Paradise Not: An Absurdist’s Perspective on Life

Story Number 1: Woes & Gifts Number 1

(Written 11/4/21---Four days short of the 3rd anniversary of the Paradise Camp Fire)

Paradise. For a vast majority of people that word conjures up an eternal life in heaven, maybe with some singing angels and harp playing and probably lots of fluffy clouds. Or perhaps reuniting with deceased loved ones.

It could also have you thinking of a much-needed vacation in a tropical locale, with fruity aperitifs and hot stone massages. “Aaahhhhh, paradise,” you say, as the warm breeze caresses your face and the sound of gentle waves breaking on the white sandy shore lulls you. Perhaps even if you are not actually in this paradise vacation, just thinking of it relaxes you and makes you feel calm.

Camp fire. Another robust image producer with thoughts of s’mores, roasted weenies, flannel, the “great” outdoors, the smoky aroma of the warm, crackling fire, as you sit with loved ones and tell funny family stories of times past or maybe sing kumbaya.

Well, not so much for me, these words. When the Paradise Camp Fire burnt my town, Paradise, California, it took with it my home, incinerated 99.9% of my possessions, leaving me homeless and displaced—those words hold a completely different meaning for me.

These words, paradise and camp fire, evocateurs of goodness for some or at least benign for others, are cruel, gut-punching, adrenaline-bomb dumping, triggering turds of words for me. Spoken, written, it matters neither their form. Their always sudden, unwelcome appearance is jarring for me and whatever I am doing, be it reading, watching TV, shopping, or overhearing a conversation, their appearance brings the ever-present, but mostly silent Specter to full life. That Specter looks a lot like the classic grim reaper, with the flowy, gauzy robes and the cowl, but he smells of wildfire smoke and death, has embers for eyes and carries a burned branch, tipped with scorched leaves at the tip, for a staff. He sounds like and is as startling as the roar of a jet engine, as this is how wind-driven, powerful wildfires sound. His footwear? Well, the Red Wing boots I wore when I used to fight wildfires, of course. Black leather, permanently laced with an easy-access zipper and those awesome lug soles (I felt even more empowered than my usual self when I wore them on duty—I am woman firefighter, hear me roar!).

ffffffffffff — **What my boots looked liked, minus the easy access zippers. I wish they still existed.**

Upon closer inspection I see that he is also wearing my red suspenders that I used to hold up my turn-out bottoms (however, he added a “I 💗 PG&E!” button to them; PG&E caused the fire, if you didn’t know that).

He took these things in the fire; they were stored in my bedroom closet as evidence of the awesome thing that I did, being a firefighter. Just helped himself to my things, all my things, he’s a real motherfucker, this one.

So, the word pops up, or more likely explodes up as that is the effect it has on me……, like walking down a dark alley in the scummiest part of town in the middle of the night……. and out jumps …….. PARADISE!! And then the Specter appears and punches me in the stomach, my adrenaline dumps, my heart race; the desire for tears may be present.

“Ha!” the Specter says gleefully, and he pokes me with his charred, sharp finger. Poke, poke. “Do you like my suspenders?” he says with excitement pulling them away from his thin chest with his thumb and letting them snap back, their redness flashing, soot puffing away from him. “Check out my boots. Cool, huh?” he says with smarmy pride. “Boo!” he pokes me again, and cackles. This guy is one annoying fuck.

I love PBS. I watch it for intelligent, thoughtful TV shows. Scroll, scroll with the remote. Let’s see, something nature-driven, or perhaps a good British mystery, scroll, scroll ….., bam!!! “Death in Paradise!!” Gets me every time!! I have no idea what this fucking show is about and I don’t care. Wow, I get both death AND paradise. Really? I do not need this.

Poke, poke goes the Specter, and he plops down next to me on the couch, very much uninvited, munching on a charred bag of chips. “What are we watching? Death in Paradise?!!!!! That’s a good one, huh? Death in Paradise. Giggle. Yep. There was lots of that. Deaaaath” he says, drawing out the word, “Deaaaaatttthhhhh …… in Paradise!” he brags with glee in his voice. Snap, snap go the suspenders, formerly my suspenders.

“Fuck off,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest, tears threatening because I don’t want him to see me cry.

“Okay.” Poke, poke. “See ya later!” He is gone. For now. I smell smoke….and burnt tortilla chips.

Shopping at Home Depot (I love going there), in the garden department (I really love going there). I am in Sacramento, where I relocated after the fire, and am buying plants and colorful ceramic pots for the memorial garden I am putting in. And there they are. Several large boxes, displayed on an endcap in the main thoroughfare ……tiki torches. If they had been in a generic box that simply said “tiki torches” that would have been bad enough. Fire. Ugh. But no, what these particular boxes have vividly displayed in yellow, orange and blue are the silhouettes of people in a backyard garden party, chatting, having a grand old, carefree, relaxing time. “Tiki,” in large orange letters with the first “i” being dotted with a large flame, and below the word “Tiki” it says, and I shit you not, “Paradise In Your Own Backyard.” In the foreground are three people sitting in chairs around a campfire.

I am stunned. Pound, pound goes my heart. Dump, dump goes the adrenaline into my stomach, pulsing out and jangling my nerves from there. And these heartless assholes are selling their product nine months after and 92 miles south of the Paradise Camp Fire!!!??? Really??!!

Poke, poke. A bellowing guffaw, followed by a huge slap on the back. The Specter is back, laughing so hard smoke is billowing out of his nose and mouth. Tears stream down his face and then they turn to steam. “Wow!” he says, “You cannot make this shit up!!!” laughing so hard he is rocking back on the lug soles of his, my, Red Wing fire boots. “Whew!” Another slap and a poke, and he is gone. For the moment.

Paradise and camp fire. They are every day, fairly common words. For most they mean good, really good things. But for me to have those “good” words singularly mean my own little holocaust, total loss, the death and destruction of my beloved wildlife and my beloved trees, displacement, the disruption of my world, my life, and my mental health, well, that profoundly sucks. And it is made worse by the fact the Paradise Camp Fire, singularly good words, but an evil event, took everything from me—and it seems like a mockery. It really is irony at its best.

“Yea, let’s go to Paradise and have a camp fire! Bring your marshmallows. Wee, sound like fun!” No. No it is not. It is tears and misery and everything burned up and gone, forever. Paradise is not. Camp fires are not fun.

Those words come at me through conversations, the printed word, the radio, the television, billboards….. they will be around me throughout the rest of my life, I cannot get away from them, and they are jarring, triggering and misery-provoking.

If the “Paradise” “Camp Fire” taking everything from me is not ironic and absurd, then I don’t know what is.

So what does one do with this? I have believed for many years that God (aka The Universe) speaks to me through irony and absurdity. In general, my life is full of ironic and absurd things and events, so I had a decision to make, about these recent things and about my perception of them. Some, if handed my life, might feel that life has cursed them. I have learned and chosen, with the aid of my deep sense of humor, to not shake my fist at The Universe and weep, “Why? Why me?” But instead, I look at what life has brought me, usually say “Really?” with a sarcastic tone, and then I trudge onwards, with determination.

I am not saying I don’t have PTSD, have not been depressed, have not been stressed, have not cried, have not felt lost. All of those things are true at a very deep level. But also true is my resilience and well, my sense of irony and absurdity.

When I was shopping at Home Depot and walked by those damn tiki torches, I was triggered. I was taken out of my moment of just doing some pleasurable, restorative shopping, buying the supplies for my memorial garden, of all things. I did get the adrenaline dump and I walked quickly (nearly ran) by the display feeling horrified. But then I stopped, took a deep breath and went back, read the box, thought, “Well, isn’t that ironic? Completely fucked up, given the time and place, but still ironic. And very absurd, because of the time and place.” I chuckled, not caring if I looked weird standing in front of those stupid torches, laughing, because it was a better option than going fetal in the middle of the aisle at Home Depot and sobbing. Then I took a picture for posterity, and went on about shopping for my memorial garden (though skill feeling shaky).

**The Memorial Garden—broken, burnt pottery, my grandma’s china, burnt branches, burnt rocks**

So where do I go with all this trauma caused by being attacked by this situation and these words—Paradise Camp Fire?

Four days after the fire, while living displaced in a hotel, I went to Starbucks in my pajamas because my partner’s snoring had pushed me out to my car and then I wanted to get coffee and I didn’t want to go back into the room and put clothes on and, ironically, disturb him. And really, who gives a fuck? I was not naked and I just wanted coffee, so what if I was not clothed in the traditional, “acceptable” sense? I was completely undisturbed by doing this, because the fire had bestowed upon me the gift of “Living in the Land of I Don’t Give a Fuck.” Now this might sound negative, but it is not. And I care deeply about things (probably too deeply.) Living in this new land is freeing, with a heavy dose of lightness and spontaneity, the shackles of possibly caring what others might think melted off, the cloak of the heaviness of my own life burned away.

Before The Fire, BTF (a legitimate way to divide the concept of time, like BCE or AD), I thought I might, maybe, after retirement, see what it is like to have really, take clippers to it, short hair. But now living in the Land of I Don’t Give a Fuck, nine days After The Fire, ATF, it was getting shaved off and no thought whatsoever of drawing attention to myself (though I instantly regretted not doing it sooner—it’s cute and much easier to take care of).

**Why wait to until retirement? Who gives a fuck!? Shave it off!!!**

One Week ATF, while shopping for, well, some piece of everything, because except for what I stuffed in my car, I had nothing, I saw playing cards while at CVS, and I love to play cards! Several options were available, but to my absurd delight Bicycle brand decided to have an element series and they chose to start the series with, what else, but fire! Ironic. I got two packs. I thought I saw the Specter down the toilet paper aisle and he acted like he didn’t know I was there and was trying to be nonchalant when I tapped him on the shoulder to invite him over to play cards later. I noticed he was wearing cheap flip-flops and a ratty old, stained Peanuts T-shirt and ‘80s basketball short, shorts. See, I was not triggered by the Bicycle Fire Cards like he thought I would be and without my grief, pounding heart, tears, or adrenaline coursing through my veins, The Specter becomes deflated and pissy. He mumbled “Maybe” as a reply to my invitation to play cards and slouched off to the adult diaper aisle. Putz.

Immediately after I got my hair shaved short I went into the White Barn Candle store to see if I could find replacement candles, for what I lost in the fire. (To this day, three years later, I am still buying “replacement” things. “Replacement” I have come to learn is part of my ATF terminology. You don’t know, really, how many things you own or need for daily life until they are all taken away from you and you have to replace them.) My favorite candle scent was, and is, “Fireside.” Ironic. Yes, they had it. I bought two replacements and was super happy to discover “Cozy Fireside” scented soap that I had never used before (candles, soap and socks are some of my weaknesses). I caught a glimpse of the Specter at White Barn/Bath and Body Works and he knocked over a display of kiwi scented soaps in his dash to avoid me since my happiness at finding the Fireside products was a complete buzzkill for him.

**Fireside candle—lost two in the fire.**
**Got my replacements!**

**Cozy Fireside soap—A new ATF find!!!**

I also bought a small pink tin button with a picture of a grim reaper riding a unicorn under a rainbow as I felt it was appropriate for the recent event in my life. I put it on a replacement cap to wear on my shaved short who give a fuck hair because having shaved hair, especially in November is chilly! The Specter thought the button badge was inappropriate and a mockery to his vocation and I said, “Welcome to my world, shit head.” The guy has no sense of humor if he is not getting what he wants out of the interaction. What a turd.

**The Specter did not appreciate this—what a turd!**

I have already said this, but to give it its proper due, I was a firefighter, for two 8-month seasons for California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection, now called CalFire. I fought both structure and wildland fires. I lost my home (a structure) in a wildland fire, fought largely by CalFire. Ironic. (But this is also what possibly saved my life. When I saw the huge, menacing smoke plume and then heard the roar of the fire in the distance, I knew because of my training and experience as a firefighter, it was time to evacuate ASAP and I was among the earliest to get off The Ridge, as we called it. My heart breaks for those who saw what I saw but chose to “wait it out.”)

The first anniversary of The Fire was approaching and so was Halloween, with only nine days between them. What costume do I decide to wear at work? Well, the Camp Fire, of course! I purchased a T-Shirt, black with a huge yellow, orange and red flame on it. I made earrings out of large, fresh marshmallows and red beads. I wore a s’mores ornament as a necklace. I carried three toasted marshmallows on a metal skewer, and I carried around a bowl of s’mores taffy to give to my coworkers—because when life gives you the Camp Fire, well, you make s’mores, of course!! Add replacement blue jeans and replacement hiking boots to the ensemble for a more woodsy look and viola, my coworkers are stunned but also amazed and laugh with me after their initial shock.

Totally absurd!! Was I still shocky and sadden by the events that occurred almost a year prior to that? Yes. But this is how I chose to deal with them, joyfully wearing my costume and reveling in the irony and absurdity.

**When life gives you the Camp Fire—make s’mores!!!!!!!**
**My Halloween costume—“The Camp Fire”**
**Halloween 2019, 9 days before the first anniversary of the fire**
**(My Phoenix bowl—The Universe saved it for me for ATF)**

I have to mention the bowl that I carried the taffy in. BTF I had seen it at a local antique shop, but I did not need another bowl, even though I really liked it because it had a cool looking bird on it. ATF I was replacement shopping and the bowl was still at the antique store. I was so happy and did not expect to see it because it had been along time since I first saw it. As I was taking it up to the counter I gave it a closer inspection and what was the cool bird? A phoenix, of course! Ironic! Really, you cannot make this shit up!

I love history. I used to teach high school history. I am a forever student of history. I am fascinated by history. I, in part, owe my life in darker times twenty five years ago (yes darker times than these, in terms of suicidality, not so much the circumstances) to reading peoples’ stories from history and realizing that life can be profoundly hard, and often is, for many people [See the Heroes section of this website]. What life throws in your path is not punishment, nor a curse, and it is not only you that suffers death, illness, broken relationships, hard times, and tragedy. Do not ask “why me?” Ask “why not me,” and acknowledge that you are part of this hard experience called life and join the strong, resolute, resilient survivors who have been through unimaginable things and go on to live their lives. I love history and now I have become part of history: the Paradise Camp Fire is the deadliest (85 people died) and most destructive (over 18,000 structures, two of those being mine) fire in California history AND the most expensive natural disaster in the world in terms of insurances losses AND I am part of the Great Climate Migration (modern-day Joad, packing my Prius with my three cats and minimal items and now living in a travel trailer). Ironic. Fuck my life. No, I am laughing. Just fuck my life. Nope, practicing my gratitude and counting my blessings. It’s a process, Fabulous Readers, it’s a process for sure.

As I sit here now, almost three years to the day of the Paradise Camp Fire, with my ironic “Bonfire Season” candle burning (the scent is good, but it has regular wick and I find I now prefer the kind that crackle when burning. I know, ironic). My PTSD from the Fire is the Specter. Will he always be with me? On some level, I think so. I don’t think something as profound and life-altering as the effect of the Paradise Camp Fire can ever completely go away. Not only did I lose everything (52 years of things from my life including all of my childhood things and all my photos) but it altered the course of my life. I now live in another state. Does the Specter have control over me sometimes? Yes. Besides the words “paradise” and “camp fire,” fire engines can trigger me and God, could I never again see a picture in a newsfeed or on a show of a house or wildland fire! Things fire-looking always trigger me at first glance: nope, just the sunset, nope just fall leaves wiggling in front of a porch light. My emotional brain always first goes to the bad place and then my intellectual mind will tell it otherwise. My mind wants to catastrophize things by having unwelcome thoughts about other disasters that might come my way. And again, God, could I please just leave my house without having the intrusive thought that my house is going to burst into flames and my beloved cats will burn up? Please. Despite all the replacement shopping I have done my brain still gets confused about what I own. Do I own that? Am I thinking of something I owed BTF? I hate when I get a new outfit and I think of the great pair of earrings I made that would go with it, only to have the Specter punch me in the stomach and say, “Ha, ha, lost that in the fire!” I hate when I go into stores, usually antique stores and see something that I used to own, BTF. The Specter is never far behind me, poking me in the back, whispering in my ear, “Remember when you used to own that and you liked it? I burned it up. I took it from you. Oh, are you gonna cry now? How sad.” He is such an asshole.

But because I am me and I am armed with my resilience and acceptance, and yes, even love, for irony and absurdity, I can get out of bed and still take enjoyment in the little things in life. I think my sense of irony is my shield and that I embrace absurdity and wear it as my chainmail, sometimes with giddy glee, that is why I can beat back the Specter and even beat him at his own game. This is what I do when presented with the tough things in life, not scared and beat down, but my head held high, with gratitude for the things that I do have, that could never be burned, no matter how hot or fierce the fire—me and my inner resolve.

For Hanukah I will invite the Specter to come and play cards, eat s’mores and sit by my lit, crackling Fireside candle. I will even surprise him with Cozy Fireside scented soap as a gift. I don’t think he will come.

WARNING: Evacuation and post-fire pictures below!

Paradise Not: An Absurdist’s Perspective on Life

Jawsing Around the Aisle of Bakery

Combies: Shopping with PTSD