Welcome To Paradise
A Grossly Misleading Photo Essay
I told a story a while back about going to look at Christmas lights in my home town of Paradise. Looking back on that, I realize just how hard it is to give the proper impression of Paradise. This is a place where the picturesque meets the painfully dull. There is no "scene" in Paradise. There are no fashionable downtown districts. People move up here because they are old and want peace and quiet. The night life is for post-adolescent yahoos with firm buttocks. The town, like most of its denizens, rests comfortably at night with its history. Paradise was a gold rush town, proud of it, and is content to exist with relative disregard for the passing of time.
A visitor would most likely gain some sort of diluted impression of Paradise. He'd probably come trundling up Skyway, looking at the boring businesses and assume that to be that. There is slightly more to Paradise, however, but that knowledge only comes from a local. Being just that, I will try to provide you with just enough background to understand why the following pictures are significant.
Lookout Point
The valley stretches out just beyond this little canyon. The town of Chico is barely visible in the distance. Chico is where young Paradisians go to be young, as Paradise closes at 7pm. Standing here, you can watch the sun set. It gets spectacular sometimes.
Lookout Point is the designated suicide spot for all manner of emotionally unbalanced souls. Teenaged girls, old men, drunks-they all feel some need to ape Thelma and Louise here, where the road curves away mere feet from the cliff. On average, two or three cars go off the cliff every year. The survival rates are appalling-about half of these death-bent motorists survive the plunge and have to be airlifted out. There are so many crumpled wrecks at the base of the cliff that rescue workers have taken to spray painting the older hulks so that they can distinguish. In addition to being the top suicide spot, Lookout Point is also a key mating grounds, sort of the knot that binds both ends of the circle of life.
This memorial is two years old now, dedicated to some thirtysomething who succeeded in killing himself.
Nate: If I took something, do you think God would smite me?
Me: Yes, I think He would.
Nate: Is that a bad thing?
Welcome to Paradise
The Sign
"May you find Paradise to be all its name implies." There are rumors that, prior to the 1960s, the sign read, "a nice white community." What force effected the alleged change is never mentioned. Since today there are perhaps five Latino families, one or two black families, and no Asian-American families among a population of 26,000, I wonder who could have been around to light a fire under the thick jowls of the reactionaries of that earlier era. Of the organization signs, the most interesting is perhaps the bright red one, which depicts a silhouetted prospector struggling with a dark donkey. These are the Clampers, a bunch of gleefully drunken buffoons who like to wear red flannel shirts and pretend that they have been panning for gold all day long. The Clampers have a strong post in Paradise. That "basketball hoop" you see at the very top of the sign is meant to be a halo, but really is only a giant saw blade, spraypainted gold.
Neal Road
Theater On The Ridge: sole bastion of the dramatic arts in Paradise. Now featuring air conditioning. This week's production? "Our Town." In a previous season they put on the last dying gasp of Vaudeville, the "Country Nun Jamboree." In the car is my trusty wheel man, Nathan.
A Brief History Lesson
Polishing up the float Paradise derives a good portion of its identity (and meager tourist revenue)from its place in gold rush history. In 1849 Paradise was the site of the discovery of the largest gold nugget discovered in California. The Dogtown Nugget* weighed 54 pounds. The consequences of this discovery would have drastic effects on socially-minded girls a century later-the competition is stiff for the title of Miss Gold Nugget. High school juniors spend months on end furiously sewing elaborate dresses and preparing speeches in the hopes of riding upon this hallowed platform in the town's annual "Gold Nugget Days" parade. Compare this to the reward of the the runners up: riding in 1965 Ford Mustang convertibles. The grizzled fellow on the right was a little perplexed to see a couple of kids pull across two lanes of traffic to snap a quick shot of the vacant float.
*The small settlement above Paradise was called "Dogtown" because there were so many God damned dogs. It later became "Magalia" when the women gathered together and complained about the brutish name
Nuggetville
This is the Gold Nugget Museum, a one-story building full of rusty mining equipment and rotten wagons. It is located right next to the Paradise Intermediate School, and frequently the school makes use of these facilities for convenient field trips. The unfortunately-named "Nuggetville" is the outdoor portion of the museum, an attempt to recreate the feel of a gold rush town. On this day the place was packed with children and people in period dress. The sign on the gate reads "No Parking In Driveway." The owner of the Blazer may be illiterate.
Christmas Light Story
The Pagoda
Evidently the Pagoda is now historic. If any of you read "It's Christmas Time In Paradise," you will recall that this local landmark was closed at dinner time on a Sunday. Perhaps they had sacred rites to perform. Or tamales to make.
Here, nestled among the pines, is Jenny's House. Picture that yard slick with mud and crammed full of nativity scenes. Evidently she has almost finished taking down her Christmas decorations by the end of March. The sign on the house reads: "Giants Parking Only."
Speaking of Eccentrics...
Having nothing to do with nothing, these metal sculptures are all done by the woman who lives on the other side of the road. I came across them quite by accident one summer day, while riding my bicycle. "Shining Time Station" can kiss my ass.
It's Hopalong Cassidy, God, and a Dinosaur. Creationism rules!
The coolie is not actually a Christian dupe. He's holding a lantern. The crucified Jesus is full size, and somewhere in the background.
Sloping Tree weeps for Ishi, who was treated somewhat shabbily by the media. He and the acorn grinding holes left in some of the rocks in Bille Park are the last reminder that there were Indians here once.
Old Magalia
The Old Magalia Inn
The Old Magalia Church
The Old Railway Depot
Old Magalia is just up the hill from Paradise, and looks out over Sawmill Peak. Before the railroad got ripped out, the road through Old Magalia was the only way to get north of Paradise. There are four things in Old Magalia: The inn, the old church, the old railroad depot, and Ridgeview High School. "Ridgeview" is synonymous with both "short bus" and "delinquent" in Paradise. For most teenagers it remains a myth, recounted by parents and teachers to scare them straight. It only solidifies for those who get caught with pot, fireworks, weapons, or exposed wangs. Ridgeview is a place that is better left unphotographed
To The North
The lake in the distance is the Magalia reservoir, the water source for the town. It's cool, serene, and utterly off-limits. Water shortages in the valley are not relevant to us. We are an isolated community.
Back The Way We Came
The AM-PM
We're leaving Paradise now, turning on to Elliot Road and going back towards the Skyway. If you were to stay on Clark Road you would wind up in Oroville. Nobody wants that. Oroville is a savage town of white trash burnouts, meth labs, angry hobos, and violent cops. This is the AM-PM, for those of you who are not familiar with the chain. This is the sole hangout for the cool kids when it gets dark, because it's the only place that remains open. When the sun goes down, the shabby, bondoed rice rocketeers come puttering out to compare weed whackers.
Here we are. One more left turn and you're on the road to Chico and more civilized parts. But before you go, remember that nearly half the population of Paradise is over the age of 55, predominantly veteran, and staunchly Republican. Remember that this is a town which lines the main drag with American Flags every Veteran's day. But also remember that the dot-com boom passed this town by. Unemployment is high, and commerce is flagging. America may be open for business, but not in Paradise. Our proud residents will just have to keep on rolling, apostrophe impaired, until somebody buys that advertising space.
A visitor would most likely gain some sort of diluted impression of Paradise. He'd probably come trundling up Skyway, looking at the boring businesses and assume that to be that. There is slightly more to Paradise, however, but that knowledge only comes from a local. Being just that, I will try to provide you with just enough background to understand why the following pictures are significant.
Lookout Point
The valley stretches out just beyond this little canyon. The town of Chico is barely visible in the distance. Chico is where young Paradisians go to be young, as Paradise closes at 7pm. Standing here, you can watch the sun set. It gets spectacular sometimes.
Lookout Point is the designated suicide spot for all manner of emotionally unbalanced souls. Teenaged girls, old men, drunks-they all feel some need to ape Thelma and Louise here, where the road curves away mere feet from the cliff. On average, two or three cars go off the cliff every year. The survival rates are appalling-about half of these death-bent motorists survive the plunge and have to be airlifted out. There are so many crumpled wrecks at the base of the cliff that rescue workers have taken to spray painting the older hulks so that they can distinguish. In addition to being the top suicide spot, Lookout Point is also a key mating grounds, sort of the knot that binds both ends of the circle of life.
This memorial is two years old now, dedicated to some thirtysomething who succeeded in killing himself.
Nate: If I took something, do you think God would smite me?
Me: Yes, I think He would.
Nate: Is that a bad thing?
Welcome to Paradise
The Sign
"May you find Paradise to be all its name implies." There are rumors that, prior to the 1960s, the sign read, "a nice white community." What force effected the alleged change is never mentioned. Since today there are perhaps five Latino families, one or two black families, and no Asian-American families among a population of 26,000, I wonder who could have been around to light a fire under the thick jowls of the reactionaries of that earlier era. Of the organization signs, the most interesting is perhaps the bright red one, which depicts a silhouetted prospector struggling with a dark donkey. These are the Clampers, a bunch of gleefully drunken buffoons who like to wear red flannel shirts and pretend that they have been panning for gold all day long. The Clampers have a strong post in Paradise. That "basketball hoop" you see at the very top of the sign is meant to be a halo, but really is only a giant saw blade, spraypainted gold.
Neal Road
Theater On The Ridge: sole bastion of the dramatic arts in Paradise. Now featuring air conditioning. This week's production? "Our Town." In a previous season they put on the last dying gasp of Vaudeville, the "Country Nun Jamboree." In the car is my trusty wheel man, Nathan.
A Brief History Lesson
Polishing up the float Paradise derives a good portion of its identity (and meager tourist revenue)from its place in gold rush history. In 1849 Paradise was the site of the discovery of the largest gold nugget discovered in California. The Dogtown Nugget* weighed 54 pounds. The consequences of this discovery would have drastic effects on socially-minded girls a century later-the competition is stiff for the title of Miss Gold Nugget. High school juniors spend months on end furiously sewing elaborate dresses and preparing speeches in the hopes of riding upon this hallowed platform in the town's annual "Gold Nugget Days" parade. Compare this to the reward of the the runners up: riding in 1965 Ford Mustang convertibles. The grizzled fellow on the right was a little perplexed to see a couple of kids pull across two lanes of traffic to snap a quick shot of the vacant float.
*The small settlement above Paradise was called "Dogtown" because there were so many God damned dogs. It later became "Magalia" when the women gathered together and complained about the brutish name
Nuggetville
This is the Gold Nugget Museum, a one-story building full of rusty mining equipment and rotten wagons. It is located right next to the Paradise Intermediate School, and frequently the school makes use of these facilities for convenient field trips. The unfortunately-named "Nuggetville" is the outdoor portion of the museum, an attempt to recreate the feel of a gold rush town. On this day the place was packed with children and people in period dress. The sign on the gate reads "No Parking In Driveway." The owner of the Blazer may be illiterate.
Christmas Light Story
The Pagoda
Evidently the Pagoda is now historic. If any of you read "It's Christmas Time In Paradise," you will recall that this local landmark was closed at dinner time on a Sunday. Perhaps they had sacred rites to perform. Or tamales to make.
Here, nestled among the pines, is Jenny's House. Picture that yard slick with mud and crammed full of nativity scenes. Evidently she has almost finished taking down her Christmas decorations by the end of March. The sign on the house reads: "Giants Parking Only."
Speaking of Eccentrics...
Having nothing to do with nothing, these metal sculptures are all done by the woman who lives on the other side of the road. I came across them quite by accident one summer day, while riding my bicycle. "Shining Time Station" can kiss my ass.
It's Hopalong Cassidy, God, and a Dinosaur. Creationism rules!
The coolie is not actually a Christian dupe. He's holding a lantern. The crucified Jesus is full size, and somewhere in the background.
Sloping Tree weeps for Ishi, who was treated somewhat shabbily by the media. He and the acorn grinding holes left in some of the rocks in Bille Park are the last reminder that there were Indians here once.
Old Magalia
The Old Magalia Inn
The Old Magalia Church
The Old Railway Depot
Old Magalia is just up the hill from Paradise, and looks out over Sawmill Peak. Before the railroad got ripped out, the road through Old Magalia was the only way to get north of Paradise. There are four things in Old Magalia: The inn, the old church, the old railroad depot, and Ridgeview High School. "Ridgeview" is synonymous with both "short bus" and "delinquent" in Paradise. For most teenagers it remains a myth, recounted by parents and teachers to scare them straight. It only solidifies for those who get caught with pot, fireworks, weapons, or exposed wangs. Ridgeview is a place that is better left unphotographed
To The North
The lake in the distance is the Magalia reservoir, the water source for the town. It's cool, serene, and utterly off-limits. Water shortages in the valley are not relevant to us. We are an isolated community.
Back The Way We Came
The AM-PM
We're leaving Paradise now, turning on to Elliot Road and going back towards the Skyway. If you were to stay on Clark Road you would wind up in Oroville. Nobody wants that. Oroville is a savage town of white trash burnouts, meth labs, angry hobos, and violent cops. This is the AM-PM, for those of you who are not familiar with the chain. This is the sole hangout for the cool kids when it gets dark, because it's the only place that remains open. When the sun goes down, the shabby, bondoed rice rocketeers come puttering out to compare weed whackers.
Here we are. One more left turn and you're on the road to Chico and more civilized parts. But before you go, remember that nearly half the population of Paradise is over the age of 55, predominantly veteran, and staunchly Republican. Remember that this is a town which lines the main drag with American Flags every Veteran's day. But also remember that the dot-com boom passed this town by. Unemployment is high, and commerce is flagging. America may be open for business, but not in Paradise. Our proud residents will just have to keep on rolling, apostrophe impaired, until somebody buys that advertising space.