Who was Paris Burton Young?

In 1973, Mom was introduced to a criminal named Paris Burton Young, inmate number B-47978.  He was serving time in Susanville, California for committing an armed robbery in Santa Barbara.  Skippy was in the same prison, and he was the one who brought Paris into our lives.

The only remaining photo of Paris Young, Christmas day prison visit 1974

Paris was from Oklahoma.  He was soft spoken, and said sir, and Ma'am in Southern fashion.  He wasn't covered in tattoos like most convicts are. He was left-handed, and an Aquarius.  He was a skilled welder and an expert fisherman.   Because he seemed so different from most criminals, he was able to convince Mom that he was convicted of a crime he did not commit.  He also told her he had an ex-wife named Carolyn who took his beloved son James away and he did not know where they went. He was able to convince Mom that all he wanted was to start over and have a big happy family. Before long, he proposed marriage during a Sunday 5 minute phone call, and she of course said yes.

Mom did not like the fact that her name, Carol, was so similar to his ex wife's name, so she was quite happy when Paris wrote her a letter telling her since she was such a wonderful person, he was renaming her "Angel."  Mom didn't realize that Angel is a prison term for a person on the outside who puts sends care packages or deposits money in their canteen account.  She was so flattered by this renaming that she immediately began telling her friends that Angel was her original first name, but that her deceased husband Darwin did not like it and made her use her middle name.  She also told all of her friends and relatives that Paris was a welding instructor and worked at the Prison teaching the inmates a skill. They never knew he was a prisoner. Since it was a full time commitment to the inmates, she told them, it wasn't easy for him to take time off for a visit to San Diego.  So it was much easier for us to go visit him.

At first, he was in a prison that was too far away for a driving trip, so Mom would dump us kids off at various places and fly to Reno, rent a car, and drive to Susanville for a Sunday visit.  Sometimes we would stay with brother Darwin and his girlfriend Liz, and sometimes Mom would hire a Mexican woman to stay at the house and feed us.  Other times she would split us up, with my brother Jeff going somewhere and my little sister and I going somewhere else. It was starting to get expensive to do those visits, and I am sure her friends were getting tired off taking care of us for free.  She even lost a friendship because she promised to pay for our care and feeding and reneged on it.  That friend got so angry that she fed us moldy back-of-the-fridge leftovers for lunch (which we tossed off her patio and into the canyon when she wasn't looking.) So after a few months,  Mom started writing letter after letter after letter to prison officials, seeking to get Paris transferred closer to San Diego. It eventually worked.

Paris was transferred to Soledad Correctional facility, but transfers are not quick.  It involved a brief stop at San Quentin.  Mom just couldn't wait to see him, and she packed us kids up in the blue Volvo wagon and made the long drive up the coast, through smoggy Los Angeles, to the beautiful Central Coast, past the agricultural area near Salinas and into the Bay area.  It was an all-night drive, with the little kids getting carsick before falling off to sleep. Mom got lost during the final few miles and we ended up going back and forth over a toll bridge, which really made her angry, causing her to throw the coins at the toll taker the second time across.  We finally got to San Quentin and sat in a hot and bustling big room with lots of noisy, smelly people while Mom visited briefly with her fiancé, then it was back in the car for another 10 hours for the drive home.

The next road trip was to Soledad Correctional Center.

Photo taken in 1996, 21 years after our last visit.

Soledad, California is a tiny agricultural town about 135 miles south of San Francisco.  It always smells of produce, especially in the early morning hours.  There was a rundown mom and pop motel, one of those old types that had only one level and you parked right outside your room.  We stayed there on our first visit. It was not only dirty and reeked of cigarette smoke, but it was also terrifying.  All night long, we heard people in the rooms on either side of us.  There were crying babies and toddlers. Women were screaming in Spanish and there were sounds of people smacking each other against the walls. Angry-sounding men showed up all night outside the rooms, pounding on the doors of our neighbors. All of us were afraid that they were going to break our door down and beat us up too.  After getting almost no sleep, Mom swore we would never stay in Soledad again.  And we didn't.  We stayed instead in Gonzales, the next town to the north.

Gonzales is another tiny agricultural town.  The smell of rotting tomatoes permeated the area. This town was just like Soledad--one gas station, a tiny cemetery, hardly any places to shop for food, and one little roadside motel.  The Lamplighter was another vintage one-level place.  But the Manager was a nice older lady who didn't tolerate shenanigans on her property.  The rooms were old and worn, but clean.  There weren't any scary people in the rooms next to ours.  After one weekend there, Mom always made sure she made reservations for the next time, so for almost a year, we stayed in Gonzales during visitation weekend, which was every two weeks.  We would pack the car every other Friday after school and make the long drive. We then spent Saturday and Sunday visiting Paris in a park-like setting, playing with lots of other kids and occasionally gathering for a family photo when the photographer with the Polaroid camera showed up. When visiting hours wrapped up, we got back in the car for the long ride home.  We would roll in to San Diego around midnight and be up for school Monday morning. (associated story: A Christmas Away from Home, dated December 14, 2017)

Taken in 1996, 21 years after our last stay.  It hadn't changed a bit.

Paris Young was serving an indeterminate sentence, which meant that after the minimum number of years in his sentence of 5-10 years, an inmate would go before the parole board.  If he had shown that he was rehabilitated, they could cut him loose.  This gave prisoners the initiative to improve themselves.  They could get credit for regular attendance to the AA meetings or for learning a skill like welding. Interestingly, it was Governor Gerry Brown who changed the rule in 1976 to cancel the policy of indeterminate sentencing.   After the 40 year experiment, the same Governor Brown publicly stated that he regretted that decision, because now there is no reason to improve yourself in prison because it won't get you out any faster.

Mom became obsessed with getting Paris released at his next Parole hearing.  She spent her days calling the warden, Mr. Harlan, typing letters to the parole board, and just basically making herself the biggest pest they ever experienced.   After two years of visits, letters, and phone calls, the warden told Mom if she bought Paris a new work truck, opened him a welding shop so he would have a job, and gave him a bank account for his business expenses, it would look really good at the next parole hearing.  She did just that--investing Dad's life insurance money- our only safety net- to go all in on a man she knew nothing about.

They set a release date of July 11, 1975. With only a few weeks notice, Mom went into crazed work mode.  She hired a guy to paint the entire interior of the house.  We spent days with a Rug Doctor machine washing a decade of filth out of the carpets.  She found someone who would take us three kids and all the dogs for a week so the newlyweds could have a honeymoon.  And to get Paris a change from prison issue clothing (blue jeans and blue denim shirt), she went to Sears and bought him a four-piece plaid and solid baby blue leisure suit set(it was 1975, after all.)

She bought him this set in powder blue with faint pink plaid stripes.

She picked Paris up at the bus station downtown and they immediately went to the Wedding Bell Chapel, which used to be on Fifth Ave in Hillcrest.  After having a quick confidential wedding ceremony, they spent the week getting his new business started.

When we kids rejoined them a week later, we embarked on a fun camping road trip to visit Aunt Amy and Uncle Ed in Ephrata, Washington. We were making the familiar trip up the 101 one last time, now in our huge new 4-door Chevy Camper Special Pick up Truck, with Paris behind the wheel. About the time we got past the busy southern California traffic, Paris popped open a Budweiser and started drinking it.  Mom didn't seem too happy about it, and I wondered how many beers you can drink and still be allowed to drive. A six pack later,  it became clear that Paris was an alcoholic. He drank during the entire vacation.

When we returned to San Diego in August, Mom and Paris opened their welding shop, A-1 Young's Welding on Wabash Street in North Park.

The site of A-1 Young's Welding, now a smog shop

They also started looking for property in the back country.  We kids spent weekends in the back seat of the truck while they drove  around looking at places in Ramona, Lakeside, and Alpine.  They considered buying the Pio Pico Campground in Jamul.  We drove up highway 15 almost to Baker, California to look at a desert RV and cabin campground with a man-made lake, called Tami Lakes.

Tammy at Tami Lakes. This campground is now a dry and abandoned graffiti-covered ghost town.

They also looked at Angel's Camp, California and Paris, Tennessee.  Yes, it sounds a bit narcissistic and odd. Things got bad very fast with Paris living with us. So bad, as a matter of fact, that Paris cleaned us out and cleared out of town only 5 months after they were married, so we never moved from our house on Eagle Street. (Related Article:  A Blessing in Disguise, dated  November 23, 2017)

Paris Burton Young was a mystery person with an uncanny ability to con a con-woman.  The warning signs were there that should have made Mom take a pause and think about what she was getting into.  She didn't like redheads, and he had red hair. She didn't like smokers- and he smoked.  She didn't like drinking--and he was in AA while in prison, which indicated that he had a drinking problem.  She didn't like convicts--and he was a convict.  He was young enough to be her son. And she always disparaged her oldest son Tim because he had married an older woman. The bottom line was that Mom wanted to stay young at any cost.  And this younger man flattered her, made her feel young, and promised to worship her and ultimately give her another baby. Taking a gamble on this man cost her everything.

After Paris left on December 1, 1975, Mom told all her friends that he died in a welding accident,and that she suffered a miscarriage from the shock of it all and never wanted to speak of it again.  Then she went to bed and cried for a week.  I was afraid he would return and woo her again.  I was also afraid he would come back and physically harm me and my dogs.  After a few years, the constant worry faded when I realized he never intended to return.  But where did he go?  He disappeared without a trace.  Did he go back to his ex-wife (with not one son, but five) in Oklahoma? Did he meet another stupid woman who thought he would be a great replacement daddy for her kids? Did he get into more trouble and go back to prison, either in California or elsewhere?  Or did he just fade into the outdoors, using his outdoorsman skills to live off the grid? I want to know the end of every story.  Until I know where this smooth-talking criminal ended up, this story, for me, is not over yet.