Bumblebee Nation

What's For Dinner?

2012-01-24T08:40:00.000-08:00

"Here you go!"
"Thanks, babe. Looks good." He swirled his spoon through the soup, looking for hidden vegetables, but he only saw potatoes and corn. "This tastes really good. But...mm, I don't like clams." He flipped the offending mollusk back into the tureen.
"Babe, it's clam chowder."
"I know, but I don't like the texture."
"Saying, 'I like clam chowder' and sitting down to a bowl of clam chowder, one might expect to find clams. In the clam chowder."
"It's good! All I'm saying is I don't like the clams."
"Jesus, Lee. Whatever. Put them in my bowl."
"Do you want me to fish that other one out of the pot?"
"Leave it. I put your dick in my mouth; I'll survive your half-eaten clam. Just don't do it for company."
"Of course."
"You eat that gloopy canned soup crap. Why's this different? They both have clams."
"I know. But I can taste the clams in this."
"You are fucking weird, do you know that?"
"Thank you for making me the soup, babe."
Jen fished the last of the clams out of the tureen, "You're welcome, Lee. I love you, too."

Happy-Go-Lucky Kitty

2012-01-24T08:37:00.000-08:00

Seven dollar bills
$7.30 in dimes
$6.25 in quarters
$1.10 in nickels
$4.82 in pennies
Fifty-two cents Canadian
Two slugs

So, yeah, going from a walking route to driving The Big Truck put a serious damper on my coin collecting. $19.47 for the year? Tsk. If it weren't also for the hundred dollar bill I found Jan. 7 we'd be well below average.

Oh, yeah!

Where Have I Been?

2012-01-24T08:36:00.000-08:00

Christ on a cracker, has it really been since June since I've posted? Jeez. So here we go, with ungrateful thanks to my friend Wendy for kicking me in the can...I realized last year that Facebook was not only eating up a lot of my downtime but that it had also driven a stake into the heart of my blogging. So I killed my Facebook, and intended to start blogging again... but here we are, late January 2012, still with a seven-month blog drought. To clear the pipes I'm posting this one and the three draft posts sitting around. You may need some supplementary fiber for this much fun.

A quick recap of 2011:

The Post Office did not work me to death, but it took me half the year to recover from 2010, when the Post Office did. You know it's bad when you long for the return of the ten-hour days.

Still no sign of the flat-sorting machines they've been promising since, oh, when I started at the P.O. a little over four years ago. Which also means I am still a PTF. We occasionally hear their rumblings, though, so who knows. Maybe next year.

The Pendragon campaign I wanted to start in the spring finally got going in December when I acquiesced to reality and gave up on the Vortigern idea and just settled on Hampshire in 485 instead.

Our great plan to increase egg availability to the neighborhood by increasing our flock worked, kind of. Yes, we have more eggs. So more people stop by to buy them, so it's just as difficult to get them as before. And when we added more hens we quickly realized it's either the lawn or them, and that our current coop collection was inadequate to house that number of birds—I think we had 25 hens and pullets at one point! And, we got tired of having to be out in the yard at dawn and dusk every day to let them out and shut them in. So we made plans to build a new coop.

Now, the hubs and I are each capable of building a chicken coop, but if you know us...We finally hired a handyman neighbor to build it. During construction we moved the old coops out of the way, to the perimeter of the yard.

The funny thing about raccoons is, normally you hardly ever see them. But for sure they are watching you. I don't know how it is that function follows form in the case of the masked raccoon, but they are experts at casing your joint and robbing you when you goof. So one night, when one corner of the very heavy chicken coop door was unlatched, they very quietly pried up a corner, reached in a paw and grabbed the closest hen. Since the flock roosts by seniority, Marilyn Wyandotte had the plum spot furthest from the door...and right by the unlatched corner. We didn't hear a thing, so for her it was a quick death. But Frenchy Buff Orpington was second and evidently put up a fight, because we all woke up for that one. We got a call the next morning from our neighbor asking us to remove the carcass...Sigh.

The next night some of the poultry were understandably hesitant to enter the Coop of Death, and spent the night outside. Oh—part of the night. That woke us up, too. Ameraucana feathers everywhere.

So we evacuated the poultry to my step-daughter and son-in-law's coop in Northtown. One of the Jersey Giants made an escape attempt; maybe she got eaten, maybe she's living in someone else's yard now. But she's out of the flock.

The new coop is up and running, and while little paws have explored every inch of barrier, we have had no losses. And the sweet, sweet open-air design means no more dawn/dusk trips into Poo-land. Like I said, sweet!

Lots more happened around the Mighty Small Farm, but that's enough for now. Have some photos:

The day after the hubs left on his nearly-month-long sojourn to the Yukon, I fell off a horse. I was out of commission for about a week, and this paltry bruise is the most I have to show for it. Ripped off!

Hubs at the Arctic Circle...They were gonna go for the Arctic Ocean, then realized the road depicted on the map is only passable in the winter, frozen. In summer it's a morass.

I tried to get him to go as a mail man, but our uniforms don't come with the stylin' mustache, so Mario won out.

Everybody loves the variety pack of colors that comes with an egg purchase from the Mighty Small Farm, but those Ameraucanas aren't the brightest bulbs in the hen house. But I'm totally sold on Rhode Island Reds.

So I decided that moving large parcels and hampers of mail all day wasn't enough exercise, and joined Humboldt Roller Derby. This is my pal, Scrappy Scrappy Joy Joy, at her firsts scrimmage in Hayfork.

The Times-Standard continues to provide excellent amusement bang for the buck.

Souvenirs of Marilyn Wyandotte, an extremely bossy and handsome hen...Oh, and we got new furniture.

Dogs Are Strange People

2011-06-15T19:39:00.000-07:00

A box at Arcata Pet caught my eye yesterday as I was making a pick-up:

It took my brain a moment to sort through anticoprophagic...

...then I read it again and my eyes lit on "condiment." An anti-poo-eating condiment...

Today I was irresistably drawn to the box for another read. I wasn't disappointed. "...imparts a forbidding taste to excrement." Doesn't poo, you know, already have a forbidding taste?

Basically, it's Antabuse for dogs.

Late May Spring

2011-05-22T19:39:00.000-07:00

What a fine week of typical Humboldt weather: fog, sun, fog again, bitterly cold north wind, gently cool west wind, sun again. So fine and summery that the garden is the first place I head once I kick off my work shoes. So fine and summery that I thought, Maybe it's time to try fun-running again.

So I was up and out of the house just after 8am to drive down to Loleta for the Jim Davy 2-mile fun walk/10K fun run. I sent in my registration for the 10K, then thought it might be more prudent to baby my plantar fasciiitis and do the 2-mile walk—I haven't done any running or even a decent stroll since the beginning of February—but the morning was so fine I thought, I'll do the 10K and just walk it really fast.

Small crowd, very pretty course: three miles up to Table Bluff, a bit of flat at the turnaround and water break station, then three miles back down into town. I think it was more than some of the fun-runners were expecting. I started almost four minutes late by grabbing an Earl Grey tea and a morning bun from the Loleta Bakery but still managed to pass seven stumbling runners as I chugged up the hill. But seriously, the scenery and views down to King Salmon and the beach along the mouth of the Eel River were killer, and worth the trip to the top of the bluff.

And you know, it didn't really matter whether I went for the 10K or the short course, because after about two miles my feet were pretty sore. And, the organizers had a great prize table. (I got a bottle of green tea cooking oil—score!) And, I got to my dressage lesson only a little late. (And it was a fantastic, eye-opening lesson—thanks, Paula!)

But after three hours of working it, I needed both lunch and a nap, so I didn't get into the yard as early as I had hoped, nor did I do anything I'd planned to do out there today...but I did take some pictures.

As we clear off the blackberries, periwinkle, ivy and assorted other undesired plants, we have a tough time keeping the cleared areas free of other weeds (grasses, thistles, etc). It often seems like a never-ending battle.

Only this year we got smart and are putting the chickens to work. My husband's been constructing a "chicken Habitrail" to give the chickens access to the weedy areas between the raised beds and the side fence, then along the back fence. They are so happy to have the fresh forage, the bugs, and the opportunity to scratch around and exercise their little minds. And in return they keep their Habitrail areas weed-free.

I know it's hard to see, but that's the work-in-progress we call the Chicken Habitrail. Or Chicken Hooverville. Both the hens and the mass of pullets we call the Cheeples love to shoot up through the narrow run along the fence to the bigger Habitrail area in the back corner. It's especially noisy and fun when both groups do it at the same time.

Oh, what's in the raised beds? A lot of potatoes, garlic, shallots, herbs, lettuces, strawberries, raspberries (probably not enough of those), a mystery bed of leftover seeds and odds-and-ends, and six tomato plants I put in despite the evidence of years past, in my eternal optimism. (Good thing I can shrug off disappointment!)

The husband himself, staking out the next area for Habitrail expansion. The expanded area for them to be in takes some of the pressure off in finding the surplus homes. So far I've only sold one pullet, one of the Leghorns ($20 and a shovel!). I also finally got fed up of not finding leg bands at any of our local feed stores (Seriously, are they kidding? with all the poultry in Humboldt County, no one sells leg bands?) and ordered some off the Internet. Now I'm assigning names and numbers to the keepers.

So, yay for those hard-working poultry gals: fresh eggs every day and landscaping, too.

Oh, and yay for hard-working husbands, too! The Mighty Small Farm looks great, G-man.

Cheeples, Week 11

2011-04-27T19:57:00.000-07:00

With the weather getting nicer, the Cheeples, now almost three months old, are really enjoying their outside pen. Their little voices are starting to change from cheeps to clucks, and I may try mingling the flocks this weekend. (The flocks have already mingled somewhat: the Poultry Peeple get very jealous when they seen the can of Cheeple chow, and invade the little one's pen. And if we feed scraps, the bigs ones have to eat first or they get cranky.)

The Cheeples are getting big! We had to get them a larger watering can because this small one, their first one, doesn't have enough capacity anymore.

Frenchy makes sure that none of the little ones is getting anything the big ones are not.
(You can see the new Chicken Condo Greg's been working on in the background.)

Why I do believe, I do believe she has a slice of bread in her hand!

Get it!

Yes, those are drawers on the back side of the Chicken Condo. Makes egg retrieval much easier.

This is the only Cheeple with a name so far: Pecky Becky. She's one of the Barred Rock chicks. The Cochins, Rhode Island Reds, and the Jersey Giants are also friendly. The Leghorns and the Ameraucanas, not so much.

Vivani wants to remind us all that while, yes, the Cheeples are fun and colorful, so is she. And Cheeples can't purr.

Frenchy Toast

2011-04-10T18:22:00.000-07:00

I don't know what happened to the photo—or maybe it's the hard cider I'm drinking—but my hens made me breakfast this morning: french toast courtesy of Frenchy the Hen.

(Okay, Coco says she helped.)

Cheeples, Week 7

2011-04-02T19:11:00.000-07:00

The Cheeples are getting big!

They are fully-feathered Nerf footballs.

Everybody goes into the big girl's box now.

We added grit to their diet, and are introducing them to new and exciting foods. The process typically goes something like this:

-Lift safety screen and toss in the new food.
-Cheeples as a unit scream and run away.
-After a few moments, Cheeples completely ignore the new food.
-After five minutes, one Cheeple pecks the new food, realizes it IS food, and freaks out at its good fortune.
-Other Cheeples, alerted by the "Oh, wow!" sound, rush the discoverer. A different kind of screaming bursts from the box.

Greg turned this into a game, the Pasta Bowl. The Cheeples know that pasta is food now, so when we toss a handful of cooked pasta in the box, it's like watching feathery rugby.

The gluteny ball is lowered onto the playing field...

"Who's got the ball? Which team am I on? What's happening?!"

"Hey! She's using a zone defense!"

You are crowding the ref, missy.

Ball hog.

Those speckled Cheeples are fast turning into my favorites. I thought they were Jersey Giants, but my step-daughter thinks they're Barred Rocks. I think the ones formerly known as the Mystery Chicks are the Jersey Giants. The reason I like the Barred Rock chicks so much is they've learned what the appearance of The Hand means—food! So they rush my hand and start excitedly pecking it. And they aren't shy about being touched or picked up.

We are building them an outside coop. Stay tuned.

UPDATE:

Some Optimism

2011-04-02T18:32:00.000-07:00

Add this to the list of things I've forgotten before I went all Humboldt: slides and washouts on Hwy 101, the main artery into and out of Humboldt County. Drive up and down it long enough and all the winter-time road signs warning of Rough Roads, Lane Closure Ahead, One-Way Traffic Control, and Caution: Men At Work blend into the background greenery.

[The other thing I forget: there's an ad on the radio right now advertising "free beef with the tires you buy!" Really.]

But every four or five years, a bigger storm comes through and closes something major. In this case, part of a hillside just north of Garberville threw up its hands in despair at March's incessant rains and slid onto the highway, completely closing it. Yeah, that's right: Hwy 101 is completely closed north of Garberville. So throw your chains in the trunk and drive over Hwy 299 to Redding, then down to Sacramento, then over to San Francisco if you're heading south. The North Coast Journal has a nice blog entry about it here. And the Times-Substandard has this to say. And the excellent Redheaded Blackbelt has this photo-laden blog post.

[Thank you, Press Democrat, for the image!]

I feel pretty lucky—I drove north from the Bay Area the afternoon before the slide. If I'd waited til Wednesday afternoon to drive home...ugh. I don't have snow chains, so it would have been a long drive north to Grants Pass in Oregon before I could catch an open highway west and get back onto The 101.

[Thank you, North Coast Journal, for the photo!]

Best quote regarding the slide?

”There is some optimism that we could have a lane carved through there by Monday,” said California Highway Patrol Sgt. Martin Abshire. “We are not planning on that, but it is a possibility. That's not a probability, it's only a possibility, and it's very optimistic.”

The Times-Standard April 1 edition.

Yeah, I'm hooked

2011-03-20T17:14:00.000-07:00

Waiting For the Other Shoe to Drop

2011-03-13T09:21:00.000-07:00

Friday morning, as I was finishing up my morning animal chores and getting ready to sit down with the newspaper, my husband piped up, "Did you see this about the 8.9 in Japan?"

No, I did not. But hearing "8.9" I went to the USGS website, then immediately over to NOAA to look for the tsunami alert. Because, if you're noided out by earthquakes like I am, you'd know that a Richter reading that high means it was likely a thrust fault that ruptured, and those are the ones likely to produce tsunamis. And this time we got a tsunami warning which, unlike an advisory where they would like you to stay away from the coast and low-lying areas, means, A tsunami is coming and we expect damage.

So I put the collars back on the cats, pulled the earthquake kit out from under the bed, discussed The Plan with my husband just in case, emailed my nephews in Hawaii, then went off to work...What a creepy day! Waiting for the water to come. Random businesses closed, the city's earthmoving equipment and the garbage trucks all parked up on the hill, the roads going into the Arcata Bottoms closed off...even city schools in Eureka closed for the day. A tsunami day at school: who knew?

Humboldt County was fortunate, and we had no damage, though we do have an exciting array of YouTube videos. Harbors Brookings, Ore., and Crescent City, Calif., to the north were damaged, and harbors to the south, I hear, (Ft. Bragg, Santa Cruz) were damaged as well.

Such a watery county we live in, with our Six Rivers, our endless rain, our tsunamis...here're the videos:

Tsunami surge traveling up the Mad River which separates Arcata from McKinleyville:

A cop I talked to said the water reach Hwy 101 at Clam Beach, which is normally a pretty wide stretch, so here's this:

And a time-lapse video of the surge in the Crescent City harbor—play this one with the sound off:

Cheeples, Week 3

2011-03-10T18:15:00.000-08:00

The book warned us: at some point your chicks will get rambunctious enough that they will need roomier housing. ... The Cheeples need roomier housing. They act like wind-up toys on meth.

The Cheeples pause long enough for a photo. They love to hop on top of their water- and food dispensers. They love to fly bang! into their heat lamp. They love to peer out the little taped-over windows at us and the cats. They love playing on the sticks we've put in their brooder box.

I brought a second box home from work, binder-clipped them together, and cut out a little portal. Greg built a ramp, but so far they have avoided it.

Later, I switched out the ramp for a perch. They still avoided it. After a couple of hours I got impatient and physically put them in it amid much screaming and crying. I don't recommend the impatient route. It attracts cats. Plus, crying chicks are just sad.

So the Cheeples stopped crying, and the smart ones hopped back in the old brooder box while their slower flockmates waited patiently for something to change. So I picked them up and showed them how to go through the portal.

Now they all avoid the new brooder box...except the Leghorns. They love hopping in there and having a quiet bite to eat then hopping back in the old box for some rowdy fun.

Damn chickens!

Who's Observing Whom?

2011-03-10T17:51:00.000-08:00

Did you read the article on the wire services last week, the one where researchers were surprised at not only how smart elephants are, but that they cooperate and show consideration of each other? "Gee, we thought only primates did that," was the line of thought.

Also last week, I took my packet of Method wipes and marched around the house removing smudgy handprints, coffee drips, and scuffs from the walls and doors. As I scrubbed I realized that the scuffs were not scuffs; they were areas of strategic importance Orange Gina marked with her chin. The corner by the food bowls, the bathroom, and the doorway to Greg's office. It got me to thinking.

I have two cats, Orange Gina and Vivani Catpants. We plucked Vivani off the streets of Oaxaca as a very young kitten; we adopted Gina from the animal shelter.

Vivani never marks the house. She doesn't care if other cats share it. Since we traveled a lot when she was young, our place of residence means nothing. For her, it's all about Greg and I. We are hers and she is ours. She's extremely communicative and out-going with us, but almost completely ignores or avoids other people.

People-loving Gina, after her stint in the Big House, is both food-insecure and fiercely jealous of the house. She marks it with her chin and claws. (And a big shout-out to both cats for never marking the house with urine. Thank you!) She has shredded the corner of Greg's second-hand dresser, and would also do the same to my closet if she could. She doesn't touch the furniture in the living room; that's apparently a public area, as is the front door. But the post by the back door is heavily shredded as well; back door is Family Only. She doesn't care if other cats are in the yard or sidewalk, but they may not be in the house. Which is why she was so mean to poor Huespedes.

Vivani doesn't care if other cats are in the house or front porch, but they may not be in the back yard—that is Family territory, and off-limits to others. Which is why the vet told me last week during her check-up, "I'd like to get a blood sample to use as a baseline since this is the first time we've seen her where she wasn't injured." In four years? Are you kidding me? But no, she was right. That little chola has had more abcesses than a hockey player has missing teeth.

To bring it back to where I started off, with the elephants, close observation of the natural world used to be a big part of science. I don't think it comes as a shock to anyone who is familiar with elephants that they are smart and social. And it doesn't come as a shock to me that Gina and Vivani have such different personalities...though it does shock me that people, scientists, continue to believe and act like humans are the only beings around with thoughts, feelings, desires. Souls.

I like observing my girls. And I like that it's a two-way street.

Housecleaning with the Cheeps

2011-02-27T08:34:00.000-08:00

The chicks Greg picked up at the feed store over the past two weeks are already doing their part for the Mighty Small Farm and generating a fair share of material for the raised beds out in the yard.

Scooping up their collection of soiled newspaper, pine shavings, poops, and spilled chick-starter feed involves the broom and dustpan, which they do not like, and an audience of cats attracted to the extra-loud peeping the broom's appearance provokes.

The Cheepies reward for suffering through this house-cleaning, however, is a big, new pile of fresh pine shavings, which are great fun to climb on and scratch through!

Primaries, tail feathers, and secondary feathers are all coming in and slowly replacing their down. The chick on the far left, looking at the camera, is one of the Ameraucanas; the yellow ones are Leghorns and Cochins; the dark ones are mystery chicks and Jersey Giants; you can see one of the Rhode Island Red chicks on the right, and the others are out of the shot.

After they've played in the shavings for a bit, I put their food and water back in the brooder box, and their attention is quickly diverted to new games...

...King (Queen) of the Hill!

Queen of the Food Jar is one of the Jersey Giants, with the other JG, a RIR, and two of the Cochins at the feeder. The chick in the lower right is an Ameraucana. See its little tail?

As I'm typing this, I can hear them scratching in the shavings pile, very musical happy cheeps, running around, pecks at spots on the side of the cardboard brooder box, and the occasional bang as someone flies off the top of a food or water bottle and hits the heat lamp!

Suncat

2011-02-21T06:58:00.000-08:00

Vivani is a ham for the camera, but Gina...It's very difficult to get a good shot of Orange Gina Felina. When she sees the camera pointed her way, she turns, moves away, closes off. Unless she's drunk on sunshine, that is.

Recharging solar batteries, cat-style.

Mystery Date!

2011-02-20T09:55:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago Vivani Catpants came home looking a little scruffy. Sure, that long winter coat of hers accretes its share of flora—broken blackberry canes, redwood twigs, a very memorable incident with a rhodedendron flower—but she's very good at keeping it up. So I was surprised to see it dirty. I helped her comb it out, and noticed that she smelled slightly doggy. I don't know; maybe she got into someone else's bedding or stuff. She does get around the neighborhood.

But then she came home last week, and instead of sauntering to the kitchen for a bite or easing into one of her napping spots, she stood in the living room and loudly announced, "I am home! See? I'm back. Notice anything? Huh? Huh?"

So I took a look. Her fur was dirty and matted. But, it wasn't raining. And it was only dirty and matted under her chin, on her crazy-long, white poufy ruff. I knelt down and felt for wounds. None. Was it grease or oil from a car? No. Was it wet? Oh, yes! And that smell...I scooped her up. "Hey, Greg. The cat got into something. Do you see anything?"

"No..." Sniff, sniff. "She smell like dog."

So, when your dog-avoidant cat comes home, loudly announces it, and has a soppy-wet neck, no wounds, and stinks of dog, you have to wonder, What is going on here?

What IS going on here? I have no idea.

Meet the Peeples

2011-02-20T09:41:00.000-08:00

After almost three years of chicken-keeping, we are finally becoming chicken-savvy. And by that I mean, we feel comfortable enough around the chickens to feel confident in raising up some chicks.

Now, you can either order a box of 25 from a hatchery, get (invariably) older hens or roosters off Craigslist, or get chicks from the local feed store. When we dove into the poultry world with our acquisition of Marilyn and Pearl Wyandotte it was from a Craigslist post, and we got the Lakenvelders, Rhode Island Red Sonja, Lola and Frenchy Orpington, the Marans, and Betty Australorp the same way. But with the exception of Cleo and Coco Maran, who we acquired as pullets, the others were all adult hens of unknown age.

Chicken-keeping is hugely popular here in Humboldt Co., so when the feed store says it's gonna have chicks Friday morning—the first order of the new year—you really need to be down there Friday morning to get some. Not Sunday morning, which is the best I can manage with my post office schedule. So I had to enlist the aid of my husband, Greg-I-Am-Not-A-Farmer!, to go stand in line at the feed store, then bring them home and show the babies what water is by dipping their little beaks in their water can.

And surprisingly I-Am-Not-A-Farmer! said, Sure. He then went back on Saturday for another batch!

Last week's batch of chick-babies. The yellow ones are Leghorns (Buff? White? I don't yet know.), really good egg-layers. The sooty-yellow ones are Cochins, a gigantic meat-bird with feathered legs. The two dark ones are Barred Rocks, a dual-purpose breed (meat and eggs). Since we're keeping chickens for eggs, the Cochins are for entertainment purposes only; they can ride the productivity of the Leghorns.

Baby chickens (and baby ducks, it must be said, despite the extreme poopiness) are incredibly cute, and their contented peeping noises are very pleasant—a good thing, since their brooder box is in our dining room. (We're taking meals on a folding table in the living room.) I find them appealing in a way I do not find baby wild birds. Just goes to show the power of domestication.

They huddle together under their heat lamp, the race in a group to the scratch plate for chow, they run back to the lamp and pass out en masse. Very funny to watch, though it's beginning to irritate Orange Gina, who thinks free time is better spent in cat-oriented pursuits.

After we'd had the chicks for a week, Greg asked, What kinds of chicks will the feed store have this Friday? Great! I'm getting some.

So now we have a big box full of eighteen chicks. The yellow and sooty-yellow ones are the Leghorns and Cochins from last week. Three brown ones with stripes (one's in the upper corner of the box, middle of the photo) are Ameraucanas (green- and blue-colored eggs), the little russet-colored ones are Rhode Island Reds (eggs, lots of 'em!), the two dark ones in the middle of the photo with light-colored spots on their heads are Jersey Giants (more meaty freeloaders, but should be great conversation pieces), and the small dark ones are, uh, Barred Rocks from last week and, mm, something else. (Greg wrote it down in his pocket-brain but I don't know where he put it.)

I expect half of these will end up being cockerels, which means finding them a home in the country or slaughtering them for the pantry. So maybe we'll end up with nine or so new pullets, some of which might be great egg-layers, some might not. But I think we're set on chickens for awhile.

The Day's Possibilities

2011-02-06T08:55:00.000-08:00

...at least, from the perspective of Vivani Catpants.

After a super-rainy December, January and (so far) February have been dry, warm, and mostly sunny. The joke around town is to greet your neighbor or passersby on the street and comment on the lovely summer weather. And for the past few days we've even had the summertime fog. (Our winters are usually fog-free—it's when we finally get our dose of sunrises and sunsets.)

So yes, the lawns are green and lush, my neighbor's dogwood is flowering—they're flowering all over town, along with the plum and apple trees, the cherries, the myrtlewoods, and the roses; they all think it's Spring—and beyond the leafless tulip tree and walnut is a dark green wall of redwoods and hedge. Yesterday a score or more of robins gorged on the holly berries in the tree behind the house, and the waxwings I'm sure will not be far behind. The chickadees and goldfinches continue to dare the cats, and the sparrows that live outside the bakery doors at the co-op grocery are impossibly fat.

Maybe today the fog will clear. Maybe not; it didn't yesterday. But it sure is nice to live here.

Another Other White Meat

2011-01-28T08:29:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, after a particularly rich meal, the only thing to do is crawl into a quiet space and sleep it off.

Who knew that young goldfinch would be so filling?

Scotia Bluffs!

2011-01-17T17:34:00.000-08:00

...for our Sunday/Monday drive. The lady who runs the rock and gem museum near the Alton interchange told Greg about it when he stopped in to have a look. Armed with a rudimentary map and plenty of tangerines we set off for the wilds of Lumberland!

I put my mind into Mexico Mode and after a few passes at where the hole in the fence should've been, found it and parked. We walked down the abandoned railroad tracks to the bluffs, past the boys throwing rocks and pampas grass spears in the river. The dirt was super-slick from the rains, so we didn't go far, just enough to find some fossilized clams and snails. But I think once it's dried out a bit we'll make a day of it.

Signs and Wonders

2011-01-09T09:04:00.000-08:00

courtest of icanhascheezburger.com

Just this morning I found some wonder on the kitchen floor.

What is wrong with us?

2011-01-07T18:53:00.000-08:00

Today's paper carried a story about the purported link between autism and vaccines. Old story, I know, but as the Times put it, today's story is in the details: the editor-in-chief of the BMJ (British Medical Journal) called the 1998 study "a deliberate fraud."

Nice.

Then over my afternoon snack (a delicious Pinova apple and a fruit 'n' nut Kind bar) I read in Humboldt's Northcoast Journal about the use in the U.S. of hexane, a known neurotoxin, to process soy and oilseed products. Soy milk, soybean oil, corn oil, cottonseed oil, sunflower oil, soy lecithin, the list goes on. Here's a bit from the "Un-natural Foods" article by Ari Levaux in the Journal:

Consider the widespread use of hexane, a neurotoxin, in processed foods that aren’t certified organic (those lame organic standards do at least prohibit hexane use). Hexane is a highly flammable EPA-listed air pollutant that is used in the manufacture of cleaning agents, glues, roof sealer, automobile tires, energy bars and veggie burgers, as well as soy, corn and canola oils. If these food products are not certified organic, some of the ingredients have probably been processed with hexane, no matter how many times the word “natural” is stamped on the package. Since hexane is used in the manufacturing process, it’s not listed as an ingredient in the foods it helps produce, though residues find their way into the finished product. The European Union has strict standards for acceptable hexane residue levels in soy and oilseed products, but in the U.S., there are no such limits.

Nice! Even nicer, when I flipped over the now-empty wrapper of my Kind bar, "soy lecithin" was on the list of ingredients.

Oh, and if you're wondering why hexane gets a free pass in the U.S., it's because it's a by-product of gasoline production. Why pay to dispose of a toxin when you can get paid to add it to the food supply? You know, like mechanically-reclaimed meat.

My step-son Jason was up here visiting us this week, and while pushing back from the dinner table (chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and salad) my husband told the story about his last date with Spam. We had it as sushi the last time we were on Oahu, and when we got back home he thought to himself, Oh that was so good! I'm going to get a can of Spam and fry it up just like we used to do when the kids were little. He did, and then suffered the rest of the day with the worst headache he's ever had, worse than any hangover headache. Thank you, Spam.

How has it gotten to the point where using a petroleum waste product to get another 5- or 10-percent more food oil over expeller-pressed methods, or treating living chickens like this so we can buy a dozen eggs for $1.69 is now okay? [Don't click that chicken link unless you're made of stern stuff.]

What is wrong with us as a society that price dictates morals?

And, I wonder how many of those vaccine-avoiding parents stop to think, Was my child's autism caused by a vaccine—or the hexane? Or the BPA? Or the...and the list goes on.

I think at this point, when I'm finally dead and cremated, my body's gonna burn like a DuraFlame log.

Gotcha!

2010-12-30T07:13:00.000-08:00

So, since everybody loves to hear when California gets socked by really bad weather, you may have heard that we've...been socked by really bad weather.

Not to be outdone by the deep snow blanketing the Tahoe area, or the crazy rainfall in the Los Angeles area, Humboldt Co. steps up with this report from my friend's house in Fieldbrook, where a perfectly good used Compost Tumbler was crushed by a falling tree:

An Orange for Christmas

2010-12-25T20:13:00.000-08:00

Now that's a good holiday.

Orange Gina rests up after some intense play. A new box, two kinds of catnip mice, wrapping paper and ribbons—definitely a good cat Christmas.

2010-12-24T19:22:00.000-08:00

Chreesy

Creamy-cheesy? Christmas-cheery? Chrazy-veegan?

All I know is it's going on the shelf next to the bread-in-a-can, huitlacoche, and Marmite.

Wall Tree

2010-12-15T07:14:00.000-08:00

I just did a search on ol' Bumblebee Nation, but no hits for "wall tree." How can this be? Wall tree!

Back before G-man and I were married, back when we and a revolving cast of guest-stars were all living in the Chicken Coop in Albany, back when my step-kids were still young, one year we got all the way to Christmas Eve before realizing, Hey! We need to get a Christmas tree.

It was news to us, but when Christmas Eve descends men and women running Christmas tree lots are at home celebrating the holidays with their loved ones. Not standing around in the cold waiting to vend to flaky procrastinators anxious to provide the American Christmas Experience to their children.

So after a frantic race around town and a sinking realization that there was no Christmas trees to be had without resorting to crime, Greg drove home and moped about his failure as a father.

He had two-thirds of the American Christmas Experience completed: wrapped presents hiding in paper shopping bags in the closet, and colored lights decorating the dangerously dilapidated balcony railing out the sliding door. Just no tree. And it's not like the kids complained or moped or said anything about it.

But two-thirds is still only two-thirds to a guy whose friends call "All-or-all Frannie." So early Christmas morning, G-man tossed off the blankets and got up from a fitful night of sleep. When the rest of us woke up later that morning, we shambled down the hall to see that he had taken all the Christmas decorations still sitting in their cardboard storage box and, with a box of pushpins, had crafted a tree out of garlands and lights on the living room wall. Ornaments hung from other pushpins, and the presents sat in a big pile on the floor underneath. Magical!

How can you not marry a guy like that? And every year since, even though we are slightly less flaky and procrastination-prone, we still put up the Wall Tree and pile the presents underneath.

The garlands and lights are from the drug store, the decorations for the most part are painted tin ornaments from Oaxaca. Lower left is our little ceramic, musical Santa Praying Over The Baby Jesus figurine. (Our alien Wise Man from Rachel, Nevada, just outside Area 51 broke last year.) And on the top of the tree is the ornament we got from Kirsten in thanks for finding Huespedes last year.

Airing of Grievances

2010-12-14T06:24:00.000-08:00

(12-13) 14:58 PST Santa Ana, Calif. (AP) --

A Festivus for the rest of us? A convicted drug dealer in California thinks so. He cited his adherence to the holiday celebrated on a famous episode of "Seinfeld" to get better meals at the Orange County Jail.

The Orange County Register reported Monday that Malcolm Alarmo King disliked the salami meals served at the jail, so he used his devotion to Festivus as a reason to get kosher meals reserved for inmates with religious needs.

Keeping kosher is not one of the tenets of Festivus, which was depicted on "Seinfeld" as celebrated with the airing of grievances and the display of an aluminum pole.

Sheriff's spokesman Ryan Burris says King got salami-free meals for two months before the county got the order thrown out in court.

In today's SF Chronicle as well as papers across the country too lazy or cheap to pay reporters to gather local news.

Salami meals? Plural? That's a grievance that needs airing!

Holiday Cards & Other Matters

2010-11-27T19:35:00.000-08:00

As I was splashing through puddles on my mail lady rounds today, it occurred to me it might be time for a post on sending holiday mail.

Holiday cards I just bought two boxes of cards tonight. Here's the thing: people don't send a lot of letters these days, and they're out of practice writing out your address. Holiday cards get misaddressed like crazy. We try really hard to get cards to the recipient, but if we can't, you'll never know unless you put a return address on the card. Please. I hate throwing them in the nixie bin.

Use last names somewhere on the envelope. It hurts to see a card with a bad address sent to "My New Grandson" or "Grandma & Grandpa"—but if there's a last name on the envelope sometimes we can get it to the right house. But a nickname or title and a bad address? Again, the nixie bin.

I don't know about where you live, but here it's raining. Don't use water-soluble ink. Ball-point or Sharpie is nice.

And yes it's fun to have the kids address the envelopes. But please, check them before you mail them.

Oh, and don't put your return-address label in the middle of the back of the envelope. Sometimes the sorting machines think that's the To address, not the From. Put it somewhere along the edges of the envelope, front or back, to avoid getting your own card sent to you.

Postage is 44 cents for a first-class letter that the big sorting machines can handle. That covers 98-percent of holiday cards, so don't worry if it's too heavy and should you put a second stamp on it. It should be fine. However, if the envelope is too small (less than 3.5-inches high and 5-inches long) or too big (more than 6 1/8-inches high and 11.5-inches long), it costs more to mail. If you put a small toy or something in the envelope that makes it puffy, it costs more to mail. If you send it in a stiff mailer so that it will not bend, it costs more to mail. Many mail ladies and mail men pay the difference rather than returning your card to the sender, and if they do, please pay them back.

It costs more for Canada, Mexico, and Europe—98 cents, I think. But double-check that.

Are you sending photos or something you would like to not get bent or folded? Please indicate that on the envelope, and for crissakes, put it in something that won't bend! Machines and burly guys in sweatshirts and work pants are sorting this stuff, and they are not looking for the one or two envelopes in the tub that say "Please do not bend—photos!!!"

If you are mailing something that is fragile, liquid, or perishable, please tell the clerk YES when they ask you. Please. And pack it well! (Remember the burly men.) Every year we get a handful of packages that leak all over everyone else's holiday parcels. And no one wants their present to smell like white gas stove fuel, olive brine, or rotten fruit*. (All things that have broken open and leaked in my mail tub.) Also, you will then have to come down to the Post Office yourself to retrieve your newly-classified HAZMAT package. Not fun.

One more thing about packages. Parcel Post is the slowest, then Media Mail, then First-class parcels. Priority takes 2-3 days, and if you use the free Priority boxes provided by the post office, they ship faster than if you use your own packaging. Yes! It's because the post office boxes, with their standard sizes, fit neatly into trucks and aircraft, while your recycled shoe and banker's boxes do not. So guess which get loaded first?

Oh, and remember! "If it fits, it ships." Just use a LOT of tape. Burly men.

Express Mail arrives the next day. But someone has to sign for it, unless you waive the signature requirement. Unless you really, really need a signature, please waive it. I'm crushed when I try to deliver an Express package or envelope on a Friday, no one's home to sign for it, and it goes back with me to the Post Office until Monday. Bummer.

So, to sum up:
Use last names!
Use return addresses!
No undeclared liquids!

Thank you, and have a very merry holiday season.

thank you, cheezburger

*One year a lady in Florida decided to send a family member a box of fresh Florida fruit. Only she sent it Parcel Post. Then when it got here a week later, that family member wasn't home, so it sat in the Post Office for awhile til they could come down and get it. By this time we had isolated it in Hazmat and sealed it in a big plastic bag because of the stench. When the lady came down to retrieve it, the manager who was helping her tore open the plastic bag, and a huge cloud of fruit flies poured out. We all turned around when the other clerks started shouting, "Close the bag! Close the bag! Aaggh!"

The sister decided she didn't want the box of rotten fruit, so she paid to have it sent back to her sister in Florida.

I can only feel sorry for the clerks on the receiving end.

Crowded

2010-11-15T16:57:00.000-08:00

Would you please move over!

Small Town Doin's

2010-11-15T16:55:00.000-08:00

[Updated! Links to stories online, and a new photo!]

My neighbor roused me from my sick-person's nap to say, "Sorry to disturb you, but did you know there's a bear in the tree behind the Hauser's?"

No, I did not. I put on a sweatshirt and slippers and went around to the back yard where Greg was busy landscaping the fire-pit. "G-man, c'mon! There's a bear next door!"

So there we are, standing around the neighbor's back porch, passing around binoculars and watching people watch the bear. It's been there all day, a woman who works at Arcata House says. The redwood tree hosting the bear is in the Arcata House yard. A photographer is there, waiting for the bear to do something. I don't see the mayor, but Mark from the city council is across the street; he brought his family by earlier for a look. The bear is still sitting there.

Trust me, it's no clearer in this photo than it was to us standing in Donna's yard...see that light patch of bark on the redwood, about the center of the photo? Well, just above and to the left of that is a dark blob, the dark blob of unhappy bear.

UPDATE Here's the link from the front-page story in the Times-Standard. You can see the bear in their picture, too.

...and today's Times-Standard article.

...and a photo from the Co-op security camera!

I love that he's looking in toward the deli...doesn't he know that the coffee bar closes at 6pm? Sheesh.

Peepies update

2010-11-07T09:45:00.000-08:00

Nobody's said anything to me, but aren't you wondering: How come no more Peepies updates?

Because they grew up. And they turned out to be mostly boys.

Now, if you troll Craigslist you're gonna see a lot of ads for free roosters. You could seriously stock your freezer with free roosters. You could do the same with drakes if people kept more ducks. As it is, those of us who do keep ducks want only one drake. Or none.

So what to do with Blackie and the three spotted ducks, the boys? I made some calls, sent some emails, and got in touch with a guy who said he'd help us slaughter them. Only, with my schedule, we could never get together, so Greg ended up helping the guy, Luke. Yes, the same Greg who said "I don't want to be a farmer, leave me out of that!"

The first day they only had time to do one duck, and it ended up being one of the spotted ones, back in the garden and out of sight of the other ducks, who Greg left in their coop. Well, they didn't like being cooped up and made quite a stink...until the hatchet came down on their brother's neck and, even though they couldn't see, they all fell silent.

When I got home the rest of the ducks were out in the yard and the house smelled like...wow. I got whisked to the table and sat down to a feast of duck a l'orange! Seems that Greg kept looking at that duck carcass in the fridge all morning and thought, What the hell...

It was awfully good.

We have since slaughtered (and eaten) the other three drakes, but since that first day, the duck's attitude toward us completely changed, and they are most unfriendly and distrustful! Imagine that. So I think we're hanging up our duck-keepers hat, and are working on giving the remaining girls to a good home. We'll just concentrate on chickens for now.

So who's that colorful fellow in the pond? In the convoluted course of our introduction to duck processing, we ended up with Carlene, a friend's drake that almost got offed but escaped and got back home...where he still wasn't wanted, so we took him in. And the girls, Flip and (in the middle) Gracie really like him, so when they go they'll go as a trio. Gracie and Flip haven't yet started to lay eggs, but should any day now. Stay tuned.

Year of the Kitty

2010-11-07T09:27:00.000-08:00

Remember last year, when I saved every piece of money I found on the street? I did it again this year, and G-man enthusiastically joined in. Halloween night we counted it up. It was quite the International Year of the Kitty.

Last year our international friends expressed astonishment that we could find so many coins on the street, an attitude which seemed strange to me. Don't you always find money lying around? Maybe where the streets are paved with it, you do, but in close to two months time abroad for the two of us this year, we found exactly two coins overseas, a 50-centavos coin in Mexico and a 1-kronar coin in Iceland. But in the US?

1 Euro penny
2 Canadian dimes
1 10-centavos coin
1 Humboldt State University (game? laundry?) token
4 dollar bills
39 quarters
95 dimes
34 nickels
549 pennies

...for a total score of $30.44!

And that doesn't count the iPod I found in the supermarket parking lot.

Racing Towards Winter

2010-11-07T09:14:00.000-08:00

For Halloween/Day of the Dead this year, we decided to add a house-warming element. We invited friends, family, and all the neighbors over to see the place—which meant a furious few days of cleaning—and have snacks and mescal.

The Saturday before Halloween I managed to get home from work before dark (in contrast to the previous Saturday's 12-hour fun-fest) and I spent the time racing out to Paul Giuntoli's pumpkin patch near the Mad River. During the party I pulled out the knives and newspaper and enlisted everyone's help in turning 98 pounds of pumpkin into jack o'lanterns:

You see how green they still are? Hardly any were much bigger than a basketball. Our wet spring and cool summer may have been good for the mushrooms, potatoes, and onions, but they were lousy for pumpkins. So it goes. The display still got a lot of compliments from the steady stream of trick-or-treaters. We also did our standard "Take as much candy as you want" routine. Try it sometime, and watch the faces of the kids and their parents as greedy desire and politeness duke it out.

Our family altar. I think that, wherever the souls of cats go after death, they don't serve very good chow...if you look closely you can see that the dishes holding the cat food are the only ones the spirits ate overnight; the bird treats and human food was seemingly untouched.

Weird.

While I wait...

2010-10-16T19:12:00.000-07:00

...for G-man to get back from Oaxaca with the digital camera, a quick post.

Here's a contestant for the Best Name Ever: Akenaten Flores!

I'm not sure if it's better than Thor Christenson...

However,

Barcus Twombly is still the Best Name Ever.

Going Medieval

2010-09-29T06:47:00.000-07:00

Yes, yes, lousy blogging lately. Blame the Post Office. But during the last week we 1) ended our Pendragon campaign set in Lindsay, and went to our local Medieval fair. Here's the evidence!

Sven getting ready to game. Dice, paper, Becks, Newman Os...yep, we're ready! (Sven also brought his Viking encampment down to the Medieval Fair, along with extra costumes for the rest of us. Huzzah!)

Setting up the Battle Board, aka our card table. All snacks off, please!

"24 on 10d6?! What the...!"
Greg is also famous for being a lousy die-roller, much to the player's delight.

When I travel I look for foreign dice. From left to right, that's a d6 from Japan showing a 2, a bone d6 from Iceland showing a 3, one of the crazy Polish d20s I got at Tentacles Omega in Germany showing a 19, and a Zocchi d6 showing a 6. And that's the character sheet for Sir Theudic le Garde, knight of Leicester, familiaris of Count Agwar, Candlebee. Oh yeah, and traitor to King Arthur. D'oh!

A man and his game having a good time...hey! who left a beer on the bookcase?

Tsk, gamers.

All the Candlebees are down. King Arthur didn't even have to draw Excalibur (which would have been a better end for us!)

So that was the end of the game. It's always a strange campaign when the GM is also play-testing, though Greg might lay the strangeness back on us, the players...Let us raise a horn of spirits to the men of Leicester and their (few) allies! Sir Gwalchmai, dragon-slayer and Round Table knight; Sir Brandagoris of the Ham-bone, fearsome slayer of Saxons; Sir Bledri, the most reckless of all Candlebees; Sir Gwair, a ladies man to the end and the spark that brought about the rise of the County of Leicester; Sir Cynfyn, Devil to the Irish but loyal to a fault to his lord; Sir Padern, gruff and rough and a teacher of young knights; Sir Rhun with the most beautiful hair until the Queen came to court; Sir Amadis, the peasant-knight who finally killed the Black Annis; and finally, our lord Saint Edar Allington, Count of Leicester and Lambor, once King of Oriel and brother-in-law to both King Arthur and Prince Valiant, savior of Britain and known from Norway to Byzantium. Adieu.

The kid in the red tunic is Tristan, getting ready to boff at our local medieval fair. His dad's Steve from our Saturday night group. Steve's character, Sir Extavius, successfully evacuated our player's surviving wifes and children from Britain to Trond, to live at the court of the good Price Valiant (uncle to Count Agwar).

Ooh, game geek!

I got my hair braided at the fair—people didn't recognize me at work the next day! I did take the flowers out, but even so...

Eat it!

2010-08-24T06:30:00.000-07:00

(No one threw marijuana on stage for Weird Al. I don't know; maybe they figured he didn't need it.)

Refreshing the flock

2010-08-20T19:40:00.000-07:00

Somehow this summer, in Benny and Carlin's minds a gauntlet was thrown, a line was crossed, a camel's back was snapped, and they decided they weren't going to take it anymore from those uppity chickens. No sir.

So when they hit their big summer molt, and got itchy and testy they started attacking the chickens. Especially Betty and Frenchy. And by attacking I mean constant trash-talking followed by holding their target down by the neck while the other pummeled or pulled feathers.

All day long!

They couldn't even sleep in the same coop—I made Benny and Carlin sleep with the Peepies in the Rectangular Coop so the chickens (and I) could have a restful night.

So to reestablish flock harmony, I posted Benny and Carlin on Craigslist yesterday, and today a very nice woman with chickens and ducks and goats and dogs and 20 acres came and took them away in a big dog crate in the back of her SUV.

Before she closed the hatch, Carlin gave me a frank stare: Are we going off to die?

"You're going to a new yard. Carlin, you and Benny were good ducks. Thank you." The woman shut the door. "Goodbye!"

Defiance

2010-08-11T06:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, while I was in the kitchen, Vivani asked me for some kibble. But, I pointed out, you have food. Both bowls were full.

I don't like that flavor. I want the fish. I recently found that Evo, their brand of kibble, comes in turkey/chicken and stinky fish. After, what? two years? they were pretty excited about this new flavor, too. She gave me half a pout.

"You've got food already."

Fine. She strolled out the open back door.

An hour or two later, she's back at the food dishes. Favor, she looks up at me, please better food? Only she's licking her chops.

"You went and ate at the neighbor's, didn't you?" More chop-licking. So?

"You've got food already." She strolled back outdoors.

And when it started to get dark (the fog is so thick lately we don't get any sunsets), no Vivani. Went out to put the poultry to bed. Still no Vivani. Hours later, I finally turned off the lights and went to bed, thinking, Okay, she'll wait until I'm in bed then jump onto the bedroom window sill and ask to be let in, a stunt she pulls on my husband all the time. Nope. No cat.

But oh, this morning she was at the back door, all soggy and apologetic and ready for some dasayuno. Orange Gina had hoovered up the kibble from last night's rejected meal, so I put a bowl of fresh Evo down...and a can of their favorite food.

But I let her dry her own damn fur.

My tiny farm

2010-08-07T19:32:00.000-07:00

Now that I know how big our lot is (6100 sf!) I can estimate the size of my garden—or, as I'm now thinking of it, my tiny farm: a grand 1/10 of an acre!

So, what does 1/10 acre only haphazardly utilized get you?

-Blackberries
-Garlic
-Potatoes
-Strawberries
-Herbs (sages, oreganos, basil, parsley, chervil)
-Tomatoes
-Zucchini
-Huckleberries
-Eggs (chicken and duck)

Still to come:

-Shallots
-Pumpkins
-Winter squash
-more potatoes

Not too shabby!

Is it okay to weasel?

2010-08-07T05:51:00.000-07:00

Got a call from Greg this morning, who had a few minutes before he had to dash off to a LARP. The Kraken game convention is going very well, and he's having a great time. He's been showing the Europeans Crisis, a boardgame by the Hain Bros. It's a riff of the Life board game, except with crime and a bus pass for those who can't afford to start off with a car. Greg somehow managed to squeeze the box into his already-full luggage. Since they didn't make a lot of them, it's hard to come by and a lot of people have never played it. (Valley of the Mammoths, a really fun game, wouldn't fit in Greg's bag with Crisis already in there, so he left it. Too bad, too, since down the road from the schloss where The Kraken takes place is an elephant sanctuary. Plenty of atmospheric odor when the wind is right, says Greg.)

Does this make me look medieval?

So, Crisis. American gamers gleefully play weasel cards on each other ("I see you downloaded some movies off the Internet...that's illegal! Tell you what: you can pay a fine of $200, or give me $100 not to say anything!") but Greg said the Europeans were having trouble getting behind weaseling. They didn't feel comfortable doing that to each other! Which is not what I would have guessed from reading The Economist every week.

Except the Finns and the Dutch. They got right into it, no hesitation at all.

Sure does seem to be a lot of french fry consumption this trip.

Land-lubber

2010-08-05T20:04:00.000-07:00

"The worst day fishing is better than the best day working." Or so says Anonymous. Who wouldn't like sliding out into Trinidad Bay at a quarter past six in the morning, all bundled up against the fog and spray? Dark trees on the hills, gulls and bat stars and murres and sea lions, A reusable shopping bag with sandwiches, grapes, hard-boiled eggs, and tea. It was so pretty.

Even though the salmon seem to have taken a pass on the fishing season this summer, the rockfish were biting, and Dale, Capt. Tom, and I were hauling them up with regularity. So exciting, to look down and see your blue plastic tubby filling with black rockfish.

And I didn't mind going to the back of the boat and puking every fifteen minutes or so. Get queasy, vomit, feel fine, repeat as necessary.

Only, when the "repeat as necessary" became all the time, I started to not have fun. Dale says I actually turned green. So it was a mercifully short trip.

But, I'll say it again—up til I was continually, debilitatingly nauseous, I was having a great time. So yeah, I'm putting in a plug for Capt. Tom and the Jumpin' Jack out of Trinidad Bay.

(That's the Jumpin' Jack and some lounging otters off the Trinidad Bay Charters website.)

Now, the next four hours curled in a fetal ball in bed wracked with chills because I'd taken too many seasickness pills in a last-ditch attempt to salvage the morning? Entirely my own fault!

The Pendragon Eschille

2010-07-31T19:42:00.000-07:00

Got a letter and package in the mail the other day. The books were for Greg, but this was for me:

Stoked! I didn't get to go to Continuum, out in exotic Leicester, this year, where The Pendragon Eschille unleashed its awesomeness against gamers during a role-playing tour de force. When Greg mentioned the Eschille and what they were doing at the con, I said how cool would that be, to have a Pendragon Eschille t-shirt...and lo and behold! those great guys sent one to the Schlepper of Books at Conventions.

Thanks, guys! It will be my official Pendragon GM tee when we start up the next campaign in a few weeks time.

States of Matter

2010-07-31T19:24:00.000-07:00

Our friend Dale is in town from Belize for the summer. He brought us habanero pepper sauces, and coconut oil. He brought the traditional kind of oil, too, sold in a reused rum bottle. Only what is a liquid in the tropical Belize winter...

...is a solid in the frigid Humboldt summer.

So while it's no longer in its cool rum bottle, at least I can dig it out with a spoon now!

A message

2010-07-30T06:14:00.000-07:00

The Castle of Butter? ...

Mmm, whatever that was, it was good!

Oh, the message!

Held prisoner by k richard's men
See facebook for detAils
I am working on an escape

Ahh, coffee!

2010-07-29T06:57:00.000-07:00

Somebody's having fun in France...

Iceland: Arctic Circle

2010-07-20T20:49:00.000-07:00

Once I'd booked my flight to Iceland, I spent a fair amount of time deciding what I would do for the other week I was there. Thingvellir? Rent a car and tour the Ring Road? Backpack the Westfjords or the Langidalur track? Go Saga-touring? Decisions, decisions.

Being by myself, I decided that rather than deal with the crazy glacial rivers along the Langidalur track or the empty wastes of the Westfjords, I would fly to Akuryeri and take a short trip to Grímsey and the Arctic Circle.

That's A-town along the shores of the fjord. The hills on other side of the fjord were snow-topped, even in July. Also, despite what Wikipedia says about the moderate climate, it was cold, 9-11 degrees C. That's a "moderate" 48 to 52 degrees Fahrenheit, folks. The second thing I did when I got to town was buy a thick, Icelandic wool sweater. The first thing was figure out how to get from the rinky-dink airport to my guesthouse in town. Because by the time I landed, that arctic wind was whipping down the fjord and I was freezing...and that's when I realized the local bus did not come down to the airport. I went outside to start walking with my thumb out when a car pulled up—Jon from the guesthouse! Saved!

I had the next morning to explore the town—Iceland's second biggest, and about the size of Arcata, where I live—before catching my flight to Grímsey. I've got a lot of good to say about Akureyri. Not only is the setting picturesque, but how cool of the town to put the public swimming pool across the street from the campground, both right in the middle of town?

I also have a lot of good to say about Nonni Travel, the company that hooked me up with my excellent Arctic adventure. When I got to my guesthouse, Jon said I had a packet waiting for me in my room. It was my tickets, my itinerary, and some brochures for Nonni's other trips. (If I had known early enough, I would have taken them up on one of their daytrips to Greenland...!) The whole day went super-smooth. I walked down to the airport (in the morning and without that awful wind I realized it wasn't even two miles from my guesthouse to the airport—chump change!), rolled onto a tiny plane and had a pretty flight up the fjord, over the North Atlantic Sea and into tiny little Grímsey. The other dozen people on the flight disappeared while I lingered, using the bathroom, looking at the photos on the wall, and talking to the single airport attendant, a happy woman named Gagga. While Gagga arranged a return flight for some very green tourists, I stepped outside and sized up the weather. Chilly, but not too bad. And, like I said, suddenly the little airport was empty.

Gagga explained that it's better to fly onto the island and take the ferry back rather than vice versa, as the boat trip back to the mainland runs with the wind instead of against it. She also said the Arctic Circle was just past the end of the runway, and was marked, and pointed out where the cafe and handicrafts store was in Sandvik, the tiny town on tiny Grímsey. I thanked her for her time, bundled up and set off north!

OMG—puffins! Lots and lots of puffins. And terns. And gulls. And skuas. And...well, a lot of birds. The whole island smelled of the poop of birds that eat only oily fish.

Puffins look like bumble bees when they fly. They're often on the menu in Iceland, but I didn't manage to sample any...I did, however, eat guillemot. Mmm, good!

I looked, but did not see the Arctic Circle indicator as Gagga had said, so I hoofed it to the end of the island, just to make sure. See that little bulge in the middle of the photo? That's the end of the island, here:

Once I was past the end of the runway, where the rest of my flight gathered in a tight knot of misery, I saw no one. Only birds. It was fabulous!

D'oh! You mean this marker? Yeah, walked right past that...but there it is: the Arctic Circle marker on Grímsey.

I had to hustle back into town so I wouldn't miss the ferry back to the mainland. Not much happening in the cafe or handicrafts shop, but the harbor was bustling with action from a fishing tournament.

That's Sandvik, the town on the island, with about 100 residents. I popped my motion-sickness pill, got on the ferry, and we set off on the four hour ride back to Dalvik, the little port just north of Akureyri.

Entering the fjord. The sun's come out, but the wind's come up. too. Brr.

I am wearing a t-shirt, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, a thick wool sweater, and my raincoat, and I am just comfortable. Once we docked in Dalvik and I started looking for my bus back to Akureyri (all arranged by Nonni Travel), I was terribly cold. Good thing that bus was there pronto. And again, I was all by myself—everyone else on the ferry took cars. So since it was just me, the bus driver said he'd drop me off wherever I wanted, instead of at the bus station. Thanks, dude!

It was an awesome, awesome trip.

People (and guidebooks) warned that the constant daylight would be hard to deal with, especially since most guest lodgings don't have light-proof window coverings. I managed by telling myself every evening, "Okay, time for a nap." That made all the difference in the world. I expect it to be light out when I take a nap, so I wasn't discombobulated. Oh, and this picture? Taken out my guesthouse window at 3 a.m. It's a little on the dark side because it was raining at the time. But it never got dark enough to not be able to read.

Iceland: Thórsmörk

2010-07-20T20:31:00.000-07:00

While we were in Thórsmörk, we took several short rides throughout the day, but on the last afternoon we were left to our own devices. I had already taught the 10-year-old girls in the group how to play Slapjack and Crazy 8s, so I left them my playing cards, grabbed a beer and a pocketful of cookies, and headed out on a stroll through the park.

On the ridge above Husdalur. Too cold to sit and enjoy the ashy view with my beer, so I kept on truckin'.

Langidalur is the usual starting point for the Langidalur trek, a 50km jaunt over the mountains and between the glaciers. During the course of my afternoon stroll I kept running into groups of trekkers, all serious with their GoreTex and hiking poles and big-ass backpacks...and me, in my Crocs, beer in hand to say "Howdy!"

I wandered over to Langidalur, dropped off my empty in the recycling bin, and enjoyed the scenery for a bit before heading back. Because it was always daylight and the sun did not make its usual arc across the sky, and because I had no watch or functioning cell phone, I never knew what time it was. Gudmund had said, "Dinner at 7:30," and I had an idea of the time from my internal clock...I came strolling back onto the grounds of Husdalur about 8pm and passed Gudmund at the grill, poking some lamb steaks. "They said you went hiking over by the river."

I stopped to eye the lamb meat. "Yeah, but it was too windy on the ridge, so I walked through the woods to Langidalur."

"So, you didn't fall in or get lost." He's keeping his cards close to his chest.

"No, I like to walk. I usually turn up."

He eyes me, then says, "Well, go get a plate and get some lamb."

I strolled into the kitchen/common room and everybody in our riding group said practically at once, "Where were you?! You're alive!" Uh, yeah.

"Any potatoes left?"

Iceland: Full Tölt Ahead

2010-07-20T19:54:00.000-07:00

Three things happened last year to help me pick my vacation destination. One, my friend David went to Iceland and loved it. Two, my friend Terri let me ride her horse. Three, the global recession.

Yes!

Somewhere in there may have been an article on native horse breeds because over the winter horse and Iceland and cheap percolated together and came out hiking and riding Icelandic ponies in the backcountry. When I saw that the week of the riding tour was open on the leave board at work, and that I could get a cheap ticket, I went for it.

Those are promotional photos off the Eldhestar website. Aside from the hazmat-looking weather gear, it looks stunningly fun. I mean, who wouldn't want to ride for hours a day cross-country—especially after not having been on a horse for, oh, 30-odd years?

So I signed up for lessons with a woman out in Bayside, and started squirreling away light and warm outdoor weather gear for the trip.

(I realize, in going through these photos, that Iceland appears most sunny and inviting...which it was, kind of. The sun did come out and it'd get up to 13 or 14 degrees C—about 57 in Fahrenheit! Mostly it was partly sunny, partly cloudy with varying amounts of wind, and mostly 11 or 12 degrees C (52 or 53 Fahrenheit. In the north, in Akureyri, when the afternoon wind would race down the fjord, I would shiver even wearing all my stuff. But back to the south, where I started my trip: looks sunny, felt cold.)

This is Skalakot farm in the south of Iceland, where we started our ride. In the mountains behind the farm are glaciers and Eyjafjallajökull, the volcano that disrupted air travel earlier in the year.

The horses never wore halters, but just ran loose. When it was time to saddle up, they'd come into a paddock to be bridled. That's Gudmund there, the owner of Skalakot where we started our trip.

We stopped at Skógafoss, a waterfall on the way to Thórsmörk, our ultimate destination, and again, just let the extra horses accompanying us roam where they would.

I don't know who I'm holding on the left—I had a real hard time with the ponies Icelandic names—but that's Spyta on my right. I rode her the most because she wanted to be in the front, knew the route (so I could spend my attention sight-seeing), and had a beautiful canter which she wasn't shy about using.

Wonderfully shaggy animals. Those manes were great hand-warmers, too!

These horses were like a box of crayons—all sorts of colors. I don't even know what you'd call these handsome boys, who had white manes and brown dappled bodies.

The nice thing about riding all day was, with the tölt we moved at a pretty good clip but without the innards-hating jounce of a trot. Plus, every couple of hours the support 4x4 would pull up and we'd have tea and cookies, or sandwiches. We could also switch horses if we wanted, which I tried, but always ended up back on Spyta. She stumbled a lot, was grumpy in the morning, but we got on well.

We had been warned in the morning that our getting into Thórsmörk park was contingent on which way the wind was blowing, as Eyjafjallajökull was still putting out ash. Our ride in the morning was green and lovely, but when we turned to go into the gorge where the park is, the wind changed, too.

I did not change the settings on my camera; that's how everything looked once we got into the wind-blown ash, like being on the moon. Gudmund handed out masks and goggles and we rode on until we reached the river and we had to switch to some serious 4-wheel vehicles. The horses swam the river unencumbered, then we crossed on our super-truck with our saddles. Our support 4x4 followed.

This kind of crossing was considered no biggie, even though I was nervous and I was riding in the big truck!

The ash at this point was so thick that we rode the truck the rest of the way into Thórsmörk, to Husdalur where we spent the next two nights.

The small paddock where the horses would go to be bridled and saddled in the mornings.

When we weren't riding the horses grazed and wandered where they would, much to the delight of the other guests at Husdalur.

The rivers criss-crossing Thórsmörk are outrageous; even the streams are something to see. I was actually glad not to be backpacking where I would have to ford them; it was enough to do so on horseback or 4x4. There's still quite a bit of ash in the air as the river looks gray and we're still wearing our goggles.

Group shot! I'm in the middle, in my green rain jacket. I could not bring myself to wear the bright orange vinyl raingear provided—it was neither that cold nor that wet. Or so I thought. Hey, I'm just a Humboldt Co. girl...most of the other riders were Scandanavian, with one New Yorker and one German. So why are the Scandanavians wearing the orange? Good question...

Bad Poultry!

2010-07-20T18:47:00.000-07:00

The guy painting our house left the garden gate open, with predictable results...

...decimated lettuce and chard beds. Oh, and they were doing so well!

Very, very bad poultry!

Cool New Socks

2010-06-24T18:59:00.000-07:00

... courtesy of Paula, my riding instructor. I am now officially Ready For Iceland! ...

Shell Game

2010-06-15T07:19:00.000-07:00

Living in a college town, as I do, means accepting certain rhythms in town life. Right now, Arcata's in the midst of its blissfully quiet summer vacation: few students, little traffic, quiet weekend nights. That's the upside. The downside, especially for those folks living out in the Bottoms, is a surge in abandoned pets.

(When we lived in Berkeley, the end of May meant Shopping Day as thousands of UCBerkeley students with more money than sense unloaded furniture, clothing, and whatnot onto city sidewalks in a Bay Area phenomenon known as put-out.)

(In an interesting side note, I could not find a link explaining the Bay Area habit of put-out, which is you put stuff you don't want out on the sidewalk in front of your dwelling, and people take what they want. You then discard whatever's left after a suitably short period of time—or get a littering ticket. There are put-out rules, too, such as: it has to be on the sidewalk. If it's on the lawn or stoop, it is NOT put-out. You are not supposed to put out garbage; nobody wants that. But a bag of recycling is valid put-out. Etc.)

But back to Arcata and dumped pets.

So about three weeks ago, this scraggly long-haired black cat showed up in our neighborhood. He doesn't belong to anybody we know of. At first he was looking really ratty, but someone is brushing him now (or maybe he just shed the extra fur...he's not wearing a collar). I see him in the mornings and evenings, mostly hanging out with the Hauser's cats next door, Big Red and Extra Red.

In his pitiful period, when he first showed up, I'd see him giving our door The Eye, so I started setting out a bowl of kibble for him in the mornings.

At first, he'd come by, eat the whole bowl, then disappear. But then he started showing up with Extra Red. Then Extra Red would stop by himself and ask for a bowl, and Extra Red has those Puss 'n' Boots liquid eyes down pat. Then sometimes it would be Ratty Black Cat and Extra Red together. Or Extra Fluffy from around the corner, and I know someone's feeding her 'cause she's rotund. Even Big Red will make an appearance at the food bowl. Then whoever showed up for the meal wanders off to the next food bowl...

Ratty Black Cat and Extra Red on their way to the Hauser's breakfast buffet.

So now I'm asking myself, am I being played? What's going on here? I've even seen Vivani Catpants sitting nose-to-nose with Extra Red...no aggression, just companionable silence! Sure, they break it off when they see me watching them, but I'm on to it. Could it be...holy moly, could I have gotten a peek at the secret, underground network of cats working a neighborhood? Have I stumbled onto the Cat Club?!

Livin' La Vida Afuera

2010-06-12T06:07:00.000-07:00

The Peepies turned three weeks old this Thursday. I was too busy to do anything about it, but today after I got home from work I made them a little pen out back for some fresh air:

They were 1) not happy to be corralled into the cat carrier and 2) not happy to have to wait for their dinner. They sat huddled in the sunshine appraising their new situation. When I put their pan of kibble down they begrudgingly said it was okay. Same when I put a pan of water down for them to bathe and have a little salad:

Suspicious Peepie minds

After dinner and a bath they felt better about things, and spent the next few hours sitting around and chatting about the day's events.

The bigger chicks—Big Spots, Blonde, and No Spots—are now a meaty two-handsful when I pick them up. Again, they weren't thrilled when it was time for their shuttle-cab back to the coop, but they were happy to be home once they arrived.

Still no quacking, still all down. Just more of it.

30 minutes of fun

2010-06-06T18:59:00.000-07:00

It was a straw-and-feathers toy with a bit of catnip hidden inside...

...it took Vivani Catpants about half an hour to pull this strange bird's feathers out, then crunch its bones into bits. Good craic—not sure it was worth five dollars, though.

Dinner Salad

2010-06-06T18:54:00.000-07:00

Mmm, chopped spinich with waterfowl starter crumbles. Yum!

(In other news, the Peepies are now permanantly residing

outside in the spare coop due to the unbelievable, poopy stench.)

Tea Time for the Peepies

2010-06-01T19:39:00.000-07:00

We had a warm, humid day in Humboldt Co., so the Peepies got a lot of yard time. Mostly bathing during the day—lots of splashing, some bathing—but when I got home I decided it was tea time.

I put their water out, then picked through the strawberry patch for soft or bug-eaten berries. I even dug up some worms for an added kick. They went nuts.

We can still tell them apart pretty easily, not just in size—Blackie is about a quarter the size of Big Spots—but colors, too. Blackie, Brown, Blonde (we're hoping), Big Spots, Little Spots, and No Spots. In the picture above, Brown is in the middle, Blackie is lower left, Little Spots is lower right, Big Spots is closest to the watering can, No Spots is top left, and Blonde is to No Spots' right. They will be two weeks old this Thursday.

Several of the ducklings are now using their oil gland (at the base of their tail) while preening their down. Nobody is quacking yet; that won't happen for several weeks yet, and will be our first indication of who is a boy and who is a girl. (Girls quack; boys don't.) They are expert little dabblers, and will empty their quart-sized watering can in about ten minutes.

Curious ducklings ask, "Is that edible?"

Peepies: one week old today!

2010-05-27T17:42:00.000-07:00

The little chirping, pooping, splashing machines are a week old today.

What time is it?

2010-05-27T06:28:00.000-07:00

Get on it, people!

I'm famous

2010-05-26T19:12:00.000-07:00

Delivering the goods during the USPS food drive, sporting my non-reg do-rag and socks!

Photo by Dana Utman (Arcata's own City-4 carrier!) and run in The Arcata Eye.

Fancy Pants

2010-05-26T18:12:00.000-07:00

Meet the Peepies

2010-05-24T06:26:00.000-07:00

We've had no luck getting adult ducks off CL, or even ducklings at the local feed stores, so when I saw a CL ad for runner ducklings born 5/20, we jumped:

We took six because we won't know if they're boys or girls until they feather out, and we wanted to increase our odds of getting girls who will lay us (and our neighbors) many tasty eggs. The size difference among them is pretty astonishing.

We have their security box, topped with cat-proof hardware cloth, in the dining rincon. It's still too cold for them to be kept outside, even at the tail-end of May. (Thank you, Humboldt!) The eerie red glow is from their heat lamp. Out of frame is the complete mess they made the moment I put them in the box. They accomplished this despite the box being empty of anything other than themselves and their waterer.

This is what the Peepies do when they're upset: huddle in the corner and peep really loudly. As soon as I put the wire top back on, they raced across the box to their refreshed food and water and began splashing about again. (I refill their quart-sized waterer two or three times a day!)

Tri-Tip

2010-05-20T06:54:00.000-07:00

Why is it impossible to have an outdoor event or fund-raiser dinner in this county without tri-tip? What is the fascination?

Oh, sure, every so often one of the local tribes has a salmon cookout just to mix things up, but then it's right back to the beef. Not ribs, not hamburgers, not t-bones or rib-eyes or skirt steak. Tri-tip only.

It's weird, I tell you.

Accretion

2010-05-07T20:31:00.001-07:00

Who Knew?

2010-05-06T18:05:00.000-07:00

Say What?

2010-05-05T16:15:00.000-07:00

So, Texas. Like California, a state with a lot of personality.

You can drive a Chevy, you can eat lots and lots of meat, you can shop at H.E.B, but...you're not from around here, are you? No sir, I am not.

Yes, the tattoos—but I could be from Austin. However, I say "awesome" and "dude" to the girl behind the counter of Jim's Krispy Fried Chicken, so I'm probably not.

But that is not my only linguistic giveaway. Thanks to fringe extremists and sensation-driven TV news, most people know that Waco is pronounced WAY-co. Can't get me on that one.

And I've heard plenty of Texans stumble over Mexia, but my mom hipped me to that: Muh-HEY-uh.

And Corsicana, that's an easy one: Coarse-uh-CAN-uh.

But it gets trickier. You might think after seeing Corsicana that Tejuacana was, well, Tay-wuh-CAN-uh. I did. But the ladies at my mom's hairdresser said, No, it's uh...then launched into a discussion of how to say it AND how to spell it. I gave up trying to follow along, but when I later saw the Tejuacana River sign on the highway, I not only knew how to spell it but that it's really pronounced Teh-WHO-kuh-nuh.

Yeah, that's right. Teh-WHO-kuh-nuh.

And it's Palestine, only you pronounce it the other way from the country, so remind me again which way you say the country and which way again you say the town, and we'll be square.

Look who's blending in!

Spring Flowers

2010-04-30T06:26:00.000-07:00

Yeah, if the weather's crazy it must be spring-time in Humboldt Co. I think that hail one day and sunny blue skies the next counts as crazy, especially in April. Last Friday I took advantage of the sunny skies to photograph the flowers in the New Vitality Homeland's yard:

I don't know what these are, but I have a lot of them in the yard...a legacy of tenants past.

Some lovely weeds in the poo zone, looking north toward the tiny home behind us.

More of those white & yellow mystery flowers, plus some bonus mystery pink flowers.

Any clues as to what these are?

The sage in the herb box is going nuts. That was $3.99 well spent!

No yard in California is complete without some California poppies.

Ooh! Ruffles.

I am in love with California poppies. It's hard to beat a grass-Oak savannah covered with green spring-time grass and sprinkled with poppies, Blue Dicks, and Blue-eyed Grass, especially with a blue, blue sky background.

I love this yard!

Fun in the Heartland

2010-04-27T09:16:00.000-07:00

It's spring time, and that means we're fixin' to take a trip to the HOT, HOT Heart of Texas, folks!

Greg and I have had our fill of Texas summers, what with the triple-digit heat and the ice tea sold by the gallon. We prefer spring-time visits: everything's all green and pretty, we miss the 4/20 celebration in our hometown, and the visit coincides with my mom's birthday. It could only be better if it also coincided with peach season, but you can't have everything.

But, you can have a much-needed break from work—no Internet access assures us of that—to see family, get all the way through a couple of books and a handful of magazines, and have some down-home fun.

First up on the Fun-o-Meter was Waco. Yes, Waco! Home to my brother and sister-in-law, the Mayborn Museum at Baylor University, and the brand-spanking new Waco Mammoth Center.

Mom contemplating the mammoth bones...a treacherous bend in an old river caught several groups of mammoths off-guard, drowning them. And there the bones lay until some guys looking for arrowheads found them sticking out of that old river bank. Some bones were removed to the Mayborn; others were left in situ and a protective shed build around and over them.

While my mom, my cousin, and I looked at the bones, Greg talked to the guide (in the blue shirt) and Mr. Schwartz, a retired biology professor touring the center with his wife. They'd seen the bones before any of this was built, while everyone was waiting for funding to come together.

Another day, we got to tour some of Waco's finest medical facilities while I got the retina of my right eye examined, but that's another story.

Really, the big deal in the Heart of Texas during spring are the blue bonnets. It's the state flower, and they are all over the place in April, especially with all the rain they got this year.

Indian Paintbrush and Blue Bonnet, the wildflowers of Texas.

During the Blue Bonnet bloom, people take their babies and toddlers out and plunk them down in the flowers for a photo. Good ones end up being shown on the TV news. So on the drive back from Waco we pulled over and plunked ourselves down in the flowers for our own classic pose.

Museums, fruit cake, trips to procure barbeque and local charcuterie, drives to see the flowers...what else does a body need? That's right, some time on a real Texas ranch! Off to my cousin's property in Mexia to see the animals.

Loading up the Gator! Where's the beer?

In other posts I've bemoaned the fact that I often don't blend in at these down-home events, a fact I blame on my headwear. So this year my cousin Steve was prepared with a real, bona-fide down-home cap for all of us. (Thanks, dude!) There's my mom, Greg, and Steve loading up the Gator with feed for the horses; we loaded up Brownie, the farm truck, with a couple of bags of pellets for the cows, too.

When the cows see Steve, they come running. I admit, it's a little frightening to see a couple dozen cows running straight for you, lowing and jostling for position...good thing they're friendly!

Photobomb!

Last year, the neighbor's stallion broke through the fencing and got onto my cousin's property. He was only there for the day, but it was long enough for them to inquire about child support...their mare, Star, a roan Quarter Horse, gave birth the day after we got there to this little pinto filly, as yet unnamed but cute as a bug.

After feeding the animals and playing on the semi-dangerous farm equipment, we sat down to dinner. After we ate, we loaded up again and went out to burn stuff:

The burning begins...Steve saves brush piles for us to torch. And yes, that is a bottle of Shiner Bock! We bring Budweiser for my cousin.

After the brush piles got going, we moved on to fireworks.

It looked better in person.

No Californians were harmed in the making of this bonfire. (That's my cousin JoAnna peeking over Greg's shoulder.) And check out that cool new redneck hat!

The next morning we were up at 3:30am to make our flight back to Humboldt Co. That Saturday in Mexia it was in the low 80s with a light breeze and clear skies. When we got off the plane in McKinleyville, it was in the 40s and blowing like crazy. We returned our shorts to the deepest recesses of our closet. Today, it's pouring rain and we've turned the heater back on.

Welcome home!

Shhhh...

2010-04-15T16:33:00.000-07:00

...I'm blending.

(I would not have thought so, but Vivani's torbie fur lets her blend into surroundings I would not think possible. Our ugly renter's carpet? Sure. Brown grass, green grass (!), shrubs, the loud, orange comfy chair...it's an all-purpose coat. A technicolor coat of marvels.)

Going to the Country

2010-04-08T18:13:00.000-07:00

So if in mid-March Ives the Rooster was not yet crowing, let me assure you that this week, he is. He started with some practice crows in the afternoon. If you've ever heard a boy's voice change, you know what Ives sounded like. Also, about the time Ives was practicing his scales, his ladies, Coco and Chanel started laying eggs.

A variety pack of backyard eggs. The white one on the left is a duck egg; the dark brown ones are Maran eggs; the lighter brown eggs (including the tiny egg!) are assorted Wyandotte, Astralorp, Orpington, and Rhode Island Red eggs. And yes, I am thinking about getting an Araucana hen or two!

Being new hens, Chanel and Coco are also practicing, but they are concentrating on production techniques. We know from past experience that in addition to size variations, contents are not yet standardized. Kind of like a Kinder Surprise, except sometimes there's a Sanity Roll waiting for you when you crack open the egg. So we're going to wait a bit before offering those lovely chocolatey-brown eggs for sale to our neighbors.

But in the meantime, there is Ives and his crowing. He's finished practicing now. All the birds are noisy, even the ducks, and I wouldn't mind (nor would my neighbors, I suspect) if he contained his crowing to daylight hours. But all week he's been crowing lustily for upwards of half an hour right at dawn. I suspect my neighbors are not on board with that.

Ives and his ladies...and Marilyn. She and her cohort, Pearl, rule with an iron beak. Greg calls them Patty and Selma.

When I got these three Marans back in, what was it? November? I said when the cockerel became a problem I'd off him. Because I wanted to know if I could. Then Lola got sick and I had to off her—at which point I was certain I didn't want to raise meat chickens. So I've been bummed that Ives insists on crowing at dawn, and that we live smack-dab in the middle of town. If he was mean, it'd be easy to kill him. But he's not! He's super mellow.

Earlier this week the woman I take riding lessons from asked me how the chickens were...in addition to horses and chickens [was that an earthquake?] she has cats and sheep. I told her the hens were fine, but the rooster...that's when she said, "Bring him here!" YES. Problem solved.

[Yeah, a 4.5 on the Gorda Plate. That was weird.]

So tomorrow Ives is going to the farm, and this time it is NOT a euphemism. How nice. I'm glad he's gonna live.

Isn't that a handsome lad? Too bad about the crowing.

April in Humboldt

2010-04-04T13:45:00.000-07:00

I was determined to get some garden work done today. We are moving soon and I have to put raised beds in at the new place so I can move my plants, and build a new coop for the poultry. ... Paycheck-earning work, the weather, and my own nagging, cold-riddled health kept me from doing anything on either project during March.

But today was a day off, and like I said, I was determined to git 'er done. The wind was already kicking up when I borrowed the van to get some lumber, and by the time the folks at Ace were cutting the boards to size it was coming down.

Still, I was out in the yard hammering together the beds and dumping in soil while my work pants soaked through and my shoes filled with water. Once I started to feel cold, though, I threw in the towel, picked up my tools and got in Charm. (The good thing about being a backpacker is I have plenty of good-quality outdoor gear so I mostly stayed dry—too bad my rain-pants are in my satchel at the Post Office!)

Driving home, that's when I noticed the big, puffy flakes falling from the sky:

Welcome to spring time in Humboldt County!

Waxwings!

2010-04-04T13:37:00.000-07:00

They stop in to eat the holly berries in the backyard trees.

After Tentacles Comes...the Kraken!

2010-03-25T05:47:00.001-07:00

Castle Stahleck, photo by Darran Sims

Tentacles was the best gaming convention I ever attended, hands down. That's Castle Stahleck, on the Rhine, where the event was held every year. Awesome! Chris Jensen Romer interviewed Fabian Kuchler, one of the organizers, about the event and its successor, The Kraken. If you're a true gamer, and have a week or so to jet off to Germany, it will so be worth it.

Schloss Neuhausen (c) Schloss Neuhausen

From castle to chateau...or schloss.

My bad

2010-03-21T08:36:00.000-07:00

I saw the kitchen timer sitting in the trash.

"Why is this in the trash?"

From the office, "It doesn't work."

"Yes it does!"

The next morning it was back on the shelf by the kitchen window.

...

"What are you doing?"

"Art project."

"What is that smell?"

"The kitchen timer doesn't work. I had it sitting next to me in the office."

"Oh.

Sorry.

You were right."

Chicken Porn

2010-03-16T18:11:00.001-07:00

I was relating the story of Lola the hen's passing to some of the women who work at our local Co-op grocery, and lamenting the lack of useful books on backyard poultry-keeping for the true hobbyist. I've seen plenty of books on chickens as backyard pets, or small-scale chicken husbandry. But books on backyard pets do not cover slaughtering your pets for Sunday dinner, and small-scale animal husbandry books—where small-scale is roughly under a thousand birds—aren't for people keeping chickens in a suburban backyard.

Well, those agriculturally-hip ladies turned me onto Storey's Guide to Raising Chickens. It is perfect. Gail Damerow, the author, details Choosing a Breed, Fowl Disposition (fowl language, peck order), Shelter (free range, fenced range, portable shelters, permanant shelters, cages, fences, to give you an idea of the range of situations covered), Routine Management (cannibalism (!), dealing with manure, handling chickens), Meat on the Table...and so on.

Under Laying Hen Management is a section, "Distinguishing Layers from Liars." Some hens, you see, are awful layers. Even if they are an egg-laying breed. She describes how to ferret out these slackers from within your flock. They involve getting personal with the hen's private area. So since I am now pretty sure I'd like to concentrate on laying hens rather than meat, breeding, or show hens, I have been getting up in my hen's business to see if they are good layers...with the intention of culling any poor layers.

The good news is, everyone has a "large, moist, oval vent" so no one's getting whacked.

That's Ives, our Maran cockerel. He hatched in October, and he's now as big as Betty Astralorp, our largest hen. His Maran ladies, Chanel and Coco, are bigger than Sonja the RIR (our smallest hen), but haven't yet started to lay. Ives is a very pretty, mellow guy—yet Marilyn picks on him relentlessly. No crowing yet. Which is a good thing for Ives.

Foggy Bottom Milk Run

2010-03-15T18:06:00.000-07:00

My first-ever foot race, Ferndale's Foggy Bottom Milk Run! (The photo of my cow-covered race shirt has to wait until we do laundry.) 4 miles, 45 minutes. Yes, I know. It's okay to laugh. But at least I came in ahead of the old people and children.

Someone is feeling better

2010-03-14T09:20:00.001-07:00

Three-day Weekend

2010-03-02T19:35:00.001-08:00

I had a three-day weekend. Actually, I have them fairly regularly on my schedule at work...then I come in and see that I'm scheduled to work two days out of the three. So I've gotten smart and started making appointments in the Bay Area whenever they come up.

The day before we left: Greg working on Pendragon under the watchful editorial gaze of Orange Gina. Little do the Gatitas Holas know that soon their servants will disappear. Who will open the door?

Greg and Charm* on the streets of Berkeley. Bodywork out of the way, the next agenda item is food, and lots of it. The big problem with Humboldt isn't that there are no minorities or foreign-born Americans, it's that there aren't enough of any one ethnicity for them to cook for each other. They just cook for all the good ol' boys and girls coming in from the sticks. Ugh. First up: Ethopian food at Cafe Colucci! (We tried again to go to Kirala, but they were closed. Someday.)

*Charm is the 74 Volkswagen Bug we bought during my last three-day weekend. Thanks, Craigslist!

Despite the epic feed of the previous evening, here we are, wolfing down breakfast at Bette's Oceanfront Diner. Light on the Oceanfront, heavy on the goodness. I do not like hash—early exposure to canned hash, courtesy of Greg, saw to that—but the hash at Bette's is dynamite. Still, I got the pancakes. And lots of coffee.

We did a lot of this. Probably because we've done so little of it lately. I always underestimate the luxury of just eating and sleeping. And not a cat-hair in sight!

One night in Berkeley, one night in San Francisco. What did we do in The City? Dude! We slept and ate. We hit El Castillo for carnitas tacos (I could not have forced down an entire burrito at that point, sad to say) and Lers Ros Thai where we had pad thai (we were tired) and spicy Thai-style sausage. We tried to get into Mama's for breakfast the next day, because I was down for some french toast, but the line was down the block! Just like Vik's in Berkeley, where we fled in dismay: not only does Vik's now have TWO parking lots, they have a brand spanking-new (and nice) building. Wow. It used to be a warehouse with an attached market, where you had to eat on the curb because the two tables were always occupied. (How did I find out about Vik's? I polled all the engineers taking the Capitol Corridor down to Silicon Valley—Vik's was the No. 1 recommended, hands down. And damn but those engineers were right.)

I didn't want to drive all over creation looking for breakfast, so we headed to dim sum earlier than we'd anticipated: two places within a block of each other, right by Green Apple Books in the Richmond: Good Luck Dim Sum and Wing Lee Bakery. Good Luck had the shorter line (and tables) so we went there. Small selection, but apparently MSG-free! We ate breakfast and got two boxes of dim sum to go: har gow, su mai, char su bau (baked and steamed), chicken feet, those little chive-and-shrimp dumplings. Most of it got eaten in Charm on the ride home, though it also made an excellent lunch and (not too long ago) dinner.

Heading over the Golden Gate bridge north toward home, the Wishfrog swinging by the windshield, leading the way. Goodbye, Bay Area restaurants! So many choices, so little time.

The cats were very happy to see us.

"Hello! I makes all your underwear orange! No need to thank me—I do it for love. Purr!"

Reunited

2010-01-31T19:41:00.001-08:00

We got a call yesterday from Kirsten saying she was on her way, so I made sure to get some photos of Huesp this morning:

He spent some time in the Thinking cup...

...relaxed on the Comfort Ball and got scritches after second breakfast...

...chilled in the garden. He got quite comfortable hanging out in the back yard with everybody. Real quality cat time.

...Huesp/Romeo can't believe it, but it's Kirsten! Poor guy was pretty overwhelmed.

And while Kirsten, Greg, and I chatted in the kitchen over crepes Provencal...

...No way! You mean to tell me, during Huesp's final fifteen minutes in the house, Gina calms down enough to share the bed with him?! Typical.

I got a little more of Romeo/Huespedes' backstory, what little Kirsten knew. She adopted him from the Animal Rescue Foundation in Walnut Creek (where he was known as Andy), after volunteers transported him from the Calaveras County Animal Shelter up in the California foothills. How he ended up at the county shelter we'll never know, but he was lucky enough to be taken to ARF, a no-kill shelter where Kirsten used to volunteer. (And where my friend Breanna adopted her cat, Daphne.)

We're really sad he's gone, but we're really happy this story had such a good ending. And Kirsten was very, very happy to get her best bud back.

All the best to you, Kirsten and Romeo!

Love,

Suzanne and Greg

I'm waiting

2010-01-24T10:13:00.001-08:00

...for you to open this gate for me.

Of course I could go around. That's what I do when you're not in the yard.

But you ARE in the yard, and I wish for you to open this gate for me. Now.

Then I will ignore you from the garden.

Until I want you to again open the gate for me.

Rumbles

2010-01-24T09:12:00.000-08:00

The natives have been restless. It's all this rain. So when we catch a break and the cats do go outside...

I'm still surprised at the amount of unnatural interest the chickens invest in the doings of the Cat Nation. My sweet spouse was sitting at his keyboard the other morning when he heard a terrific noise and saw the chickens dash across the yard. Not away from the sound but towards it, just like kids in a schoolyard at the sound of a fight.

The noise was from Vivani Catpants, and directed towards two of the Reds. Vivani took the high ground; a wise choice considering her shrimpy size. And, isn't our neighbor's house pretty? You should have seen it with its Christmas lights. The blooming camellia is a nice touch, too.*

All the poultry come rushing over: Benny and Carlin are in back by their pond. In front, from left to right: Lola and Frenchy the Buff Orpingtons, Sonja the Rhode Island Red, Pearl and Marilyn the Golden-laced Wyandottes, and Collette, Ives, and Coco the Marans. (Yes, I said I would not name Him That Cannot Be Named. But just because I'm calling him Ives doesn't mean I won't eat him if he's a bad rooster.) Betty the Australorp is not shown; she must've been on the nest.

Later in the day Huespedes got into it with a Red on the other side of our yard, and again the chicken dashed over to watch the fight. Weird.

Guys, where's my backup? These fat chickens aren't cutting it! (Can you tell she's wearing a collar with a tag? Thought not! But she is.)

The reds—Big Red and Extra Red—plot their next move. Not today, perhaps, but soon. Soon!

*At 44, it shouldn't surprise me anymore, but it does: in the winter the rest of the country is brown and leafless! Weird! It felt so good and reassuring to look down out the airplane window and see the green, green, green of California welcoming me back. Lawns are vibrant, the hills glow with green, camellias and roses bloom...I think we're going to have a spectacular springtime for wildflowers this year.

Who Will Win...?

2010-01-15T06:05:00.001-08:00

...the battle for second banana? AKA, middle cat in a household of three?

People say, two cats are no more trouble than one, and then they'll each have a feline buddy. Hmm, maybe. In fifteen years of co-existence Fuzzy and Izzy cooperated, outside of joint vet appearances, exactly once: our first day in the House of Mystery in Albany. So when Greg suggested that we get Vivani Catpants a buddy, I wasn't so sure. But she and Orange Gina turned into very good friends, the kind who'll back you up in a fight with your big, orange, bully neighbors even.

But are they no more trouble than one. Not really! Sure, it's still one litterbox and one water dish for these two, and mealtimes are basically the same (just a bit more at each meal)...but it is two little bodies demanding their share of attention instead of one. And when we play I have to use both hands because they won't play the same games with me; each has her own toy for me to wiggle, flip, or drag around for enjoyment. Each has different ways of interacting with me, Gina usually in the morning, Vivani usually at night.

So are three cats no more trouble than one? Still one water dish. Two cat boxes now, so double the scooping pleasure as I dig each morning for buried treasures. Mealtimes still the same, but a lot more food: Hues is (understandably) a vacuum for kibble and sopa de Whiskas. He's still not super-keen on going outside, so my husband hasn't seen a big increase in his door-opening duties. But he does want his lovin's, so he squeezes them in between what Gina and Vivani receive.

And Gina still trash-talks him constantly, way beyond what Bully Remedy or Stress-Relief homeopathy can handle...I think it may be time for a little acupuncture. Maybe she has some jail-house memories to expunge. Who knows? But you'd never guess that such a sweet face knew so many bad words.

Shakin'!

2010-01-10T06:08:00.000-08:00

As big earthquakes go, it wasn't bad. We got lucky. Though I expect to hear reports of more extensive damage, and perhaps injuries, later this morning, as of now it's just broken windows and a few snapped gas lines. Mostly just shaken nerves and small items fallen off shelves. (It does sound though that Eureka's Bayshore Mall might have some structural damage, as people reported floor tiles popping up and falling light fixtures/ceiling tiles, and a few ambulances on-scene. And downtown Ferndale is a mess.)

(photos lifted from this article on sfgate.com)

I also feel personally lucky that I was outside for this one. (Being inside during a temblor can be an awful sensation.) I really dislike the groaning and creaking buildings make during quakes—it was much better hearing all the metal signposts and streetlights rattling. Boy, did they shake! I watched them and the trees sway as I stood in a shika-dachi next to my mailmobile.

It's difficult to gauge the intensity of a quake from the ground, without knowing how near or far you are from the epicenter. I initially thought it was closer, and of lesser intensity. But everybody coming outside and talking about it immediately afterward will clue me in next time. People don't do that for little quakes. And everybody was outside.

(To give you an idea of the scale, from my house in Arcata to Old Town in Eureka is about a 15-minute drive on Hwy 101. It's about 40 minutes on 101 to reach Fernbridge, the spot on the road where you turn off to Ferndale, ten minutes down that road. A bit further on is Fortuna, marked on the map, almost an hour away by car down 101.)

After chatting with the customers on my route and tried to call my husband. Could not get through. Huh. So I tried out our Emergency Plan: calling my brother-in-law in Denver to report in. Didn't work. I made my last few stops and headed back to the PO. That's when I heard from the Postmaster that it was a 6.5! Fortunately for everyone living in the Bottoms, Manila, and Samoa, no tsunami warning. I swung by the Co-op to check on family there, to see employees busily cleaning up food that had tumbled off the shelves. My step-son was fine, and was with his siblings, wife, and son, all okay.

At home a couple of blocks away my husband and neighbors were all out on the sidewalk. Everybody's fine, no damages, no odor of leaking gas. Everybody's got flashlights and camping lanterns. It is, after all, California. We are used to natural disasters. Which is why we have this Emergency Plan in the first place. And the damn thing didn't work!

Inside, our earthquake kit was on the bed and open. My husband has a pocketful of LED flashlights—Harbor Freight, on sale two for two dollars!—and our hand-crank radio tuned to a local station for news and earthquake-themed music. A couple of framed pictures were hanging crooked, a few knick-knacks fell off the shelf, and a jar of pickles rolled onto the floor, but did not break. No power. No phone. No Internet. We recounted our experiences, cuddled, ate some dinner by candlelight, listened to the radio. I read a little bit by flashlight, about Joseph and his brothers in the land of Pharaoh.

And then I got a text message. Huh! It did not even occur to me to try texting when voice calls wouldn't go through. I sent a text to my brother-in-law saying we were all okay, and to ask him to please call my mom and let her know, too. 'Cause it might be a 3G world, but you still can't text a land-line.

This morning? A quiet rosy-dawned Sunday morning, looking for all the world like business as usual. A good time to get one of those radios if you don't already have one. Seriously.

Happy Holidays!

2009-12-24T19:56:00.001-08:00

Now, please get that irritating camera out of my face!

I know wherefore art thy Romeo!

2009-12-24T06:28:00.000-08:00

The camera is broken, so I am sorry there are no pictures to add! We just cannot bear to be anywhere near a mall or retail strip right now.

Since there have been no bites on our flurry of Lost Cat flyers, G-man and I decided it was time to take Huespedes to the vet and have him checked out. So G loaded up the cat and drove out to Healing Spirit amidst his long list of Things To Do.

The vet said the cat looked pretty good, with nothing more than a healing scratch on his face (and skinniness) to show for his ordeal. Which we pretty much knew, as he as been bouncier and more playful with each passing day. He weighed in at 10 lbs.

Then they found a microchip.

So, not a college-kid throwaway like we suspected. The vet called the owner, listed as living in Astoria, and left a message, gave G-man the number to follow up, and sent G and Hues on their way. After a bit of phone tag Greg finally got the owner, Kirsten, on the phone. Romeo, her beloved cat, had bolted out of her car October 9th as she was idling on G St next to Wildberries, getting directions. The cat was not in a crate, and the next thing she saw was Romeo in her rear-view mirror, heading across the road! She got out to follow him, but he was spooked, she was frantic...in trying to catch him, she took a tumble on the steep slope bordering the highway and, in great pain, had to break off the pursuit. Back in Astoria, she ended up in Emergency Care for a severely-broken arm. And no cat.

She waited for someone to call with word of Romeo. And waited. And waited.

Meanwhile, on a quiet corner a block away from Wildberries, Romeo waited for his person to pick him up. And waited. And waited.

So sad, to think of two loves patiently, loyally, waiting for the other to return. Hearts breaking, hope waning, giving up at last and reluctantly moving on, so sad still at a lost love.

And then a phone call.

Recognize Me?

2009-12-15T06:48:00.000-08:00

That skinny lunk of a cat is Huespedes, our houseguest....I will update this tonight when I get home from work, as I see my time is running short. Briefly, I am happy to report that Hues is hoovering up cans of cat food, is feeling better, and this morning is actually playing with our selection of cat toys. Go Hues!

Greg is printing up flyers for me to mail to local vets, so hopefully we'll find out this guy's story soon.

Okay, flyers going out in tomorrow's mail! Although I wish the stationery story hadn't run out of 5x7 envelopes, as I now need to buy stamps to pay for the oversized envelope surcharge! D'oh.

When I found Huespedes during my mail route—or rather, Huespedes politely got my attention while I was delivering—I called Greg to come pick him up. I promised "One day only," and Greg politely did not say a thing. At first we put the cat in our mud room with a bed, a litter box, and some food and water. Two days later, we expanded his area to include the kitchen. A day or two after that, Greg finally got tired of slipping in and out of the kitchen and gave the cat the run of the house.

Not that he did much running. He ate, he purred and kissed if picked up, he pooped and peed—happily, always in the litter box. Mostly he slept. I'm not surprised, seeing how emaciated he is, and knowing how awfully cold it was the week before we took him in...Greg says he acts like someone rescued from drowning at sea. He's a big cat; I'd guess his normal weight is close to 20 lbs, though I don't think he weighs as much as tiny Vivani right now, who tips the scales at 8 lbs.

Today, though, a change: Huespedes came over and asked to play, so I busted out some cat toys to see which he'd like. Hues even skipped a bit when I came home tonight. He's interacting with Vivani and Orange Gina more, with mixed results. I think that as soon as they work out the rights of passage though the hallway, most of the hissing and growling will stop. Hues sure doesn't seem interested in being anything other than Third Cat, as long as it includes Living Inside.

An Early Start

2009-12-14T06:52:00.000-08:00

It's Monday, my day off, and I'm getting ready for my 7:30am clock-in time at work: one pair of socks, two? Do I need a long-sleeved undershirt today, or is a tank okay? Knee socks?

I hear the rumbling of a diesel engine in the street outside, and take a peek out the front-door curtains. It's a FedEx truck, and our local driver coming up our walkway with a parcel. The sun is not yet in the sky. I ask him, What are you doing here this early? and he says, On Mondays we start at 5 am. I take the box, give him a hug and say Thanks. He says, Don't work too hard today and we both laugh.

So even though you all know that I am awfully partisan towards the USPS, please, these next two weeks, throw some love to your FedEx and UPS guys. They're working it for you.

The Naked Truth

2009-12-11T06:06:00.000-08:00

Dear Mrs. Rose Benson

I have been totally down on my sick bed for some time now,and that is the reson you have not heard from me.

i am so sorry to hear that. I hope you get better soon.

I thank God today that i have little strenght to write you this message.

Me too! Well really I thank the goddess myself.

Meanwhile i want to know the current update about the fund which is to be transfered to you for the works of God.

Well there is no update. Nothing has happened. Did I miss an email?

Please i want you to update me to enable me know what is happening.Please i will like you to hurry up everything because my situation is becoming worse everyday.

I have to confess something my Apostolic Sister, as you know I said we are pagans and dance around the fire naked and you said that is ok, because I know in your heart yo are really one of us because you would nt have written to me otherwise, when your abundance can so sweet help my need. so I hope you can help us but in fact I have hesitated because we are really very moral people and don't lie but the truth is we know that some of the peopple do have orgees and everythign, but they always have safe sex.

My ernest expectation is to see that this fund is transfered to you before anything happens to my life.

I hope my naked truth will not affect this

Sincerely

Skye Groundeagle

On being a mailma'am

2009-12-08T06:12:00.000-08:00

I have NO idea if people are curious or interested in the typical day of a mailma'am. If you're not, there's always this. Otherwise...

I am a part-time flexible carrier, or PTF. Your mailman is probably a regular carrier: somebody with their own route, which they carry (deliver) five days a week, 8 hours a day. They know your name, when to hold your mail while you're on vacation, how old your kids are and the names of your in-laws and pets. When your regular mailman has more than 8 hours of work in a day because of the volume of mail, or has a doctor's appointment, or is sick, that's when we PTFs step in. So you only see me every once in a while, and I'm usually looking lost, frustrated, and/or harried. Where is the mailbox? Where is this house? Where is this street? Who lives here? Etc.

Sometimes, though, when your regular mailman goes on vacation, or is out on short- or long-term disability (twisted ankle, repetitive-strain injury), you might see me every day, especially if I opt on the mailman's route while he's gone. When I opt on a route, I effectively become the regular until the regular mailman returns: I get his days off, his start/end times...kinda. More on that in a bit.

I like short-term opts because it allows me to really learn a route: who lives where, how long the various sections normally take to deliver, who wants me to leave packages and who would rather come down to the PO and pick them up, where the bathrooms are, who's got dogs, that sort of thing.

In general, the post office is expected to make money, to operate in the black. We aren't. Maybe in another post I'll go into that, but for now I'll just ask, the last time you were in Europe how much did it cost you to mail a postcard or letter? Compare it to the cost to mail a postcard or letter in the US. Also...is the Dept of Transportation expected to operate in the black? It's not an apples-to-apples comparison, I know. But put it in the back of your mind.

At our local post office, we have 21 routes, plus three swing carriers. (Your mailman has a five-day work week, but the post office delivers mail six days a week. The swing carrier delivers the mail on your mailman's day off, for five different routes.) We also have a relief carrier, a fill-in-the-blanks carrier for short-term and/or unexpected holes in the schedule. Earlier this year we had a mailman leave the post office, and our relief carrier took his route. (No one took the relief position.) Then someone else moved out of state, but no one took his swing. Then someone left on long-term disability, and a carrier switched routes, but no one took her old one. Then another mailman left on short-term disability. We also have a mailman who keeps deploying to Afganistan for months at a time, making his route a short-term opt. So by my count we have 3 routes open, and 2 short-term opts available.

Again, at our local post office, we have three PTFs and, like I said, I am one of them. The three of us have all opted into the three open routes, so there's no one available for the two short-term openings. There is no one available to cover medical appointments, or sick days, or days when a carrier goes on vacation. We have three temporary employees, who get no benefits or credit towards a postal carrier for time served should they become PTFs or regulars -- they're just like anyone hired by a temp agency. So most days we negotiate Japanese baseball game to distribute the mail from open routes so that it all goes out. Because, at the post office, it all goes out. And we stay out til it all gets delivered.

Let's be in communication

2009-12-07T18:15:00.000-08:00

Dear beloved Skye,

Thank you for your response I am very glad to receive your mail, i understand your explainations that you are not a christian, but i assure you that, that will not be a problem here ok, all i want you to do is to make sure that this fund is used to help the poor and less privilaged ones and that is my most interest, and i will be so glad if you will assure me that you will use this money for the assistance to the poor ones.

My beloved i am here to tell you that i am not the one that chosed you but it is God and i want you to trust me as i trusted you now. I got your email contact through my private search looking for someone to assist me. I am willing to offer you this donation in order to help the less fortunate, I have been helping people little by little in the past but now I have decided to donate this amount for Godly activities rural places, since I don't have any person that shall inherit this fund if I die tomorrow, not that I don't have faith to survive this condition but this donate comes from my heart without any objection spirit.

Regarding to my health, I thank God, I am little bit better now than yesterday, I apprecaite your
readiness to proceed ahead with me to retrieve the donation to your control,

Dear, presently I am in the hospital waiting for the date of the cancer operation recommended by my medical doctor, I don't know how secretative you are, I would like you to keep this affair confidential until you confirm this donation in your bank account, some times it is not good for someone to speak out his dealings while it is still on the process, meanwhile I am advising you to hid this affair until the goal is achieved. If you assure me this I will kindly give you all the contact information of the security firm where this donation is deposited, you shall contact the Director of the firm with my instruction and introduction for the transfer of the fund to your country.

Let's be in communication, when I receive your next message I will give you the contact information of the name of the Firm manager to contact for the procedure to transfer the fund to your country as soon as possible.

Finally, I attarched my pictures and i will like you to send me your own pictures so that we will know each other through pictures.

I am waiting for your reply.
God bless you.

Mrs. Rose Benson Joe

Might be a Problem

2009-12-07T05:23:00.000-08:00

Dear Mrs Rose Benson

Thanks you very much for your letter.

I am very sorry to read of your deaf and stroke problem, and want to offer my Services.
Your generous offer of money is wonderful, and I am sure that your dear husband is carousing with the angels this very minute for it.

But there Might be a Problem.

I am not Christian and not is my healing circle. We are Devoted Pagans and I will not kid you some times we dance nude at the fire but we do not I swear have horgeys. We do Good Work, and our Goddess (She is your Gods wife) bless her has healed many peoples.

So I am enquizzing you if your Heart is big enough to help others like you looking to heal the terra and her Kids.

Thanks you,

Skye Groundeagle

Succor

2009-12-06T18:52:00.000-08:00

Apostolic Greetings
Mrs Rose Benson,
Address: 12 Bp 1046 Abidjan,

Cote D'ivoire.

I am Mrs Rose Benson. I am a deaf woman from Israel but now undergoing medical treatment in Abidjan the capital city of Ivory Coast. I am married to late Mr Benson Joe, who worked with Israeli Embassy in Ivory Coast for Eleven years before he died in the year 2008, after a brief illness that lasted for only Ten days. We were married for Eighteen years without any child.

After the death of my husband i vowed to use our wealth for the down trodden and the less privileged in our society. Recently, My Doctor told me that I may not last for the next seven months due to cancer problem, though what disturbs me most is my stroke and deaf problem. Haven known my condition i decided to Serve God with our wealth.

When my late husband was alive we kept the sum of ($6.4 Million U.S. Dollars)six million four hundred thousand united states dollars. Having known my condition I decided to Give out this fund to a church or an individual or better still a God fearing person who will utilize this fund the way I am going to instruct here in.

I want an individual that will use this fund to provide succor to the poor and indigent persons, orphanages, widows around him or her and Schools etc. As soon as I receive your response I shall give you the contact where the consignment box that contain the money was deposited also issue you the documents that will prove you the present beneficiary of this fund.

Any delay in your reply will give me room in searching for an individual for this same purpose, always be prayerful all through your life. Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I Stated herein. Hope to receive your reply soon.

Thanks and Remain Blessed.
Mrs Rose Benson Joe

December dawns cold and colorful

2009-12-04T07:29:00.000-08:00

This week's been alternating between warm, sunny days (highs near 60!) and cold, clammy, Basil Rathbone-caliber fogs that refuse to burn off. The sunsets have been gorgeous, with just enough high fog/clouds for the sun to color, but today we got a lovely dawn as well:

I put on a jacket and went outside to enjoy it. As I stood in the cold beneath my neighbor's magnificent walnut tree, my other neighbor came out to enjoy the show, too. We stood chatting underneath the pinks and purples of the rising sun, talking about work and Christmas cookies, when she turned and said, "Look!"

The colors had intensified and spread across the entire sky, from the eastern horizon above Arcata's downtown and community forest to the houses and dairy pastures in the west. A first-class sunrise!

Late November garden

2009-11-24T21:37:00.001-08:00

Last Saturday I got home from work before the sun set, and took the opportunity to grab some time in the garden. Sweet, sweet coastal California! This is what was blooming in my back yard:

I also got two more raised beds placed and filled with dirt!

The Holidays

2009-11-19T17:57:00.000-08:00

I'm stoked! My friend Fabian got me a Kinder Advent calendar:

Of course, I had to look up what and when exactly Advent is...when I found out it doesn't start til November 29, I busted into the candy early.

Then today, a big box came in the mail. I hadn't ordered anything—certainly not through FedEx!—but it had my name on it. When I opened it up...ooh! A copy of Blasphemy!

"In Blasphemy you take part in the fate of a would-be messiah. Your aim is to convince your compatriots that your Jesus, and your Jesus alone, is the genuine article.

To accomplish this, your Jesus must cut as impressive a figure as possible. He must give stirring sermons, perform miracles, attract devoted followers, and generally carry on in a messiah-like fashion. Your Jesus must make every effort to discredit his rivals, and in the end, he must get himself killed...you win the game if you're the first player to get your Jesus nailed up.

Blasphemy is the race to the cross!"

YES

French Mexican, TexMex food

2009-11-13T17:58:00.001-08:00

Somebody went somewhere

2009-11-13T17:40:00.000-08:00

...it just wasn't me.

G-man just got back from the Chimeriades convention in the Provence region of France. Yeah, game designer is never gonna make those World's Worst Jobs reality shows.

Ah, a French breakfast: strong coffee in a bowl, delicious fresh-baked baguette, sweet butter, and (usually) a savory, rich cheese—though that appears to be lacking at this table. After the con (a really good time, apparently. I am bummed the Post Office is such a harsh mistress), Greg, Charlie, Gregory, and Phillipe did some sight-seeing:

A sidetrip to Rennes le Chateau, a famous hoax as well as a pretty castle (and gaudy chapel)...

...and another sidetrip to Carcassone, a very different place minus the summertime crowds.

Sigh. Maybe next year?

Spot the cat...

2009-10-24T06:25:00.000-07:00

...if you can!

(You don't need to tell me that that is one ugly chair. I know.)

Resemblance

2009-10-22T06:29:00.000-07:00

This looks just like my brother Mike

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This looks just like my friend Lou

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Seriously.

Betty Sits

2009-10-21T17:55:00.001-07:00

A couple of weeks ago Betty, our Astralorp hen, went broody on us. We tried kicking her out of the nest any time we saw her in there, but we gave up. Really, what were we trying to prove? She moved any egg within reach into her clutch, so we gave her a golf ball to tide her over during the hours between afternoon egg-collecting and morning egg-production. Between Betty's broodiness and the shortening days, we haven't had extra eggs to sell.

Then our friends Ryan and Teri, who keep hens and a rooster, gave us five possibly fertile eggs. In a hurry, we stuck those under Betty before heading out to the Festival of Courage, and put the golf ball on the windowsill.

Today, curious about the progress of Betty's egg project, Greg stuck his hand under Betty's deliciously warm and cozy breast. Sixteen eggs. We're now wishing we'd marked those five eggs; they're all brown, and no telling who laid which egg. I might try candling them tonight. Besides, I need to know if I should get a chick set-up...stay tuned!

**Update: yesterday (the 24th) Betty transferred out of her current Egg-sitting workgroup into the Foraging workgroup...something about a shut-down of the project; I'm not sure. Anyway, she's off the nest. Too bad! Greg and I were both looking forward to chicks.

$12.50

2009-10-21T17:54:00.001-07:00

Have you ever wondered how much you'd get if you, for a year, picked up every single piece of money you saw lying on the street?

I did, and now I know:

$12.57

2 dollar bills
11 quarters
35 dimes
31 nickels
277 pennies

A Triumph of Pumpkins

2009-10-18T18:32:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I promised my grandson, Elliot, that I'd take him to the pumpkin patch. And even though he was having a rough time last Sunday, he reminded me through his tears that I'd said we'd go to the patch, so I loaded him up in the Tin Can, and off we went to Warren Creek Farms, down in the Bottoms.

We stood in the paved area between the barns, among the chickens and tri-tip barbeque and decorative gourd displays, while I explained to this five-year-old how a pumpkin patch works.

"Elliot, you can have any pumpkin you want." His eyes got big. "You can have as many pumpkins as you want; it's up to you." Really big eyes. "But," I warned him, "If you want it, you have to carry it. I'm not going to. Got it?" I guess the answer was yes because he walked over to a line of idle utility carts, put his hand on a bright yellow one and asked, "Can we use this?"

Sigh. A mini-maxer already. "Yes, but you're pulling it." A happy smile, and off we went.

As we wandered through acres of pumpkins and sunflowers, a different grandparent might have resigned him- or herself to hauling a cart loaded with pumpkins and a tired first-grader through the farm fields. Elliot gave a couple of half-hearted tries to get me to pull the cart, but soon stopped, knowing better. I showed him how to maneuver the cart, which probably weighed more than he does—it certainly was bigger—how to turn the wheels, pull and push to get it unstuck or over bumps, to watch for other kids and carts in the way. And he cheerily pulled, pushed, and dragged the utility cart with its slowly-growing burden of pumpkins, all the way through the pumpkin patch clear to the end of the field.

"Sa, now where?"

"You ready to go back?" I was; I was already wondering if I had enough money to pay for all the pumpkins in the cart. "I'll show you something called orienteering. Check it out. Where did we start?"

"At the car."

"Okay, where did we get the cart?"

"At the barn."

"Okay, can you see the barn from here? Now, look at all these paths. Which one goes toward the barn the most?" And by stopping at every crossroads and orienteering, we slowly made our way back to the weigh scales. And by now the cart was very hard to pull over the uneven ground, and Elliot had to stop often and maneuver the cart past obstacles. Parents were shooting me dirty looks, shaking their heads at this blatent show of child abuse occuring before their eyes.

But the kid is still putting pumpkins in the cart! Even as he is getting down on his hands and knees, scrabbling at the tufts of dry grass for handholds to pull himself and the damn cart along. It was pathetic. We finally cleared the last stalks of corn and sunflower, and now have a straight shot, 100 yards down a farm road to the barn, when Elliot gets the cart stuck in the soft grass and dirt off the road, along the fenceline. He tried and tried, but could not get it unstuck.

I suggest to him that he can offload some pumpkins and try. He shoots me a look and I can see that that is not an option, so I explain, "No, put some of the pumpkins up there on the road where you want to be, to make the cart lighter so you can pull it out of the hole it's in." He's still looking doubtful, like I'm trying to part him from his bright orange load. "When you get the cart unstuck, you can put the pumpkins back in." So he begins to take the pumpkins out and walk them the 15 feet or so up to the road, one at a time. When the cart is practically empty, he finally gets it going again, pulls it up to his hoard, reloads, and heads for the barn. He's practically running now—or would be, if he weren't so tired and loaded down with produce.

We finally make it back onto concrete, and he wheels the cart up to the scales. Uh-oh, there's a ramp, and a woman who clearly is ready for us to be gone so she can close up and go home. She went to grab the cart handle from Elliot and I almost shouted, "No! He wants 'em, he's gonna do it," and I showed him how to position the cart to get it up on the scale.

Only, it's heavy, he's tired, and that ramp, man. That ramp. Elliot's again down on his hands and knees, pulling, pulling as hard as he can, but he had no grass to grab onto for purchase, so I knelt down and gave him my hand, and he pulled that goddamn cart onto the scale. Yes! I ask the kid weighing them, "How much are they? 25-cents a pound? Well, how many pounds did my grandson drag in here?"

Ninety-nine. He barely weighs enough to not need a carseat, but Elliot managed to haul 99 pounds of pumpkins in a 30? 40?-lb cart. I high-five him, tell him he did a good job. May I help him with the cart now that I've paid? "No," he says, "I can do it."

"Well, do you want me to move the car closer to the barn?" Because I'm already thinking of the bumpy field we're parked in.

"No, I want to do it."

And he did do it. He got it to the car, past the admiring looks of parents and their kids, and we loaded the pumpkins in the car. "Elliot, how many pumpkins did you get? Let's count!"

21.

Driving back, I told him again what a good job he did. In fact, I said, I'm so proud of you I think we should do something special. "I think we should have a pumpkin-carving party, and invite everybody. What do you think?" I could see he thought it was an excellent idea.

So this Sunday we all trooped over to Elliot's house to carve pumpkins and eat mini pumpkin pies. His grandparents, his mom, his aunt, and both his uncles—all his relatives in town. (His dad was working, but was there to light them all when he got home.)

Elliot and his Uncle Brian and Aunt Alisha doing the dirty work: cutting, scooping, scraping.

Elliot and his first two jack o'lanterns, triumphant.

A family and its jack o'lanterns on the porch.

Greg and I are headed out the door now to see them all in their burning-candle glory. I love being a grandparent.