like in my hometown, work hard, face their struggles, and find solace and comaraderie in each other's company. The children go to neighborhood schools, play sports, take music lessons, complain there's not much to do, and lose themselves in the natural beauty of the parks without knowing just how lucky they have it. I've found a place where we seem to have a common bond. And that is, perhaps, the greatest lesson I learned from my childhood town: sharing that bond and finding fellowship in the community you create together.

The tragedy and ongoing stories of the past few weeks have brought me a tremendous lesson, one well deserving of the community I called home for 20 years. Your hometown may not be what you wanted, but in many ways, when you look back, it will be what you needed. I can't help but think, in retrospect, had I been born in a more affluent, more diverse, more culturally enriched community, I might never have taken the steps to leave. Instead, Paradise challenged me to move ahead. If I had been born in the Bay Area I don't know if I would have ended up in Japan or New York. The same goes for other friends of mine. In a sense, that small town mentality may have pushed us to go beyond what we would have done in different circumstances.

This is not to say that those that stayed, or returned, are somehow different or lesser. They found their home, and a wonderful home it was. Not perfect, by any means - far too many meth labs in the woods and elderly on the roads when the social security checks came in the mail - but it remained a tight-knit community that stood by its residents. The tragic Camp Fire only showed the resilience and spirit of those who called Paradise and Magalia home. I could not be more proud.

Will the community rebuild? I am sure it will, but what form this will take, I cannot say. Many will be afraid to return and many others will simply not have the means. For those who do return, and those who decide to make this town their own for the first time, I hope you all build the same kind of special community it was my privilege to experience.

Thank you, Paradise, for helping to mold the man I am today and for, especially now, helping me better understand how to guide my children on their journey. I sincerely wait for the day when, hopefully in a few years time, I can take my children to your repopulating streets and your resprouting canyons for a swim in the Feather River. For the Feather River still flows...and always will.

A Month Without Mimi

This past month has been a genuinely odd one.

Our oldest, age 8, boarded a plane with her mama about a month ago and headed across the Pacific. One week later, Mama came back but Mimi stayed on with her cousins and grandparents. For the past three weeks she has attended school in Japan, eaten a ton of ice cream, and occasionally, sleepily, FaceTimed with her family back in the states.

There are, sadly, no pictures of her departure. We simply dropped Mama and Mimi off. We had considered walking in to the terminal, but given how much time they had, and the fact Mari was screaming her head off that she wanted to go on the airplane, drop off was probably the best choice.

We naturally had some reservations about sending Mimi away for a whole month at such a young age, but the time with her family, and experiencing a different culture for an extended time far outweighed those fears. We knew it would be a challenge, but we also knew she was up for it. So far, it looks like she's risen to the occasion.

Mari and Kuri took Mimi's absence in stride. They were happy but knew something was a bit off. Kuri never cried about it, but for the first week or so, at least every other day, he'd look up at me and say, completely unprompted, "Papa, I miss Mimi."

"I know, buddy. Me too."

As Mimi stormed Japan, we had a bit of our own fun back here. The first week was tough with just the two kids and me. Few pictures of this time survive, though both kids and their father made it through relatively unscathed.

I had a bit of help that week as one of my best friends from elementary school, John, came down with his wife Jen for a visit. We met up with our friend from intermediate school, Mike, as well as his wife and kids, for some serious pinball action at the Pinball Museum in Alameda. That little boy in blue is Kuri and Mike is right behind him. Note the level of concentration on both faces. Given Mike's a pretty damn good pinball player, I think the boy will go far.

As John, Mike, Jen, and Cassandra play on the left, you can see Kuri still working away on the right. I was amazed by his concentration. He tried machines until he found one that clicked with him and then kept with it. Seeing his potential that day, I've come to the conclusion that it really isn't fair to such a child, with so much innate pinball talent, to have only one machine at home. Getting at least one or two additional machines here on which he can hone his skills really makes a lot of sense. Otherwise, I'm just not letting my child explore his potential.

Back at home, Mari exploited the two new visitors. Mari walked all over Johnny...

...Kuri played soccer with Jen (sadly, our backyard was in no shape for this activity, so the living room had to suffice),

and Mari continually sought out ways to cuddle with Johnny. I think, in her mind, she claimed yet another new boyfriend.

We ended our stay at Le Garage restaurant in Sausalito. This is a great little Marin restaurant. Right on the water with excellent food and a relatively chill atmosphere. It was also great for me because, for the first time in years, adults actually outnumbered the kids. Eating was actually possible!

Eventually John and Jen left, but they were quickly replaced with Sumie. It was nice to have the family back...mostly. We headed out for the one event Mimi was most sad to miss: the Marin County Fair. I've posted on this in the past and it remains one of my favorite things about this county. It's small, local, and perfect for younger kids. When it comes to rides, Kuri isn't all that adventurous, but at least he was able to get on a Jeep.

We had a ton of fun looking at the animals, eating fried food, and popping balloons for prizes (Kuri popped 3 on 5 darts!). This being Marin, we got to meet with Darth Vader!

Kuri impersonated Lord Snoke.

And the whole family took a picture with some Star Wars greats.

Before camp started I had some extra time with Kuri during the day. This meant a lot of extra Lego building. Kuri is obsessed with Voltron, so one day he asked me to build the Castle of Lions.

Not to be outdone by his papa, he constructed his own.

With Mimi gone, we had a few chances to swap in Mari for Mimi's usual swim lessons. Unlike Mimi and Kuri, Mari naturally loves the water. Since finding Hiroe-sensei, Mari and Kuri now look forward to swimming lessons, but Mari eats them up. She's a water baby.

As the weeks went on we kept to our normal schedule. One weekend, with Sumie off call, we were able to sneak out to brunch on a Sunday. We came across a pretty amazing car. Very proud to announce that even my two year old can spot a Ferrari.

Work is continuing on our yard. We have not had a driveway for the past two weeks. At least Mari and Kuri got a huge kick watching it being torn up.

With Mimi taking on such a brave adventure, I wanted to give her a nice surprise when she returned. I racked my brains and then inspiration struck thanks to a severely underpriced, and on special, Salvation Army find. Mimi has her own little Raspberry Pi computer, but the screen is small and the battery runs out quickly. With this, we finally have a family computer that the kids can use. I'm hoping to install Minecraft on it for Mimi. She's obsessed with it, but I don't feel that bad. She's creating constantly. It now takes 45 minutes for her to show me the world she's built.

Last week Sumie's oldest brother came by (he was on a work trip) and Sumie's sister, brother-in-law, and the cousins stayed over. Once again, we snapped very few pictures (the children took over), but at least we got a snap of the amazing nabe Sumie prepped and Eddie cooked.

July is Mari's last month at her daycare. This is a pretty momentous occasion. We have been sending our kids to the same daycare, up until they hit two, for the past six years. Even moving to Marin couldn't break this cycle. It's very bittersweet. Mari is definitely ready for preschool, but with her moving out, we'll miss daily contact with someone who has become a member of the family. I know we'll make visits, though, whenever we can!

We're all excited to see Mimi this Sunday. And while she's had an amazing adventure, I think she's also ready to come home. After all, she's only 8. Still, I'm tremendously thankful we've been fortunate enough to provide her with this opportunity. I didn't leave the country until I was in my mid 20s. Mimi's embracing her Japanese side, whole-heartedly, both here and in Japan. I hope we can do the same for the the whole family. It might be a stretch, but I think, in the long term, it will be worth it.