Backstory: Home is where the fire is

I've never been one to turn down a hot story, and Centralia is smoking – literally. A Pennsylvania coal mining town that's been on fire 44 years; 11 stubborn old-timers who refuse to leave; fiery sidewalks that melt the soles off your shoes. How could I resist?

An abandoned strip mine caught fire in 1962, igniting an underground coal seam that has burned under Centralia ever since. Experts say it could burn another 250 years.

I imagined an eerie, smoke-laden atmosphere, sun streaming across a barren landscape, miles of scorched Earth. Why would people live in such a Godforsaken place?

I arrived on a beautiful spring morning, joining a group of Philadelphia photobloggers on their monthly outing. It was a beautiful spring morning. Quaking aspens shimmered, emerald leaves glinting like jade. The few houses were neat and tidy, with tulips nestled among purple salvia. In the distance, American flags flapped lazily along a deserted street. If there was a traffic light, I didn't see it.

What's odd about Centralia is that ... it's not really odd. There are puffs of smoke, blackened earth, dead trees, abandoned buildings, and cracked highways. But there's life here, too.

At the town's time capsule – buried beneath a granite slab inscribed "to be opened in 2016" – I wondered who would open it. A cool breeze wafted through the trees. The soles of my shoes weren't even thinking of melting. As I chatted with the other photographers who, like me, were hoping to find something quirky and offbeat, we all agreed – it might be dubbed "Helltown," but even Photoshop couldn't make this place look spooky.

I spied a quintessential Greek Orthodox church nestled among the hills, its blue onion dome and gold three-barred cross gleaming. So much for Godforsaken.

I snapped a few pictures and almost abandoned the story, but for my smoldering curiosity: What draws people to a place and keeps them there long after it doesn't make sense anymore? What makes a house a home? In my search for drama, I was about to miss the real story – the whisper of everyday life.

***

Lamar Mervine, 90, accepted his weekly ration of Meals-on-Wheels and shut the screen door with a squeak-bang. As mayor of Centralia, he always has people showing up on his doorstep. Some are thrill-seeking tourists who've heard ghost stories – no doubt fueled by the recent horror movie "Silent Hill," inspired by the town. Others are journalists from as far away as Europe and Asia, looking for a unique story.

All want to know the same thing: What's it like to live in a town that's been on fire for 44 years?

For Mr. Mervine, a retired operating engineer, it's just home: The house where he grew up and then settled with his young bride, Lana. Now, the church they met in is gone, and Lana is in a nursing home. Every day, he drives four miles to see her, past empty lots where neighbors once lived. As long as he's able, he'll stay here – for her.

"I remember when the state came and said they wanted our house," he said, gazing at his living room full of knickknacks and photos. "She took one look at that man and said, 'They're not getting it.' "

He smiled for a moment, lost in the memory.

Just as the rich seams of coal gave this town life in the 19th century – attracting immigrants from Ireland, Poland, and Ukraine to the mining jobs – they began turning the town to dross when they caught fire in 1962. Mining was the engine of the bustling borough of 2,000, but as Americans turned increasingly to oil for heat, Centralia's population shrunk. By the time the fire started, there were roughly 1,000 residents.

At first, said Mayor Mervine, no one worried: "We'd had other fires before, and they'd always burned out. This one didn't."

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