San Francisco Chronicle - (Sunday)
Paradise suffers another cruelty
Remembering a man who was soul of hard-hit town
PARADISE, Butte County — Phil John always joked that he expected to see zombies emerge from the rubble of this town. His house on Acorn Ridge Drive, wrapped in purple wisteria, survived the Camp Fire in November. Not much else did. So Phil did what he had always done. He volunteered — first by helping to tally the thousands of destroyed homes and businesses, and then by moving back to Paradise, anchoring his community as it slowly recovered.
He lived in the fire zone, lonely and missing friends who had moved away, temporarily relocated or died. Born in South San Francisco, Phil came here three decades ago. It was his chosen hometown. He believed in Paradise, even and especially when it was ruined. He was the town’s unofficial ambassador.
Now he represents another cruelty in a string of them. Phil died June 11, two days after sustaining a heart attack during a 39-mile bike ride in Mendocino County. He was 66.
Most of the buildings have fallen in flames.
The water system is compromised by toxic chemicals. The town has disappeared bit by bit, carried away by deaths and departures. And now Phil — who opened his home to me, a reporter covering his town’s tragedy — is gone.
“It’s another thing that has gone wrong,” said former Mayor Alan White. “But this is one that nobody can fix.”
As news trickled out that Phil had died, hours later the five-member Paradise Town Council held a moment of silence at its Tuesday evening meeting. The chambers were laden with a grief that had become too familiar.
“Every time we lose someone so wonderful, it hurts a bit more,” said Councilwoman Melissa Schuster. “To me, it was the promise of what was to come being lost.”
How much of Phil’s death can be attributed to the trauma of the fire, no one knows. But many people can’t imagine Paradise without him.
That is, in part, because Phil could be conned into anything — collecting cash at the ticket window before high school football games, dyeing his hair silver for his roles in the spring ballet, volunteering his time or his car or his movie collection. He did it, he said, because he loved his town. He would mutter and complain, so you knew it was a sacrifice, but he always showed up.
If you committed to something, you followed through. Phil believed in that.
His wife, Michelle, was schools superintendent in Paradise. He had supported her for seven months as she rebuilt the district, just as he had supported her for 38 years of marriage. During graduation on the football field at Paradise High, Phil beamed with pride. His wife had pulled off what some called a miracle.
“It is just the highest of highs and lowest of lows,” said former Fire Chief Jim Broshears, an old friend of Phil’s who sat next to him at graduation. “There was this beautiful graduation in this spectacular setting that no one initially thought would happen. A few days later, Phil has a heart attack. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around it.”
The Johns were partners in everything. They raised three children in Paradise and taught them to be kind and to listen — to really listen — to others. When they took their three grandchildren to Disneyland, they got matching T-shirts for the whole crew. Phil complained he would never wear his again, but he secretly loved it.
He and Michelle planned to celebrate their 39th anniversary next month during a trip to Scotland. They sometimes bickered, but they adored each other. “When you talk about Michelle, or you talk about Phil, everyone knows one or the other,” said Police Chief Eric Reinbold, who was once a student in Michelle’s kindergarten class. “They are iconic in Paradise. Phil always had a smile on his face.”
I met Phil five days after the Camp Fire ignited. He headed the Paradise Ridge Fire Safe Council — a lifetime appointment because no one else wanted it — and we arranged to talk in a residential cul-de-sac of homes for an interview. He immediately put me at ease. I was an outsider trying to grasp the identity of a threatened community. Phil believed Paradise was worth understanding, so he answered every question with patience.
Little did I know, Phil and Michelle would become like family. This spring, a Chronicle photojournalist and I began staying in their guest bedroom during reporting trips. Phil had spent years on the road, driving across the state for his job as a health information consultant, and had seen one too many seedy motels. He copied me a house key printed with sunflowers.
“He tried to make Paradise all its name implied,” said Steve Culleton, a former councilman and mayor, but primarily a friend. “Whether it was painting the bleachers or putting the flags up on the holidays, he was there. And he never looked for recognition.” Nothing was more emblematic of that than his role as Wildfire Ready Raccoon, the local fire council’s mascot and Phil’s alter ego. The suit was fuzzy and stifling, but Phil wore it to every community event. He even wrote a comic book featuring the character and recorded a rap set to the tune of “Gangsta’s Paradise.” He wanted people to care about the town’s fire risk.
“I talked to someone the other day who didn’t know Phil was the raccoon,” said Paradise Post Managing Editor Rick Silva. “They had been in the town for 50 years, and were probably the only person who didn’t know Phil John.”
Phil taught me to love Paradise, with its winter storms, spring daffodils and towering ponderosa pines. To many people, he was a symbol of the resilience of the town as it recovered from a historic disaster. His death shifted an already alien landscape and upended the lives of those who depended on him.
But people are remembering him. And this is how:
He was unafraid to share his opinions — even if they were unpopular, even if it caused conflict. When he crooned “Ave Maria” at St. Thomas More Catholic Church, people cried. He was good. He was also humble, never taking credit for his contributions to the community. Even in death, he continued to give; donations can be made in his name to the Paradise Ridge Fire Safe Council or the Northern California Ballet.
He loved the daily special at Barney O’Rourke’s, which burned down and broke his heart, and took turns paying for lunch with former Mayor White. White still owes him.
Phil could answer practically any question on “Jeopardy” before the contestants. He kept packages of Jujubes and black licorice by his television remote. His home was decorated in Army medals and regalia from serving in the Vietnam War, but he rarely talked about it.
He loved Rombauer red wine, and didn’t believe in white wine, as if it was a strange religion. He read voraciously, particularly the “Keeper of the Lost Cities” series with his 10-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, with whom he had a private book club. She and her siblings called him Papi.
“As a kid, you’re like, ‘Dad is great,’ ” said his son, Brian John, 35, who lives in San Diego. “Then, you look back as an adult. You’re like, nobody does stuff like that. It’s crazy, but he did. He really did live to make other people happy.”
He loved his wife in ways that sometimes embarrassed their three children. He pumped her gas and brought her lunch at the district office, and when their black tabby, Taz, dragged dead songbirds indoors, he vacuumed their feathers from the carpet before she could notice.
“He was so proud of her,” said Michelle’s cousin Roni Masuda, with whom they temporarily lived after the Camp Fire. “He was so attentive to her needs. He really made everyone feel loved.”
He hated his job — but loved the people — and wasn’t shy about saying it. He cursed, a lot. He wanted his three children to succeed, so he worked hard, even though he would have been happier pursuing music or theater. When money was short, he worked harder. His two sons became lawyers, his daughter a schoolteacher. He loved them more than anything.
In recent months, Phil had embraced competitive biking. He bought a secondhand road bike and wore neon yellow shoes and a jersey printed with “Paradise” across the chest.
In April, he completed a race in Chico. The 39mile Merry Monster in Mendocino County was to be his next triumph. I imagine him there — suspended in time — vibrant and alive. He never completed the ride. He was a half mile from the finish line.