Foolery

Picture Day: The Old Hay Barn

Hay! It's for horses, I know, and if you're a horse-lover go check out my other blog Reasonably Educated Bumpkins for a whole bunch of horse photos. Just don't stray too far away, okay? I miss you when you're gone.

Here are some old barn photos I took yesterday while on my horse adventure which you can read about over at Bumpkins -- you know, where the hay and horses are. This hay barn was pretty old when Dad bought the dairy back in 1971. It has achieved decrepit relic status, much like myself.

I've photographed this barn before, but I keep coming back. It looks different in different light. Plus, it won't be with us very much longer.

HA! It'll probably outlive us all. And if not, it'll make a buttload of rustic picture frames.

 

A Mighty Wind

(Posted at Reasonably Educated Bumpkins as well)

It got a little windy here last week.

Not exactly, "Dorothy, don't let go of Toto" windy, but rather windy.





The kind of windy for which the local weather guys often use the word breezy.



This chunk of barn roof nearly took out my dad's zebra finch house. The roof was a bit damaged, but no birds were harmed. Of course, two did get out, and then they remembered that they have no idea how to deal with out, and tried to get back in. The last I heard one of the two was living in a mobile, parked just outside the bird house door. He's now zebra trash.


 

Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas at all.

I'm Not the Only One Full of Hot Air

(Posted simultaneously here and at Reasonably Educated Bumpkins)

On my way home from work tonight I saw a hot air balloon. We see them a lot in September, early on weekend mornings. Other than that we don't ever see them, so this was a rare treat.

I saw the balloon again after I picked up Smedley from dance class.  It hadn't moved too far up the valley; the wind was very light. I walked into the house and promptly forgot about the balloon.

It was Sparky who saw the balloon after dinner, nearly two hours after I had first seen it.  "I'll have to call you back," I told my friend Gubby. "I have to go find a balloon."

About two miles away the balloon dominated a local pasture. "Hey, that's Becky's pasture!" I told the girls. "Who's Becky?" they asked. I can see I need to get out to see the neighbors more often.

Here is a photo pictorial of the balloon as it was carefully deflated and put away. The balloon in its bag was about as big as a beanbag chair. The whole process was very elegant and took under half an hour.





















I'm pretty sure this heralds the end of winter and the coming of spring.

On Missing a Friend

A friend passed away a week ago today, and people in my town are reeling at the loss.

In a way we should celebrate -- she dropped to her floor and her life ended, without lingering, without endless suffering.  She was, after all, 79 years young, so you couldn't say it was out of the bounds of possibility.

And yet, and yet.  Shirley was the youngest 79-year-old I will ever meet, and her death was a shock to all of us.  The morning she died she was expected at aerobics and breakfast with friends.  She rode her bike and golfed, and she took active vacations in which shuffleboard was probably bypassed for something more exciting, like riding a zip line.  She cheated death last summer when her ski boat caught fire on the water, and she and her family jumped ship while the boat sank to the bottom of Black Butte Lake.  What was she doing out on the lake?  She was water skiing with her children and grandchildren, of course.  Oh yes she was.

Shirley was not my close friend, but she was everyone's friend.  She affected everyone she met, I think, and the church was packed.  All week I thought about Shirley, and yet, as is typical for me, I never got teary until the memorial service at the church Saturday, and then I couldn't turn the water works off.  Our hand bell choir was asked to play for her memorial, which may sound strange, because hand bells?  Sort of joyous and tinkly sounding.  But Shirley was one of our bell ringers, and she'd been practicing with us for a scheduled church performance this weekend.  A dear friend took her place, but Shirley was there in spirit.

My track record at funerals is poor.  I cry like a baby, and would definitely cry at the funeral of a stranger.  I tell you this not to diminish my feeling of loss, but merely to explain what a total and relentless sap I am.

And so it stands to reason that I am ridiculously taller than the other members of our bell choir.  There I loomed like Lurch, hulking above my teammates at this funeral performance when I desperately wanted to be short, melting into my surroundings with my tear-stained face and my bloodshot eyes.  I can usually handle towering over the others, and even having to stoop low to scoop up my bells.  Hey, if a giraffe can do it, I can do it.  But what was particularly painful for a weepy, retiring soul like me was that we had to sit in the choir loft during the service -- and it is behind the altar, facing the congregation.  My facial muscles were actually sore at the end of the memorial from fighting a big, ugly, public cry.

I will miss Shirley's huge sense of humor and zest for life -- our whole town will.  She and I used to crack each other up at practice when we were supposed to be paying attention, and if Donna on the other side of her really got her laughing, Shirley would start snort-laughing, which would pretty much bring the practice to a halt for a while.  It was like practicing with Lucy Arnez, and we loved it.

I will miss Shirley's piano club performances, where instead of just playing a piece she'd been practicing, Shirley worked up a full routine, complete with singing, and sometimes even with her own customized lyrics.

No one lived bigger than Shirley Bell, and while this weekend was so very difficult, I'm so happy I got to know her.

Winter Sun

Terrible photography.  But the light has been so spectacular the last couple of weeks that I thought I'd try anyway.

This was one chilly, windy morning:



And this one was from the other evening, a very warm day.  So warm that I just can't bring myself to tell you, in case you might be holding rotten tomatoes.



The horses are 24 standardbred mares from Canada, wintering here before they go home to foal.  They're brood mares, retired from the harness racing world.  I'll get some better pictures of them soon.

It's Not So Bad to Be Old, Sometimes

I stayed up really, really late last night.  Stupid.  I wanted to watch "Saturday Night Live," and besides, I was rather antsy -- too antsy to sleep.  Did some writing, did some reading, watched SNL.  You know, boring stuff.  Stuff old people do -- like me.  I am an old person.

I used to be a young person, back in the '80s.  I was a college student at Chico State; we earned the dubious honor of being Playboy's number one party school in 1987, based on data compiled in 1986.

(Image stolen from these guys)

I was at CSUC in 1986; I can attest to the drunken revelry, although I, of course, was a perfect angel.  In 1987 in was living in Maui, watching with fascination as MTV VJ Alan Hunter broadcast directions -- complete with a crude map, as I remember it -- to Chico, coming from San Francisco, probably.

 
(Photo stolen from this guy)

Chico State's spring festival was approaching; the Pioneer Days festival was the single biggest reason Playboy paid any attention to the school's party rep, and for good reason: it was an annual week of parties, parades, shows, drunken debauchery, and did I say it was FUN?  MTV was gonna make sure that hoards of out-of-towners descended upon the town with insane amounts of alcohol and nowhere to sleep.

And what you think could happen, did happen.  From my home across the sea in Hawaii I heard the morning deejays in Honolulu, Perry and Price in the Morning, mention the big riots happening in a sleepy little town called Chico.

Uh-oh.

Phone calls to my Chico friends were alarming.  My old roommate J.P. was in her apartment about two blocks from 5th and Ivy, which was Ground Zero for the riot.  She was awake all night the first night from helicopters circling overhead, and she couldn't leave her house.  Another friend, Nina, had been at a party in a bar in the hot zone, and when things got ugly outside the bar abruptly closed, which sounds smart, except that they shoved all of their customers out into the street, right into the heart of the riot.  Nina was suddenly part of the rowdy crowd, through no fault of her own, and she was maced by law enforcement in the melee.  The mob scene went on for two days, with people clambering on nearby buildings and cars being flipped in the streets.

The president of Chico State at the time, Robin Wilson, ended the festival's 70-year tradition (after yet another all-night riot in 1990), announcing that he had taken Pioneer Days out back and "shot it in the head."  Wilson's choice of words created almost as big a firestorm as the riot itself.

Check out this link to see a memorable entry from Tau Gamma Theta from 1986, the last Pioneer Week I ever attended. I remember this project very well, as the guys created a miniature fish hatchery in the quad, complete with trout in elaborate miniature hatchery troughs, in a few days.

So why am I bringing all of this up now?  Because last night, while I was staying up late doing old people stuff, the current crop of young people of my alma mater were apparently digging up a ghost from "out back."  Several parties grew and morphed and spread, getting out of control until couches were burning in the streets.  (That's what "we" do here in Chico: "we" burn couches.  Take a couch off of someone's porch -- yes, I said porch -- and burn it.  It's great fun, and it really increases the value of that degree you're supposed to be here for.)

(Photo stolen from this site)

Robin Wilson is gone, Pioneer Days is gone, but the bad behavior is back, and there's nothing left to shoot in the head.  I have a feeling this will not end well.

Here's some video someone shot in the dark, from Chico's Enterprise-Record:

This post was never supposed to happen, as for once in my life I had actually prepared a different post AHEAD of time, when this story landed in my lap.  They both have to run today; it's a matter of timeliness.  Please make sure to catch a spicy new Mormor Story for Columbus Day, if you haven't seen it already.

Catfish-On-A-Stick, No Moe Than A Dollar

Dear Chesapeake Bay Woman,

Yes, it has taken me months, but I have finally nabbed the elusive photo of the store in my town that you didn't believe truly exists. Well, eat your heart out, CBW, because not only does it exist, but it is also OPEN! This is no mean feat in a little town like Orland.



Picture a blogger doing photographic drive-bys of a murder site. What could she be doing? Let's shoot at her.

I never seem to have the time to stop, get out, and photograph my subject, so it has become my new game, called, "Let's see how many blocks from the subject I must be before the shutter fires." So far I suck at this game. It could have been worse; I'm just lucky the camera fired when it did. I could have been picking my nose.

 

And just to show you our level of culture here in God's Other Little Acre, we have this nice catfish-on-a-stick. Please disregard the hand prints on the window. And those bugs are fresh, I can almost guarantee it. Bugs are plentiful here in God's Other Little Acre.



Makes you want to pick up a fish pole, huh? It's not every town that has a fully-stocked catfish pond in the middle of a walnut orchard. Beside a state highway. Unless every town has that, and I just haven't been paying attention; in that case, never mind.



Finally, we have this lovely Holstein cow. She's been on top of a gas station for years, gathering pigeon poop, and advertising . . . what? Milk? Leather? Fertilizer? Now she's selling cars, and she's really in her element. That element would be FOUR-ON-THE-FLOOR, of course.

Mean Laurie would really like to vandalize those banners to read "USED COWS," but Mean Laurie is fresh out of large Ws.



I hope you enjoyed this little photo hunt, CBW. It has taken YEARS off of my life.

Love,

Foolery

Where There's Fire There's Smoke

I'm sure that many of you have noticed a bit of unraveling around the edges at Foolery lately.  Well, I'm not gonna lie to you: I'm not too sharp right now, and haven't been for a few weeks.  Is it the extra year under my belt (as of Friday morning) that's loaded on a little extra senility?  Well, it couldn't have helped much, but NO, getting older is not the cause of my failing mental faculties.  I won't blame it on wine because Dammit Jim, red wine is keeping my arteries unclogged and my French accent insufferable (read: it's the best thing I've got going and cold dead fingers and you can guess the rest).  No, wine isn't the problem.

It's the smoke.

I can't be a baby about the smoke we've been getting from all of the wild fires around us, because my home, my family, my world is safe.  The nearest fire is something like 30 miles away, but the winds have been mostly calm since the fires began in June, and the smoke gathers at the bottom of our valley like soup at the bottom of a tureen.  (There are some blessings to be so very thankful for, and calm winds are at the top of my list for the sake of all those in the path of the firestorms.)

(View east to the Sierras, March 14 2008, dinner time)

(Pretty much the same view July 10 2008, dinner time)

And yet, the smoke has had an effect on me.  By nightfall each night I have lost part of my voice. When I wake up it feels like I have been speared through the sternum, at least until the steam from the shower has worked some magic on my lungs.  Talking to my boss today, I started telling him something I had told him in detail yesterday, with no memory whatsoever of having done so.  Trying to carry on any conversation is a struggle as I fight for clarity.  I've even had to be extra careful when answering the phone, in case I should lapse 10-15 years back to the days of my business and answer the phone "good afternoon, Tom Foolery."  I've come close more than once this week.

Perhaps it's my predisposition to lung ailments that has rendered me so susceptible to the smoke, or maybe it's the poor sleep I'm getting.  Could be the Theraflu I've had to take almost every night to help ward off bronchitis.  Whatever is causing my fuzzy addled brain, I can tell that the effects show up in my blog.  Of course, I've been staying up late because I can't seem to get through my nightly posts with the usual expedience, and I make dumb mistakes that set me way back and keep me up much later.  It's a vicious cycle.  And?  Things that make total sense in my head probably make no sense at all to those few poor souls who show up here daily to check on my advancing insanity.  I'm sorry that it's even worse than usual this week.

In any case, we are fine -- I am fine, just duller than normal, which is saying something.  So many people are not fine, though.  I think my friend Kristin has probably been evacuated from her home in Paradise for the second time this summer, but I'll find out tomorrow.  My cousin John's property was burned Tuesday night in the Moon fire; I had planned to write about that tonight, but fuzzy, addled me -- it'll have to wait for the smoke to clear from my synapses.

Here are some pictures from my friend Gubby's mom, who lives a couple of miles from us.  She had the presence of mind to bracket her photos to show how much better our air quality was Friday than Thursday, which was the worst air quality ever recorded in the valley, I believe.  We still have a long way to go toward healthy breathing.

Thursday, July 10, 2008, Orland, California . . .

. . . and from nearly the same spot the next day.

The view down her road Thursday . . .

. . . and Friday was vastly improved.

I have a harrowing tale to tell about my cousins' escape from the fire, but that will take a whole lot more Theraflu, sleep, and wine.  And maybe carrot cake.  But definitely sleep.

Stunningly Bad Photography of Our Smoky Skies

The news about California's wildfires concentrates on areas people know, such as Monterey, the Santa Cruz Mountains, and the Napa Valley.  But I live in a Northern California that few have heard of, a sparsely-populated valley fringed by the Coast Range to our west and the Sierra Nevadas to our east.  We are experiencing our second round of fires this month, and while everyone I know is safe and housed, still I know several people who were evacuated in a hurry, and many homes and structures have burned.  I thought you might like to see what it looks like around here, where there are exactly NO fires, knock on wood.  If you need to enlarge the photo to read the text, just click on the photo.

From my drive to work on June 11th:

 

 

And from this morning, almost two weeks later, during a windless week and a whole other set of fires:

Kids play inside, asthma sufferers and elderly people have to take special precautions.  And we are blessed to have the best firefighters in the state -- in most of the west! -- helping us.  If you see a firefighter this week, shake his or her hand, and tell 'em Laurie and the Great North Valley say THANK YOU.

Picture Day, Again?

Some pictures from the weekend.  First, Friday evening at about 6:00, just across the street from my parents' house.  Just before turning down their driveway I stopped on the road, jumped out and took a few pictures toward the east.







All of these photos are STRAIGHT OUTTA THE CAMERA, and have NOT been retouched in any way.  I KNOW.  Amazing, huh?

Then, Saturday just after lunch (the girls and I went over to mooch off the parents) I took these on our walk home:







So much happens here, you have to keep your wits about you.

Then, Saturday evening at about 5:30, as I was putting a pot of water on to boil, I saw the sky.  Black.  Every color was super-saturated, and the sunlight was blinding.  Forget the boiling water -- I grabbed my camera and walked outside, then realized I would have to at least cross the road for any kind of shot.  So in my slippers I headed for the east hay barn.  Yeah, I know -- I stink as a farm girl.  And as a photographer.  But this is what I got, for what it's worth:



See that squall over there on the horizon?  That's pretty much Chico.  See those fat cows?  They are lucky girls.



This is called a pole barn, because it's just a roof on top of poles.  I wonder what neighborhoods some of those poles came from?



This is looking south.  See what I mean about the colors?  And this is from a truly terrible photographer.  That's my brother Bocci's locust tree sticking into the frame.  My dad planted trees in honor of each of the boys one year.  Mantel Man's tree got sick and died.  I'd tease him about it, but I don't even HAVE a tree.  What am I, chopped liver?  I hate that saying.



The storm headed south, and just dropped a bit of rain.  On the left is the house I grew up in.  Wanna buy it?  It comes with 29 acres (as shown above), the pole barn, all the blackberries you can pick every summer, and lots of cow pies.  I'll even make sure my parents throw in my last year's Christmas tree, which blew off of the burn pile where it was getting good and crispy.  I've been wondering where it wandered off to.

That's it -- that's all I got.  Hope you all had a good weekend.

A One-Hour Road Trip For Busy People

Super Bowl Sunday involved a short road trip.  Or, if you prefer, we willingly became a car full of females out for a Sunday drive.

Mom and I took the girls up to Black Butte Lake and a bit beyond.  It's something we have loved to do all of our lives.  When I was in college I'd go alone (which is probably never a terrific idea), taking my camera and sometimes the family dog.

This day, though, we had to make it a quick trip, because we had to get back to the nice warm TV set, gorging ourselves on Tex-Mex hors d'œuvres and watching TV commercials the biggest game in history.  So this is Black Butte Lake, as seen from atop Black Butte Dam.



It's a bit of a mud puddle, but it has some good views.

The Smedley quote of the day:   "I'm afraid of heights, and those mountains are a LOT taller than the couch!"

It Was a Dark And Stormy Night (Really! It Was!)

(Photo stolen from LinderRox on Flickr)

I just wrote about the storm for my other blog, and, being inherently lazy, I don't feel like doing it again.  Feel free to buzz on over there and read about it.  There are many pictures.

Just don't forget to come back, okay?

It's Too Quiet

(Art stolen from this guy)

It's 4:04 a.m., and I am awake.

Can't sleep.  Wide awake.  Too quiet without the hurricane blowing.  And I have Billy Paul's "Me And Mrs. Jones" stuck in my head.

Serves me right for taking a nap on the couch yesterday, but what else can you do in a cold, dark house without electricity?  Besides taste-test your way through the remaining Christmas candy, I mean.

And it didn't help that I went to bed -- same cold, dark, electricity-free zone -- at about 9:00 last night.  My eyes flew open at 3:00 and noticed that the juice was back on.  Somewhere in the house something was flashing, so of course I had to investigate.  Ah, the phone has messages for me!  Old messages, from yesterday morning, just after the electricity took a nosedive at 6:56 a.m.  My boss telling me to use my judgment about driving to work through the storm.  My mom asking me if I have electricity, and if I plan to go to work -- "YOU'RE NOT DRIVING TO WORK TODAY, ARE YOU?!"  Can't you just hear the Mom Panic?

Well, I didn't drive to work.  I stayed home with Chas and the kids, and we all migrated over to Mom's house when we remembered that they have a gas fireplace and a gas stove.  We were warm and well-fed all day.  Hooray for parents!

They have better natural light, too, so the girls could see their crayons and books.

Well, it's 62 degrees in here, and I'm freezing.  I'll write about the storm -- the storm!  Did I mention the storm?  Holy cow, it was a howler -- tomorrow, after some coffee.  I will probably post pictures of the barn next to our house (which finally fell most of the way down in the 60-80mph wind gusts) on my other blog (http://www.norcalblogs.com/bumpkins), but don't look yet because there's a really inane placeholder there at the moment.

Nighty-night, I'll see you in the morning.

"Meee-eeee
Aa-aaaand
Mrs.!
Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jo-ones
We got a thing
Goin' on . . ."

See the Ape, Buy a Car. It's Pavlovian.

I miss this guy.

I had really gotten used to him, standing, as he was, on top of the R&R Sales auto dealership on the corner in downtown Orland.  Of course, MY gorilla, as I've come to think of him, was yellow with red trunks, and I don't think he was holding an Easy Financing sign, but you get the idea.

And he wasn't always standing.  For a couple of days during a strong north wind he was bent over, arms straight out ahead like he was preparing to dive off the building, sunglasses missing, trunks around his ankles.  I'm not sure that was the message that R&R Sales was going for.  But you can bet that now, whenever I think of giant inflatable gorillas, I'm going to think of R&R Sales.

Sure, I Have the Time

Sailed in the door tonight after 9:30.  What would keep me out so late, without dinner, away from my loving children?

Whaddaya got?

No, no -- sorry.  I mean, well, what COULD keep me away from the little darlings?

Military coup in Hamilton City?

Flea circus in town?

A sale at Penney's?

No, but good guesses.  Right after handbell choir practice, I attended the first 2007 meeting of the Orland Patrons of the Arts (a Tiny Little Division of the Orland Arts Council).  My blogging friend Jeff Culbreath sucked me into it* invited me.  It was a good meeting.  The three of us talked for more than two hours.

So why would I be taking on more stuff, when I'm such a train wreck already?  It's not a rhetorical question; I was hoping you'd tell me.

But I promise you, if I do get involved with this group -- er, trio -- I will be coming to you guys for help.  I mean ideas.  I mean an intervention.

*Just kidding, Jeff!

Don't Blink

July was a busy, busy month, but after yesterday I can exhale for a while and just notice the piles of crap around me that need to be dealt with.

 

I'm providing no segue, so draw what conclusions you will . . . here's what I've noticed about my home town(s) this summer:

• Gas prices are comfortably under $3 a gallon now; $2.89 at the Shell station I use as my benchmark.  I won't hold my breath, but it's a trend I'm happy about.
• An small airplane crashed into a corn field in Orland while we were on vacation.  The pilot and passenger were unhurt, and the plane (which vapor-locked, apparently) is fixable.  Mom read about it in the paper, and the location given sounded suspiciously like our own road.  So, first morning back in town, Mom headed out for her walk and saw a group of people maneuvering a small plane out of the field just north of my house.  Mom told me the story, and we both had the same comment -- "I had no idea that was a corn field."
• West Nile Virus is on the rise again this year here in California.  Two more people have died from it this week, one of whom lived in the north valley.  Glenn County just voted to raise property taxes to pay for mosquito abatement (spraying).
• A new used car lot has sprung up on the outskirts of Chico.  I pass it every day on my commute, and it always amuses me to see their sandwich boards proclaiming "SE HABLA."  That means "HE SPEAKS," I think.  I know I'd be much more comfortable at that car lot than at the deaf mute car lot down the street ("NO SE HABLA").
• Gardner's Frosty was bulldozed some time this summer.  Stop me if I wrote this before (I don't think so, but I can't be trusted), but the burger joint in Orland for decades -- home of the once-famous Gardner's Lemon Ice -- is simply an empty space between Mo's Market and No Mo' Than a Dollar (I'm not making this up).  A taco truck has occupied the space for now.
• A small bridge collapsed on the highway between Chico and Oroville Tuesday morning, and two men were seriously injured.  I heard it on local news (NPR) on the way to work, but Chas said he saw it on CNN.  Imagine, our area made the national news without having to throw a riot at the college!  Ironic that it happened the day before the bridge collapse in Minneapolis/St. Paul.
• Orland is getting a new auto parts store -- Kragen, I think -- and a Round Table Pizza.  I don't know if we need either one, but I know I'm disappointed that somebody bulldozed the building that housed Papa Murphy's Take 'N' Bake Pizza.  A lone sign in the big empty lot advertises a new shopping center coming in fall of 2007.  Lotsa luck with that, since it's August and no ground has been broken.  Meanwhile I can't rent a cheap take-and-bake pizza in town.  Bummer.

That's all I can think of.  I'm not the most reliable reporter on the Orland-Chico beat, but you don't pay me, either.

Ed's Farewell Concert

Still playing catch-up this week, with so many things I want to write about and so many other ways to procastinate.

June 10 has long since come and gone, but it was a day I marked on my calendar months ago.  It was the day to say thank you to Ed Fairlee for 50 years of service and leadership at the Orland Federated Church.


Mr. Fairlee -- I still struggle to call him Ed, even in my 40s -- has led the adult choir at the church for 50 years (he was three years old when he started, apparently), and the handbell choir for at least 25 years.  In fact, he was instrumental in getting a handbell choir started.

I am in the bell choir, as is my mom, and have been for maybe four years now.  But I was in it years ago as well, back when I had outrageously huge permed hair.  In case you aren't familiar with handbells, our choir spans four octaves of bells, and it takes 11-12 people to play them.  Each person is in charge of three to six bells, give or take a few.  If someone misses practice it's very difficult to play the music, relying as we do on each other to carry the melody up and down our ranks.



But back to Ed.  I've known Ed as long as almost any adult in my life -- adult meaning "person with the authority to get me in trouble and from whom I could learn something."  He came out twice a week to our little country school to teach band, which I began in the third or fourth grade.  I played clarinet, about like you'd expect.  In the seventh grade I attended summer school in town, mostly for the opportunity to play more instruments in a bigger band, and Ed was our instructor.  He guided me through my attempts at the flute and guitar, and my ill-fated go at the french horn.  Have you ever tried to schlep a clarinet, a flute, a guitar and a french horn from the car to the classroom, all at once?  I don't recommend it.

I began taking private lessons from Ed, continuing with the clarinet, the guitar (which I was miserable at), and as a sophomore starting the oboe.  Yes, I said oboe.  Did you miss my disclaimer about being a nerd?  Since the lessons were in Ed's home I met his wife Judy, whom I became very fond of as well, and his son Brian, who is still my friend to this day, though from much too far away.

Ed could get cranky -- who can't? -- but he was mostly fun, always fair, and remarkably patient (especially for someone who spent his days with rotten kids, and his afternoons teaching drivers' ed to rotten kids in a four-door lethal weapon).

Ed taught band at the junior high school, and later at the high school, but I had graduated before he took over.  Secretly I think he had had enough of me, anyway.  But he couldn't escape me entirely, as I came back to him not once but TWICE in the bell choir.

So after over 30 years personally with Ed as my director of one thing or another, June 10th was our last hurrah.  The bell choir played eight of our best pieces -- well, seven, plus that one I hate that Ed always teases me about -- and the choir sang several of their best hymns and choral works.  Ed's granddaughters sang, too -- they've inherited Ed's musicality and Judy's lovely voice -- and one of his grandsons read aloud a tribute to his grandpa.  It was all very touching and, being the big sap that I am, I worried for my mascara.

The church was packed; almost everyone I ever knew was there.  Chas came and brought the girls.  My old high school classmate Larry came and took pictures, which is no surprise because Larry is GUARANTEED to be at any public event in the town of Orland, and I'm not kidding about that.  Brian even came from far too far away, to be there for his dad's big send-off.  Everyone who knows Ed knows that he cares deeply for what he does and for the people he directs, and everyone loves the guy.  I can't imagine bell choir practices without Ed occasionally stopping us mid-song to tell us a story, or making all the ladies laugh over some silly thing he did.  We're a family, and Ed is the patriarch.

So thank you, Ed, for encouraging me in my quest to learn (badly) half of the instruments in the band.  For not laughing at me when I couldn't learn the guitar.  For always coming early and staying late.  For missing dinner a lot, I'm sure.  For grumping at us when you would like to have strangled us.  For never making a face at our many sour notes.  For knowing when to let us chit-chat when we needed to practice, but we REALLY needed to chit-chat.  For being an important adult in my life, and in the lives of so many others, then and now.  I can't imagine bell choir without you.  I thank you for all of your involvement and energies.  I will miss you, and I love you.  Come back and play with us once in a while, okay?  But if you make me play "The Wind Beneath My Wings" again, I quit.

Orland

I make a lot of jokes about Orland, my home town (we all do), but the truth is, I love it.  Don’t tell anybody.

Orland (no, there’s not supposed to be an “o” on the end) is smack-dab in the middle of California’s north valley, about 100 miles north of Sacramento on I-5.  Only about 6000 people live within the city limits, with several thousand families living in the rural farmlands surrounding Orland.  On my way to work each day in Chico, a college town 20 miles to the east, I pass goats, cattle, pigs, and many “play farms” with llamas, horses, even emus.  Lots of corn, alfalfa, sunflowers and soy beans.  Grapes, kiwis and blueberries, of all things, are sneaking into the mix.  I am surrounded by orchards, more every year -- pistachios, olives, walnuts, oranges, prunes, and the king of all, almonds.  Around here people say “ammonds,” though no one knows why.

Even though it’s California, this place feels more like Kansas, or Iowa, or Texas.  Very rural, very agrarian.  Lots of people have mystery “southern” drawls, even though they were born here.  I suspect the accent kind of comes to people, like a late-discovered birthright, once they’ve put a Stockton Feed and Grain hat on their heads and pulled a calf, or ridden a tractor all day long, or culled animals to go to the sale.

If you don’t make a living from the land -- which is not easy to do, let’s face it -- a good job in this part of the world would be UPS driver or phone company employee.  A great job would be a university job in Chico, because of the benefits.  Not too many people are anywhere near wealthy around here, but half of the town drives big shiny new pickups or SUVs.  I’m not sure how that pencils out.

This time of year is the most beautiful.  The almonds are just past full-bloom, and the prunes are next.  The grass is brilliant green and knee-high.  One more month and it will all have gone to seed.  It was 70 degrees here yesterday, March 3rd.  It will kiss 100 degrees shortly after Memorial Day, and the temperature will hover near the century mark until well after Labor Day.  The heat keeps this place from becoming the next San Jose (read: urban sprawl).

The Mexican subculture is strong here.  Our three nearest neighbors are Mexican immigrants who speak moderate to no English.  Another strong ethnic group is Portuguese, from the Azore Islands.  Lots of Portuguese have immigrated and settled here to become dairymen.  When I was growing up NO ONE said “Portuguese” -- the word was Portagee.  I don’t know if it’s considered PC or not now.

Earthquakes are not even a remote worry.  We have more damage from tornados than from earthquakes (a couple of twisters touched down about 10 miles north of us last week, and destroyed some outbuildings).  Fires are our biggest natural disaster worry, by far.  When the strong north winds kick up and blast down the valley, unobstructed by anything for 600 miles, we have fires.  The Orland and Capay volunteer fire departments are hugely important organizations around here.

This was originally supposed to be a paragraph, for an on-line discussion among friends, about our home towns.  I didn’t include any Orland jokes.  I didn’t pretend to be from Chico instead.

Hmm, I guess I’ve grown up after all.


Nahhhhhhh.

Another Tragedy

A little girl was mauled by a dog today, not far from here, in Chico.  It'll be all over the news tonight, I'm sure, but it just happened late this morning.

 

The girl was a one-year-old, and she was attacked by her grandfather's dog.

 

It was a pit bull.  Big surprise.

 

My friend lives a couple of houses over, heard the ambulance, and ran over to see if she could help.  She wasn't prepared for what had happened.  The grandfather was in shock.  The child was terribly hurt.  Her older sibling witnessed it all.

 

Do I blame the breed?  Hell yes.  Do I hate the breed?  No, I don't hate pit bulls, but I don't hate great white sharks, either.  Just wouldn't have one in a petting pool.

 

There has been a lot of talk from both sides of the pit bull issue about the breed's nature, about the public hysteria over pit bulls, about the oversimplification of the problem.  I feel terrible about euthanizing dogs who have never been anything but gentle and good, but you know what?  Not as terrible as I feel right now about that one-year-old baby girl, who has also probably never been anything but gentle and good.

 

Here's my solution:  forced sterilization of the breed.  All of them.  Period.  The down side doesn't even come CLOSE to the upside.  Let them live out their days in comfort as beloved pets, but when they're gone, they're GONE.  I mean it.  I am horror-stricken right now, and mad as Hell, too.

 

Please feel free to pelt me with hate mail over this, because you know what?  I DON'T CARE.  I welcome it.  I am SO UPSET.

 

If you're of a mind to pray, please pray for the baby, for her family, and for her grandfather, who must be crushed beyond imagination at this moment.  I'm not the praying type, but I just might anyway.  It sure can't hurt.

The Gentrification of Orland

Orland is slowly coming up in the world.  S L O W L Y.  When you drive west from Chico into Orland, the town is beginning to look somewhat 20th century, and No, that’s not a typo.

Near the first reduced speed limit is a pair of large office buildings -- three- or four-story buildings, I might add -- instead of a rotting house with shot-out wondows and six dead cars on the waist-high dead lawn.  Hey wait -- that sounds like our house . . .

Holiday Market converted to Sav-Mor Foods earlier this year, and, while I’m concerned for them that they apparently cannot afford e’s for their sign, they are doing well.  It’s actually a busy store now, since all of Orland seems to have decided to shop there instead of boycotting the place like so many of us used to.  And we can actually afford to buy food there now!

Farther west, in the center of town, we have a brand-new fine dining establishment.  I think it took over a year to tear out and build in, during which time I think they had a fire.  It seemed risky and probably foolhardy to put a dinner-only restaurant with visions of elegance in Orland, but the place is reportedly busy and reservations are necessary.  Wow.  In Orland.  The facade is beautiful, on the outside, at least, and there are large raised gold letters spelling out the name:  FARWOOD.  That would seem to be the owner’s only misstep.  In Orland, FARWOOD is what one burns in the FARPLACE.

A couple of blocks farther on is the main intersection of town.  It was the only traffic light in town for years, but now there are three.  The intersection was closed most of the year while Highway 32 was rerouted nearby.  32 now arcs gracefully into town from where it crosses I-5.  Several hovels were levelled to accomplish this detour.  Some hovels were left standing, but I guess we need SOMETHING to look at as we sweep grandly into town.

Longs Drugs built a brand-new store just across the street from The Berry Patch (the restaurant my parents half-own, and where I earned my stripes as a Bad Waitress).  With any luck the gentrification of the neighborhood will raise the property value, and Starbucks will want to buy the Patch at a hugely inflated price, level it, and start pumping toxic sludge into our residents.  Fingers crossed.

Several new developments have sprung up around town, and some feature some pretty nice homes.  I had to laugh at the north-of-town development I see most often -- they built across from Shady Oaks, a run-down trailer park sandwiched between a little creek, the railroad tracks and a wrecking yard.  But the wrecking yard has been cleaned out, so even Orlands slums seem to be gentrifying.

This is more than you ever wanted to know, probably.  One last thing:  I have heard many awful reports about Orland High School, my alma mater, dammit.  It was not a good school when I went there, but the things I hear make me think it ought to be burned to the ground and the staff and administration run out of town with torches and pitchforks.  This is entirely unfair, because I know nothing first-hand.  But it doesn’t take more than 2-3 stories of families who moved to Hamilton City to keep their kids out of Orland High School, or who told the county “you can’t make me -- I’ll home-school them first!”  Looks like the girls will be going to Hamilton High School.