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Description

Sometimes, hearing a song inspires us to create something because of what it reminds us of or makes us feel. This song is one such case.

There was a place called Paradise.

A small town of 25,000 people nestled in the craggy mountain foothills overlooking California’s Sacramento Valley.

My father had a friend who he also worked with. He had a son who was my age. I have the faintest memories of playing games like hide and seek with him back in 1989 or so. In 1990, my brother was born, and my friend gained a new sister as well. Around that time, my father’s friend and his wife bought an old motel from the 1960s. It was in this little town over four hours north of us by car. It was a beautiful place, nestled deep within the tall pine trees and the fresh mountain foothill air. They moved from their house in the Bay Area when they bought this motel and settled into the house attached to it, so they could live at the motel and manage it more easily. I would argue the very best memories of my childhood all revolved around the times my family would make the drive north to Paradise so we could stay at the Lantern Motel and all hang out. Throughout the early ‘90s, we’d make a journey once or twice a year to visit them. I got so excited every time my parents said we’d go up there to visit. We’d play together, go on quests, chow down on pizza, play video games, and do whatever kids that age did. I didn’t have too many friends growing up, even at such a young age. Maybe that’s why these memories were always so special to me. But there was something more, too. I don’t know what. I treasured these memories so much, I’d be reminded of them constantly even without any relevant triggers. Ask me about life in the early ‘90s, and I’d think of this place first.

They moved into a new house in 1995 on the other side of town. We still visited them occasionally in their new house, but I didn’t quite get those warm and fuzzy feelings of nostalgia and happiness that their old house and that motel brought me. Even though they still owned the motel and just let a manager live there to tend to the customers, I wouldn’t see it again until right before they sold it in 2006 and moved to Norway. It was a depressing time. I knew it would be my last time inside the motel house where so many great times were had. I could have driven from San Jose to Paradise to stay in one of the motel rooms for a night or two for old time’s sake, but it was four and a half hours away and it wouldn’t be the same. So, I never did return to Paradise.

It was now 2018. I haven’t seen my two friends in twelve years, even though we occasionally but rarely chat on Facebook to this day. Their father, my dad’s friend, passed away three years earlier. I was never too close to him, but it was a devastating loss for me. Those memories and everything associated with them were some of my most valued keepsakes.

In July, I moved with my wonderful wife two and a half hours north to Sacramento to escape the skyrocketing cost of living in my native San Jose. In the middle of October, I decided I wanted to see the motel again. I knew it was still there; the website was up and running and reservations were available to make online. I now lived only an hour and 45 minutes away and wanted to do something special with my wife. She had heard stories about how much that place meant to me. We drove around Paradise for a bit, stopping to take a walk down the main road, Skyway, and browse some stores as I rambled on about my love for this town. We finally pull up to the motel, and it was a rush of bittersweet feelings for me. I hadn’t seen it in twelve years. It looked pretty much exactly the same as it always did. Not much changes in towns like Paradise.

The motel was older now, and it looked like it. It was renamed the "Lantern Inn", probably to distance itself from the nasty reputations that "motels" have in America. I had read reviews on Yelp from people saying it wasn’t a good place to stay and how it was so much nicer when my dad’s friend and his wife owned the place. The bed wasn’t the most comfortable, there were a couple stains in the floor, and the old paint was peeling. But it was decent and the beautiful scenery made up for it. It felt like home in a way. The couple that was now running the motel did their best to care for it and talked about how they were spending lots of money to make it look nice again. They were such nice people. We stayed there for just one night, spent some time taking lots of photos, and lounging by the pool on that warm mid-October evening talking about good times and nostalgia. My wife talked about how nostalgia can hurt. And it did. My friends left the country years ago. Their father passed away. I looked at the pool area in front of my lounge chair, thinking about some random point in time 25 years ago when my family and theirs were splashing around having fun in this very same spot. It was an eerie feeling. Something about being there felt so empty. But I was also happy. I got to re-live so many memories after so long. I got to see that despite everything else, not so much had changed. It gave me comfort, and made me feel less…old. It meant the world to me this motel was still here, especially after so many other places that meant a lot to me have all been torn down or taken away somehow. Still, no place from my past meant to me what this place did. My wife and I watched the second half of Titanic on the TV before going to sleep. As we left the next morning, I took one last look at the motel, hoping I’d see it again but still with a haunting suspicion that the motel would close or be torn down before I got to see it again.

Just three weeks later, just before going to bed on November 8, I was browsing the news on my phone when I remember the feeling of my heart stopping. The Camp Fire – the largest and deadliest wildfire in California’s history, and the deadliest in America in a hundred years – destroyed most of Paradise. It made news around the world. This was the last place I expected something like this to happen. The fire was so large and spread so quickly, thick smoke covered Sacramento and the Bay Area, hundreds of miles away, for weeks. The skies were orange and the sun was pink. The smoke was so thick, you could look at the sun with your bare eyes. Most schools and some businesses were closed because of how toxic the air was. The fire wasn’t extinguished until an entire month later. 86 people died in Paradise, Magalia, and Concow. Most of the survivors had nothing to come back to, so they never did. The videos and photos showed utter devastation and armageddon. Almost 19,000 buildings were completely decimated; more than the next seven deadliest wildfires in California history combined. I scoured YouTube for videos of the wrecked town and checked reports from the fire department on surviving buildings for days as the fire raged. I felt relief when I learned most of the buildings immediately around the motel survived. Two weeks later, one of my friends in Norway sent me a photo of the Lantern Motel that her parents ran that was taken a day after the last of the fire was extinguished. It was sent to her by an old friend of hers who still lived in Paradise. There was nothing left but burned rubble and the charred remains of the washing machine where the bed sheets from the motel rooms would be washed. I cried on and off for over a week.

There was a place called Paradise.

Description

Sometimes, hearing a song inspires us to create something because of what it reminds us of or makes us feel. This song is one such case.

There was a place called Paradise.

A small town of 25,000 people nestled in the craggy mountain foothills overlooking California’s Sacramento Valley.

My father had a friend who he also worked with. He had a son who was my age. I have the faintest memories of playing games like hide and seek with him back in 1989 or so. In 1990, my brother was born, and my friend gained a new sister as well. Around that time, my father’s friend and his wife bought an old motel from the 1960s. It was in this little town over four hours north of us by car. It was a beautiful place, nestled deep within the tall pine trees and the fresh mountain foothill air. They moved from their house in the Bay Area when they bought this motel and settled into the house attached to it, so they could live at the motel and manage it more easily. I would argue the very best memories of my childhood all revolved around the times my family would make the drive north to Paradise so we could stay at the Lantern Motel and all hang out. Throughout the early ‘90s, we’d make a journey once or twice a year to visit them. I got so excited every time my parents said we’d go up there to visit. We’d play together, go on quests, chow down on pizza, play video games, and do whatever kids that age did. I didn’t have too many friends growing up, even at such a young age. Maybe that’s why these memories were always so special to me. But there was something more, too. I don’t know what. I treasured these memories so much, I’d be reminded of them constantly even without any relevant triggers. Ask me about life in the early ‘90s, and I’d think of this place first.

They moved into a new house in 1995 on the other side of town. We still visited them occasionally in their new house, but I didn’t quite get those warm and fuzzy feelings of nostalgia and happiness that their old house and that motel brought me. Even though they still owned the motel and just let a manager live there to tend to the customers, I wouldn’t see it again until right before they sold it in 2006 and moved to Norway. It was a depressing time. I knew it would be my last time inside the motel house where so many great times were had. I could have driven from San Jose to Paradise to stay in one of the motel rooms for a night or two for old time’s sake, but it was four and a half hours away and it wouldn’t be the same. So, I never did return to Paradise.

It was now 2018. I haven’t seen my two friends in twelve years, even though we occasionally but rarely chat on Facebook to this day. Their father, my dad’s friend, passed away three years earlier. I was never too close to him, but it was a devastating loss for me. Those memories and everything associated with them were some of my most valued keepsakes.

In July, I moved with my wonderful wife two and a half hours north to Sacramento to escape the skyrocketing cost of living in my native San Jose. In the middle of October, I decided I wanted to see the motel again. I knew it was still there; the website was up and running and reservations were available to make online. I now lived only an hour and 45 minutes away and wanted to do something special with my wife. She had heard stories about how much that place meant to me. We drove around Paradise for a bit, stopping to take a walk down the main road, Skyway, and browse some stores as I rambled on about my love for this town. We finally pull up to the motel, and it was a rush of bittersweet feelings for me. I hadn’t seen it in twelve years. It looked pretty much exactly the same as it always did. Not much changes in towns like Paradise.

The motel was older now, and it looked like it. It was renamed the "Lantern Inn", probably to distance itself from the nasty reputations that "motels" have in America. I had read reviews on Yelp from people saying it wasn’t a good place to stay and how it was so much nicer when my dad’s friend and his wife owned the place. The bed wasn’t the most comfortable, there were a couple stains in the floor, and the old paint was peeling. But it was decent and the beautiful scenery made up for it. It felt like home in a way. The couple that was now running the motel did their best to care for it and talked about how they were spending lots of money to make it look nice again. They were such nice people. We stayed there for just one night, spent some time taking lots of photos, and lounging by the pool on that warm mid-October evening talking about good times and nostalgia. My wife talked about how nostalgia can hurt. And it did. My friends left the country years ago. Their father passed away. I looked at the pool area in front of my lounge chair, thinking about some random point in time 25 years ago when my family and theirs were splashing around having fun in this very same spot. It was an eerie feeling. Something about being there felt so empty. But I was also happy. I got to re-live so many memories after so long. I got to see that despite everything else, not so much had changed. It gave me comfort, and made me feel less…old. It meant the world to me this motel was still here, especially after so many other places that meant a lot to me have all been torn down or taken away somehow. Still, no place from my past meant to me what this place did. My wife and I watched the second half of Titanic on the TV before going to sleep. As we left the next morning, I took one last look at the motel, hoping I’d see it again but still with a haunting suspicion that the motel would close or be torn down before I got to see it again.

Just three weeks later, just before going to bed on November 8, I was browsing the news on my phone when I remember the feeling of my heart stopping. The Camp Fire – the largest and deadliest wildfire in California’s history, and the deadliest in America in a hundred years – destroyed most of Paradise. It made news around the world. This was the last place I expected something like this to happen. The fire was so large and spread so quickly, thick smoke covered Sacramento and the Bay Area, hundreds of miles away, for weeks. The skies were orange and the sun was pink. The smoke was so thick, you could look at the sun with your bare eyes. Most schools and some businesses were closed because of how toxic the air was. The fire wasn’t extinguished until an entire month later. 86 people died in Paradise, Magalia, and Concow. Most of the survivors had nothing to come back to, so they never did. The videos and photos showed utter devastation and armageddon. Almost 19,000 buildings were completely decimated; more than the next seven deadliest wildfires in California history combined. I scoured YouTube for videos of the wrecked town and checked reports from the fire department on surviving buildings for days as the fire raged. I felt relief when I learned most of the buildings immediately around the motel survived. Two weeks later, one of my friends in Norway sent me a photo of the Lantern Motel that her parents ran that was taken a day after the last of the fire was extinguished. It was sent to her by an old friend of hers who still lived in Paradise. There was nothing left but burned rubble and the charred remains of the washing machine where the bed sheets from the motel rooms would be washed. I cried on and off for over a week.

There was a place called Paradise.