In 1999, I conducted an IMLS conservation survey of the collections at the Gold Nugget Museum, deep in the northern Sierras. For a small historical museum, they had a decent collection: Civil War costumes, lots of textiles and ladies hats, Flintlock rifles, newspapers from the 19th century, you know. An old historic property with nice grounds, a barn and blacksmith shop. I spent a couple of days there, went home to write the report. They were gracious, and invited me back to “visit their Pioneer Days celebration sometime.”

A year or so later, I happen to be camping not far away, and decided to do just that. It was a nicely attended event, and when I walked in the curator/director looked at me and turned white as a sheet.

Turns out they were serving tea and biscuits in the gallery, and everyone was invited to wear the costumes. Some of the cases had been moved out to the yard to make room, and there was the Civil War uniform draped on top of one case, next to a newspaper held in place by a large river rock. They were shooting the flintlock to please the crowd, working the blacksmith tools, and letting people do laundry with the old washboard and tub. I realized why she had that reaction, but I didn’t say anything, and I had a pretty good time.

In 2018, the entire region, including the town of Paradise where they were situated, was completely wiped out by the most destructive fire in California’s history: 150,000 acres, 18,000 structures, 85 fatalities, and the Bay Area sky turned orange.

I was of course deeply saddened by the disaster, and I felt a loss loss for that collection I had worked with and enjoyed. But beneath the grief one small satisfaction emerged. The community had enjoyed that collection, on that sunny day, wearing those costumes, seeing that uniform in the full sun like it would’ve been seen in battle, and heard that flintlock roar.

A fire that wasn’t in my report took it all away (beyond facilities, this was regional). But in the end, I was glad they had taken the chance to use those objects and had enjoyed them before they disappeared. A strange feeling for conservator, but I often think of that place, which no longer exists, when I start leaning in a little too hard.

There’s a story about a Zen monk, seeing an heirloom teacup lying broken on the floor, who says “at last.”