There will be no normal holiday, no normal days for Paradise evacuees

Thanks to all who help them and remember them as time passes since the Camp Fire

The streets were wet Wednesday morning in Yuba City. There was a little sprinkle early on.

Going out to get the paper, took a second to look around. The air didn’t smell like smoke now and that’s a relief. Skies were gray and there was a little breeze and it felt like there would be more rain in a bit. There were Canada geese flying over. The young dog nosed open the door to see if he was needed.

Waved at the Recology driver coming down the street and went back into the house.

In the kitchen, making coffee, looked out the window and saw the hummingbirds at the feeder.

That’s how the day before Thanksgiving starts out when you don’t have much to worry about and there’s a normal day ahead and you’re thinking about how to get all your work done so you can get back home and start getting ready for the big day.

But you can’t help thinking about the Camp Fire.

Looking off towards Paradise, trying to imagine what it would be like – past the fire and the initial tragedy and the fear while you were getting out and realizing not everyone did. Trying to imagine the long haul thousands of people are in for after it’s finally all over. Imagine what it’s like for people who had homes that are no more. Those people. They’d be wrangling the turkey from fridge to counter, checking that it had thawed, fixing it up however they’ve been doing it for years now. They’d have pies baked and waiting. They’d be thinking about how to time all the other stuff for the stove and trying to remember who was bringing what.

They would have turned around at some point as their sons and daughters or grandkids came up the walk and through the front door and yelled “hello” and everyone would have hugged and kissed.

There would have been people in Paradise planning to kick back and watch some movies or some games. Or some who were going to take a hike and then eat that big dinner. They were going to have seconds. Maybe thirds. Then have pie, maybe a sliver of each kind. Some kid at the table would have had a little pumpkin pie to go with his whipped cream.

They were going to play Monopoly with their siblings and cousins and get into arguments that weren’t really arguments at all, but just routines. They would remember embarrassing things about each other, and proud moments, too. They’d be taking selfies and someone would try figuring out how to take a picture with the delayed timer so everybody could be in the picture.

Later in the night, after everyone went back to their own homes, there’d be some reflection. Some smiling about how some of them are doing, a little bit of worry about this one or that one, a look at the photos taken. There’d be leftovers. And now... They’re sitting in tents or resting on cots in an evacuee center. Waiting for time to pass. Bored. Restless. Worried constantly. At best they’re staying with relatives or friends or they’re able to afford a hotel room. They’re having dinner provided by someone who cares and they’re trying to be brave, but they’re trying to imagine what’s a day away, what’s a week away, what’s a year from now...

Thanks that they survived; thanks that they’re cared for; thanks for everyone who keeps on remembering them even months and years from now when there is still much to be done and the immediacy has long worn away.

Thanks for helping in whatever way you can.

Our View editorials represent the opinion of the Appeal-democrat and its editorial board and are edited by the publisher and/or editor. Members of the editorial board include: Publisher Glenn Stifflemire and Editor Steve Miller.