Paradise Lost and Grandma Found

Trees surrounding Bille Park in Paradise, pre-fire.

In my last post, I mentioned my uncle had just passed. I didn’t mention where he died, which was in Paradise. Until this week, you may have never heard of this retirement community in the Sierra foothills (although readers with excellent retention might).  With all the other news this week—the mid-term elections; latest mass shooting; and LA fires—it’s possible you still don’t know about Paradise.

A wildfire known as the Camp Fire because of its origin near Camp Creek broke out early Thursday. Intense, drying winds common this time of year helped sparks from a faulty transmission line forge a fire that quickly spread into nearby towns, the biggest of which was Paradise. My grandmother retired there about 30 years ago from New England. A lot of people retire here from other parts of California for the lower cost of living and because it’s pretty. Was pretty.

What made it distinctive, especially to us relatives to the south, were the pines that permeated every neighborhood. Paradise also had a fair share of deciduous trees that turned colors in the fall, and why we loved visiting for Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, those trees also made Paradise vulnerable, serving as fuel for flames that spread too quickly to save structures or, saddest of all, lives. 

My grandmother is now 104 years old and suffering from Alzheimer’s.  Before my father passed in February, I made a monthly visit to Paradise to spend time with her and with my uncle, who was then her primary caregiver. 

One thing about aging relatives, especially those we love so dearly: They tend to not stay put. Everyone wants to age in place, but most often it is impractical and exhausts resources, financial and human. My grandmother bounced around California and Oregon before my aunt and uncle eventually moved into the home where Grandma once lived. She then moved to a nearby senior independent living community to be near them. Then another place after that.

Until Thursday, she was at a small skilled nursing facility on the edge of town. She was moved there earlier this year after the other care center no longer took her insurance. We visited in August and liked this place, even if she didn't. Like most structures, hers was consumed by fire and I spent two frantic days trying to find her. 

Every place Grandma supposedly had been taken to had been evacuated. The Red Cross wasn’t much help; I’m sure they had their hands full. By Friday afternoon, body counts began. Fortunately for our family, my grandmother isn’t among the dead. When I finally talked to her she was sitting in a hospital bed two hours south of Paradise. She thanked me for the upgrade from her other place. This one had only one roommate and a nice big window with a view. “They even gave me a new robe,” she gushed. 

My sister who has lived her entire life on the East Coast told me she just can’t get her head around wildfires: how they happen spontaneously and why people don’t flee soon enough. Fifteen years ago at this time, many of our neighbors were homeless after a wildfire ravaged Scripps Ranch. My son-in-law’s house was among those destroyed. For years after, my daughter went on eBay to find copies of things he lost in the fire. Sports memorabilia, favorite movies on VCR, … things that a teenager would covet while still a teen.

I want you who are unfamiliar with fires to consider for an instant going to bed with everything you treasure and no thought of imminent danger. A day later, you have only the clothes on your back, a few pictures and maybe your car. There was no warning or sirens or news alerts to provide time to consider what may happen. You will never walk the halls of your old school. You will never again worship at the church where you married. All notes of nostalgia have been erased. 

You don’t know how much you miss until you start missing the things that made you, you—a piece of jewelry passed down from your late mother, the poster over your child's bed, a mixtape made by your first boyfriend, the Family Bible holding dried flowers from past funerals. If you are lucky, you find singed but solid remnants in neighboring yards. Usually, though, all those priceless pieces are now part of the piles of ash where your life used to be lived.

On Wednesday, the day before the fire, I purchased plane tickets for everyone to fly up and visit Grandma after Thanksgiving. We’re still going. We just have no idea where we’re going to now. Grandma's on the move again.