The Timber Road
There is this little town, at the end of Timber Road; Paradise is it’s name.
Off the main highway, Timber Road runs up through the hills to the highest peak, makes a loop around the town; then makes its way back to the highway in the flat lands. The flat lands has become a hub of modern activity, but the drive to Paradise is so far removed and peaceful, no traffic rush, no horn happy motorists; just a calm peaceful drive through the weathered oaks, scattered conifers and eucalyptus groves; a relaxing scent filled drive that depletes the harshness and drag of anyone’s day.
Paradise isn’t some sort of a Mecca, filled with guru’s or bead stringers and basket weaver’s, there are no lofty mansions with gated driveways hiding car collections; Paradise is just a small unassuming town looming with solitude.
The sidewalks lead in two directions, the heart of the town sits on both sides of the silent main street that ambles past the post office and the lone country store. There are no quick marts, fast food restaurants, no gas stations; and no traffic lights. The only speeders in the town have feathers, they fly fast above the uncluttered and uncrowded streets.
The houses sit close to the curb, chicken wire fences, with wooden gates, lending visibility to the wildflower gardens that line antiquated walkways to Victorian cottages. The town of Paradise resides in its own time, the town’s people are of this day only in age, not in manner. A simple walk down the sidewalk is welcoming to resident’s as well as visitors, warm salutations abound till the streets roll up at night; such as a stroll back to the 1800’s.
We drove there often, exploring the hills, getting lost in the town’s quaint patina of tree lined streets and calming nature; somehow never letting the flat landers know where we spent the day. We talked once on a drive to and from, how nice it would be, to open a Bed & Breakfast in Paradise, a motel with limited rooms, limited amenities; the thought faded, drifted away in the respectful ocean breeze that kisses the coastal forest where golden jewel of humanity is nestled.
Visions of a town lost, remorse before action, but not before lifes vision. Who could live with such a crime in the end, a town that has watched three quarters of a century plus one with the start of another pass by the sleepy hamlet, and yet the town has survived; oh with such rugged dignity. We could not put the irons to such tranquility to claim our own, our conversations of dreams would end as soon as they began, our respect to life could only feed the respect we had for the town; words of verse and rhyme, “Call something Paradise, kiss it goodbye.”
For that reason alone in this writing and reflecting through our back pages, the names have been changed to protect the innocent inhabitants of a town that has the bay below, watching the growth of mankind; encroaching closer and closer, but not without reverence of the wildlife that share the hills, always leaving Paradise knowing the profound understanding of life.
Paradise, tranquil, calming, historic charm; worth our silence, worth our respect. I can leave a lonesome hint as to how we came to know Paradise: When the bay is near, the ocean breeze filters through the trees, look to the hills, for a faded grayish cement structure. If you find your way to Paradise, be respectful, and leave Paradise the way you found it.
Because you just never know, you just might want to return one day . . . to Paradise.
Dedicated to the Love that waits.