SHE DIDN'T TELL ME THERE WERE ROCKS UNDER THE WAVES

You don't have to know me well to know that a "high surf advisory" or a call to stay off the beach is just taunting me. Hey, I'm careful. And I DON'T go on the jetty when the seas are up....I'm crazy but I'm not stupid.

I took a couple mental-health days this week....they weather was so calm and sunny early in the week I had hoped to get in a few paddles. By the end of the week, however, a storm was brewing so the kayak stayed in dry dock but I still took the opportunity for some beach time.

I drove to Camel Rock when the surf was whomping the rocks from all directions. The sky was blue but the water was churning, wrapping itself around the rocks in torrents. Tide had been high at Moonstone but left no treasures except for evidence of apparently a LOT of little naked crabs running around somewhere. At Power Poles, the foam chased me up the dunes so I chose not to walk far up the beach. Very awesome storm. I won't even mind going back to work tomorrow.

SAME OL' TRAILER TRASH IN NEW SHOES

1995 - the Topping Trailer Trash years. Actually just two months but it felt like years. After spending eleven years in Minden, Nevada, enduring the heat and the cold and the wind and the dirt and the....cranky Californians who brought their cranky asses with them to screw up life in a whole NEW place....we packed up our lives and returned to the coast. It was fourteen years ago today.

The move started in August with the travel trailer and the rental of a space at the KOA . We came back the next weekend, towing my old Volvo on a trailer surrounded with boxes of thing we thought we might need but had to be left in a mini-storage. Mark leveled the trailer, hooked up the propane and poop pipe and returned to Nevada to pack up the house and close up his business. Monica and Hope were to start school on Monday and the next two months would be the stuff memories (and nightmares) are made of.

The alarm would sound, I'd grab the "shower bag" containing soap, shampoo and conditioner, along with a towel and flashlight and head out into the dark morning. Making my way up the tree-lined road (there were still trees at the KOA at that point), flashlight darting left and right to illuminate skunks and raccoons scavenging through park trash cans, I was generally the first inside the cold shower house. I'd turn on the lights and get the heater running and wait for the warm water to run through the pipes. Wash, dry... brrrrr, I'd scuff back to the trailer and wake Monica and Hope. They would, in turn, take the bag and grab their towels and venture in my footsteps back to the showers where, hopefully no one had left the door open and it was a bit warmer.

While they showered, I would fold up Monica's bed which doubled as the dining room. I'd wake Glo, who was just three at the time, and get her moving so as not to be in the way when her sisters returned. The tiny trailer bathroom held the mirror so timing was everything to get everyone dressed for school. An ill-timed opening of the refrigerator would block an exit from the bathroom....bickering and impatience and we're off to school. Hope had come from a year-round school so already had a month of second grade under her belt when I dropped her at Marshall that first day but Monica was starting Eureka High as a sophomore - that's a tale for her to tell. We had a few extra minutes that first day and drove by the house we were buying - 'our house'. We would do that regularly, cruising slowly past, nervous until that "SOLD" sign was hung over the realtor's picket.

Some days, Glo and I would head back to the park where I would keep track of her by the squeaky tricycle she peddled around the park. We would pick berries and bake cobblers and cookies in our tiny little trailer oven. A couple days a week, we would kill time waiting for stores to open, sometimes at the Del Norte pier watching jellyfish and otters wind their ways up the channel. Then we'd go about discovering Food Mart and the Fresh Guys, finding Winco and doing a wee bit of shopping which was all we had room for in our trailer house. Late afternoon, we'd hop in the car to collect the girls from school. Sometimes we'd eat and relax in the park hot tub.... nothing like tubbing with strangers for childhood memories.

The initial plan was for Mark to drive over on the weekends and bring loads of our stuff with each trip but it took only a couple of those long drives before the novelty of THAT wore off. It was decided he could get more done if he just stayed there and packed. He rounded up a friend to help ("do you know how many f#*king serving dishes you have?!") while I was a single-mom in the trailer park for the entire month of September.

Mark was scheduled to start work at Harper's at the start of October so he came that weekend, towing a box trailer containing our world which Harvey allowed him to park out back of the dealership. He also brought our dog and one old cat. For the next month, the body count in that 18-1/2 foot trailer was two adults, three kids, a cranky old cat and a hundred-pound dog. We added dad to the morning shower ritual as well as a walk for Grizz and set about trying to enjoy autumn under the trees. We bought a jack o'lantern and a box of apples without consideration of our storage situation so put them on the table outside. The racoons found them all to be quite delicious, taking a bite of virtually every apple, littering our site with the remains. Arrrgh!

The end of the month held light at the end of that long, trailer-lined tunnel. We would occasionally make treks to the mini-storage to retrieve warmer clothes and, as Halloween loomed, we dug out the costumes. As the girls tried to decide on their costumes for the year, Hope's decision was made for her when she contracted chicken pox.... She was no longer contagious when she returned to school with a black pointy hat and realistic witchy complexion, complete with bumps.

Finally, the papers were signed and on the first Friday in November, Glo and I dropped the girls at school, picked up a bucket of chicken and had lunch on the floor of our new, old living room. Over the weekend, we emptied the box trailer of our dusty Nevada boxes into our musty old home.

For fourteen years, we've been here in this rickely old beast and I still love it. I always wanted a house with "character" and, as Mark tells me, "well, you got it!". I spent a little time in county records tracking the history and age of our new abode. A two-story house built by Anthony Gray early in the last century (records are sketchy due to a fire of county records) who ran a rug-cleaning business out of the garage and added a second half to the house sometime before 1920, as a home for his son and wife. Around 1953, the two units were joined, creating odd rooms and two sets of stairs leading to the same floor. We have found eleven layers of paint and wallpaper when we did the guest room and 12" planks of redwood that ran the full width of the upstairs when we replaced flooring. The odd angles and square nails are still fascinating. We finally gave up on the project list, choosing to do projects as they come, and some even get finished. But what I really want to do is move this wall........

You Were a Vampire and Baby I'm a Walking Dead

It's Halloween and, with all the scary stuff on TV, nothing scares me more than that trailer for "The Perfect Storm". Actually, the movie would have me peeing myself IF, and only if, I actually sat down and watched it. I love the ocean but big ass waves that guys on a fishing boat have to look UP to see the crest? Ho..lee..crap! I've done scary movies. Hell, I read Hitchcock and Rod Serling as a pre-teen. I was probably just nine or ten in Santa Cruz when my sister, Carol, took me to the Del Mar Theater to see Psycho...."Oh God Mother...BLOOD!" comes to mind when I'm rinsing hair color out of my hair and the red-brown is swirling around the drain.. and I would never go in the fruit cellar.... I remember watching the Exorcist through my fingers at the Rio..*shiver*. Oh yeah, Willard... and Ben gave me the rat willies (but I think it may have been that smarmy MJ song - blech)....You won't see me at Saw sinco or jonesin to see Freddy Krueger and when I think about Dracula, I leave my window OPEN! I am fascinated with cemeteries and spent a couple hours waiting for the full moon earlier this month to get some pictures. These are not the things that keep me up at night (well, except for that Dracula guy).

My nightmares were always made of BIG things...big rocks falling from the sky...big dumptrucks full of petunia-colored paint (after a particularly stressful childhood bathroom remodel)...and really big fish; the groupers at Marineworld made me squeemish with their awkward size and rubbery lips. I'm thinking that's why that wave in The Perfect Storm makes me shudder - that wave is just ENORMOUS beyond the scope of comprehension for me.

Different strokes for different folks. I know one person who is TOTALLY creeped out by used bandaids (dirty tape with dirt and hair, too) but I love her and I accept her as she is. I saw a lady being interviewed the other day that is horrified by BUTTERFLIES. Soft, gentle butterflies.

So, I've spent the day carving my jack-o-lanterns into benevolent hobgoblins and scattering friendly, PG garland around. I will not be responsible for a child's sleepless night although, for me, one of those award-winning pumpkins carved into a half-ton jack-o-lantern would be the SCARIEST! Oh, and I made the coolest spiders out of styrofoam balls and glow-sticks....thank you Martha. They are good things.

Happy Haunting people. What gives you the willies? What about vampires before they were in?

Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens

It wasn't so long ago, I brought them home, fresh from the incubator. I think back to when my babies were brand new and fuzzy, they made me smile with every little glance. Those sweet little girl eyes. The sweet "peeps" they made as they nibbled at grass I threw in their pen. So tiny, I could hold them in my hand. I didn't even mind when they pooped on me - well, maybe a little. The time passes like a whirlwind as they grew from tiny little creatures to adults. And then....they lay an egg! Actually, this one is looking a bit like a fella with the fancy big comb and enormous waddle. He/she also greets me eagerly at the gate which seemed aggressive till I realized it was trying to get to the weeds growing outside the gate. No sweeping sickle feathers have appeared at the tail and, when touched, she squats down into the submissive pose the girls seem to save for roosters. So we'll see if Ginger has become Genghis....or, as we like to call them, "Stew".
I've found one egg a couple days this week but I got two eggs today - small brown beauties - so it appears I have at least a couple of my feathered children growing into adulthood. Perhaps it was Julia (above). I could be scientific about it and hang `em upside down and take a peek at the vent (that's what they call a hen's naughty place) to see if it's "in use"..... yeah, I'm not that interested at this point.

Before the Breathing Air is Gone....

Weather: The daily atmospheric conditions upon which we base our shoe and sweater wardrobe Climate: The state of the air our grandchildren will breathe.

I'm no scientist. I struggled through a meteorology class with Dr. Jon Pedicino at CR because I really WANTED to understand why some days are sunny and others are good for surfing and still others are best spent indoors baking bread and making soup. I came out of the class with a B and still don't understand it all but I did learn that the perforated layer of ozone is trying to protect us from the suns scorching rays. That's science, not politics.

We have become a disposable society and it's bad for the budget and for the earth. We buy cheap shoes and toss them out when they start to show wear. We wear bargain clothes not worth the thread to repair a torn seam. We eat fast food wrapped in paper, put in boxes, stuffed in bags with a drink topped with a plastic lid and a plastic straw. And we eat it with a plastic utensil finishing off by wiping our mouth on a paper napkin....all of which goes in the garbage. Our trash cans aren't big enough for all the waste we create. Our landfills are filled then covered over and used as a base for the next new development.

Our budgets, as well as our world, will suffer unless we change our evil ways. When a gallon of gas was approaching the $5 mark, we found alternatives. We carpooled. We walked. We bussed. We biked. Now that the cost of gas has dropped a bit, we've gone back to our high consumption habits. Some of us will reduce, reuse and recycle until they compost our bodies but others have to be hit where it hurts - in the cheesy, vinyl pocketbook.

Even if you're dubious about overfilling landfills or the talk radio host you listen to raptly assures you that global warming is the fantasy of a madman, can it REALLY hurt to create less garbage? Can it hurt to pack a lunch in reusable containers and take a real metal fork and paper napkin? Buy a good, sturdy pair of shoes that will be worth fixing. If the pesticides you spray on your lush lawn causes you to cough, is it such a stretch to think it might be better for the earth to find a less-toxic alternative?

This week we've sent a rocket to the moon to blast a hole to determine if the environment is welcoming. Most of us won't be alive when we colonize that new world so we really should take care of what we have. We have just one planet and she isn't disposable. Remember, once upon a time SHE was an inviting place to live, too.

KNOCKIN' ON HEAVEN'S DOOR

I have arthritis in my back that causes me to occasionally feel (and walk) much older than my years. I also carry around a few extra pounds. When Big Sid, our handsome tabby, began having trouble negotiating the steps a few weeks ago, empathy was not difficult - he's more than a bit heavy plus that step was at eye level.

In past weeks, the Big Man started sleeping in the middle of the back lawn at night. Not sure where he normally sleeps but I’m guessing it was somewhere that involved a jump or a climb. In the midst of our recent flea infestation, he also started napping in the covered cat box, stinky but quiet. Between the fragrance of cat poo and the fact that that chubby Sid has not been able to get to his back half for a number of years, we hauled him to the sink for a good wash before hitting him and his feline step-siblings with the Advantage.

The bath was sorely needed and I figured he would feel better with the flea crumbs removed but, instead, he developed wobbly-cat disease – as if he’d had a stroke, his ample stern was not quite following his bow. In hindsight, I’m thinking that bath was the beginning of the end and for that, I feel horrible beyond words. Last Wednesday, I carried his ampleness to the vet where he purred contentedly but would not walk across the room to display his lack of grace for the doctor. Because he is eleven years old, he got a “senior screen”, full blood test that might uncover diabetes or other condition that might afflict the obese elderly. They gave him a shot for pain to see if that would help. By Thursday, his test results showed “normal” but his legs were more wobbly. He still wasn’t showing any indication of discomfort except for his total inability to climb stairs and physical inability to mow everyone down on the way to the food bowl.

Friday morning he was a seal, dragging his big ol’ butt to the food bowl, rear legs not functioning at all. But he ate – he cleaned his plate and the leftovers from the other two plates. Then he crawled back to his towel and plopped the rest of his body down. Back to the vet that afternoon for x-rays and a cortisone shot…pills for home. Sid spent the weekend dragging himself around, front legs powering around his enormous lower body. He slept in the sun’s rays, actually dragging himself out to the back porch once -- I could see he was considering a trip down the steps to the driveway when I carried him back in for fear of him going for a “drag” down the street.
It broke my heart to see him. He was lacking control of his bladder. His feet were cold to the touch….he tail stopped twitching. His front half was still a cuddly teddy bear and he even played a bit with Hope’s hamster as Rambo rolled past him in the ball. By this morning, we knew things didn’t look good for Sid.

Mark’s shop is closed on Mondays so he was elected to take Bubba back to the docs. They consulted. They concurred that his butt-nerve was pinched badly by the arthritis and would not get better. Even surgery was not an option that would help. So Mark held Sid in his arms while they sent him off to take on his next life, where maybe he’d do a little yoga, eat smaller helpings and stay a little more limber for more of his years. Hopefully, we’ll get him back in one of his other lives. I miss that big ol’ ottoman already.

I FELL INTO A BURNIN' RING OF FIRE

I really didn't fall in but had to keep reminding myself where I was which was on a beautiful stretch of beach at Mad River. Others who had been there were enjoying the beach by the warmth of a bonfire. Many of the bonfires were built from pallets. Pallets have nails...LOTS of nails.
Along with other members of the Surfrider Foundation - Humboldt County Chapter, I spent my bit of the annual Coastal Cleanup with a rake, a magnet and a bucket. There were plenty of others out and about, bags in hand, picking up after those who don't. Like them, we collected plenty of cigarette butts and beverage containers but our focus was in and around the fire pits. From one fire to the next we'd carry our tools then plop down to rake out the coals, drag the magnet through, clear off the magnet and do it again. And again. And again. Five buckets of nails were removed and we didn't make a dent. Personally, I consider this a bit of a penance since I know our girls have been involved in many a beach bonfire fueled by pallets and, truthfully, until a Ranger brought it to their attention, I never even thought about it. After that, we sent them with proper wood to start the fire. Mad River is a party beach, fueled by awesome sunsets and a "ya gotta know where you're going" location. Ironically, partiers enjoy the ambiance without even thinking of what they were leaving behind. We all knew we had been guilty of the same in our youth but we're hoping the kids out there now will be more aware of the environment. As someone who has stepped on my share of nails and has 28 stitches in one foot, courtesy of a beer bottle that cut through to my tendon, I really hate to think of the children running on these beaches , their tender little feet encountering sharp shards of beach trash. So, here's hoping everyone will reconsider using pallets as beach fire fuel. Pack your trash and mark your calender to join us next September on the third Saturday for another Coastal Cleanup either by yourself or with a group. Remember where you live. Listen to your Mother.