tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13714752807280053632024-03-13T07:18:07.033-07:00A Beachcomber's Blogjust poking around, looking for treasuresbeachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.comBlogger241125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-15786583255546425512019-01-09T15:36:00.000-08:002019-01-09T15:36:07.641-08:00Just Can't Wait to Get On The Road Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Every few years, we need a road trip but I'm not sure driving two-thirds of the way across the country in November was the best choice. Still, any road trip where we are still married at the end can be considered a success, right?<br />
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You may know that Mark and I just returned from an adventure the likes of which we haven't seen in YEARS. After seemingly searching to the ends of the internet, he finally found the ultimate, the PERFECT, the OPTIMUM, the just right recreational vehicle he has been seeking. A "super C"garage hauler; like a class-C but bigger and with cargo hauling capacity that allows you to carry motorcycles to races. This has a Freightliner chassis, a motorhome with sleeping for six (five comfortably). And a garage big enough to carry a full-size vehicle. While I was thrilled he found it, deals must be acted upon and this one was in in Ohio. And it's November.</div>
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The opportunity had to be seized so off we went, driving to Ohio in four days, picked up the great white beast, parked my car in the back, then headed home. We had a "bucket list" of 15 states we had not yet visited and six were picked off on the way to Ohio. Because of Winter Storm Avery's trajectory, we took a more southerly route home to miss the snow, knocking out three more states before connecting to Interstate 40 which we had taken across country when we were first married in 1975. I hope to cover the trip in topics in a revival of my Beachcomber's Blog and I would be remiss if I didn't start with the food...or, more accurately, the brews that accompany so many of our meals when we travel. </div>
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Often people remark on the fact that so many of our photos include (or are exclusively) beer. Good microbrews from Humboldt and afar. "Hmmm. Do you guys ALWAYS drink? Are you some kind of BEER connoisseurs?" No (well, kinda) and no. What we like is good food and almost without fail, we find it at breweries.</div>
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Why would we travel two-thirds of the way across the country to eat at Denny's? Or Applebees? No offense to either but, we did that in 1975 when we drove to South Carolina soon after we married. McDonald's ALL the way across Interstate 40 then coming home on "Eye One Oh" (Interstate 10 in CB lingo), it was Denny's. We had the "Superbird" (sliced turkey and some sort of white cheese on grilled sourdough) in every state we touched. We like to think we have evolved in the past forty some years and seek to enjoy more of the culture in the places we travel.</div>
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TRAVEL=CULTURE=FOOD=PEOPLE. While we may not travel as well as Anthony Bourdain, he once quoted Mark Twain, saying that "travel is fatal to prejudice". Traveling opens your mind and hearts to different ways of living and makes it a little harder to judge folks. Don't get me wrong, there are assholes everywhere but, walking into a diner in Indianapolis or a donut shop in Canada to be greeted by a local asking "where y'all from?" never gets old. Out of state plates are a good conversation starter. And food options make life interesting.</div>
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On the road early one morning after "boondockin" at a truck stop in Kentucky, we searched the food options on the highway signs and spotted "Rodney's Southern Style Home Cookin". Mark is more of a breakfast foodie than I am but, while traveling on two good meals a day, breakfast has to be more substantial than my normal yogurt and granola. We checked out the specials and, while I was tempted by chicken and waffles, I spotted chicken livers on the lunch menu and asked if that was an option early in the day. "Oh, sure, honey, we can fix up a breakfast if you want". Really? "You want eggs?" "Yes, two, over medium."Hash browns?" "Yes". "I'll go get that. You two are gonna be fuller `an a tick after this". And she wasn't wrong. Super yummy. Filling. Learned about her brother Rodney. And her mama. Honestly you can't have more fun than that early in the morning.</div>
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Just like our local, west coast breweries have fish and chips, local food offerings in land-locked states have other options. I asked our waiter at the Rebel Kettle Brewery in Little Rock what was good; how was the crawfish po-boy? He said it was one of his favorites (you can usually tell if a waiter is fibbing and why would they? Bullshit does not make for good tips.) It WAS yummy, crawfish overflowing from the bun that were added to my side salad so the little "bugs" were enjoyed two ways in one meal. Chicken tenders are prepared differently in different regions. Grits come as a breakfast side as often as hash browns. Or chicken livers. Even cole slaw is different as you travel across the country. These are things you won't find if you don't venture beyond the chain restaurant menu. Oh, you know what you're going to GET when you stick to a chain you're familiar with but, what fun is that?!</div>
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We like our dark beer - porters, stouts, dark ales. And we've tried them everywhere. Well, not everywhere but everywhere we've been. So far. There are places we missed in the states we've seen and states we haven't even set foot in. So many breweries, so little time.</div>
beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-60007794278633093032018-12-13T09:32:00.000-08:002018-12-13T09:35:29.437-08:00Karma Chameleon <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zJDailBP7rA/XBKVt94lSuI/AAAAAAAADmY/ZtFdc_GqNi4odJAjHylDR3Z6efOi3pcrACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zJDailBP7rA/XBKVt94lSuI/AAAAAAAADmY/ZtFdc_GqNi4odJAjHylDR3Z6efOi3pcrACLcBGAs/s400/IMG_1037.jpg" width="300" /></a><br />
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On the list of things that women can't do that men don't think about? Jumpstarting a stranger's car.</div>
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Last night, like many of you, I was once again struck by the amazing sunset. I had left the house that morning with an armload of parcels in preparation of an upcoming work ceremony so left without my "good" camera so, naturally, this is the evening I have a few moments at the exact time of a stellar sunset. As they say, "the best camera for the job is the one you have", so I decided it was best to catch it with my iPhone than not catch it at all. I pulled into the parking lot at the end of Truesdale at dusk, locked my car and walked to the water's edge to take a few shots of the pinks and oranges overtaking the sky. </div>
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Truthfully, I seldom walk to the end of the Del Norte pier with my camera anymore, recognizing the detriment to my safety. I try and be aware and not put myself into those situations that endanger me. Before getting out of the car in this small lot, I did look around, checking my surroundings for what can sometimes be a sketchy crowd. Except for a woman sitting in her little beater car reading, it looked safe but, as I left my car, she called out to me through her window and asked if I had jumper cables. "No, sorry" as I walked away immediately feeling pangs of guilt - I have cables. As I captured the beautiful darkening sky, my mind reminded me that she was a woman alone though I'm confident this was not the first evening she had sat in a darkened parking lot alone, if you catch my drift. She can handle herself. Then my mind, again, reminded me I have three daughters, any one of which might find themselves alone in a parking lot with a dead battery having sat too long with the radio or lights on. Sigh...if I don't help her, she'll have to ask other people, putting herself in potential danger. </div>
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I walked back to my car, checked the hatch to confirm I had the cables and asked her if she knew how to use them because, frankly, I always forget. She did so I pulled my car nose-to-nose with hers and popped the hood. As I got out of the car and handed her the cables, I realized I was in a dimly-lit parking lot, often frequented by a pretty unsavory collection of people, leaving my keys in the ignition with the car running. What am I doing?! As she popped the black and red cables on to her car's battery posts then mine, I looked around nervously. She got in her car and it started right up. We "whoop"ed for a second (maybe that was just me), she disconnected the cables, and handed them back with a brief thank you. I backed up, she drove off and sat for a second, breathing a sigh of relief. Doors locked.</div>
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She was not effusive in her thanks - not ungrateful but I gather from her adept use of the cables that this was not her first run at this rodeo. She does this all the time. I do not. I didn't realize how unaccustomed I was to this until I got to my meeting and realized I was shaking. Maybe not shaky but unnerved. As I joined the few early women at the meeting, I shared my experience and shocked myself by breaking into a brief ugly cry, recognizing how I had potentially put myself into a situation where I could have been car-jacked in a heartbeat. (Thank you MaryEllen for the needed hug to sooth my embarrassment). This "damsel in distress" could easily have had a partner waiting in the dark corner of the lot and, while I was being a good Samaritan, they might have joyfully conked me over the head and taken my car, purse...EVERYTHING. The cops that would take the report, whom I probably know, would shake their head as they took their report and put my distinctively striped Subaru on the BOL list . My husband would say, "you did WHAT?!". </div>
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And the internet? The trolls would remind me I should NEVER leave my car running with the keys in it. I should NEVER put myself in that position. The anonymous trolls know EVERYTHING. But, to my original point, would the same situation even warrant a mention by a man? How many times has my husband jump-started a stranger's car without telling even one person. Without coming home and saying, "ya know what I did today?". And, when he did it, would I or anyone have questioned his carelessness in doing so? </div>
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Well, here's one thing the trolls DON'T know: the trolls don't know that sometimes the Karma Fairy exists. The trolls don't know that "kindness is never wasted". But I really need to take a self-defense class.</div>
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<br />beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-6679440952603590402017-02-02T08:57:00.000-08:002017-02-02T09:29:24.361-08:00Will Our World Come Tumbling Down?<div style="text-align: justify;">
Dear Democratic Senators and Congresspeople...please do not filibuster on my behalf. No matter the cause. No matter the reason. DO NOT FILIBUSTER in my name. It's juvenile. It was juvenile when the Republicans did it and it will be no less childish if you do it. A great lady recently reminded us.... "When they go low, we go high.". They have gone low and will no doubt go lower. </div>
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Mitch McConnell has already said that he will "guarantee" this Supreme Court justice. He has already decided that if they don't win, he'll change the rules so they can win. Like our President, they can't stand to lose and won't admit when they DO lose. We have spent eight years witnessing that the current Republican Senate and Congress are poor losers. Now we are seeing that they are just as poor winners. </div>
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Don't get me wrong...don't give in. Resist and we will resist with you. We will all fight and will go down fighting but please don't go down to their level. These people are the reason people hate politicians. They are obstructionists. You are better than that. We are better than that. Better than them. We need to go high every time they go low. Their world is not the one we want to live in.</div>
beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-41088553628405623252016-03-13T17:16:00.000-07:002019-09-11T12:27:16.398-07:00Look At Me...I'm Old But I'm Happy<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Pe38qff3OCs/VuXq2cVy4-I/AAAAAAAACeM/Lb4pvHQFGgwBSQIjEs14pZLzqBP4Nr1cA/s1600/2016-03-13%2B10.57.38%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Pe38qff3OCs/VuXq2cVy4-I/AAAAAAAACeM/Lb4pvHQFGgwBSQIjEs14pZLzqBP4Nr1cA/s640/2016-03-13%2B10.57.38%2Bsmall.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I spent last week working on my take-home final exam for Master Food Preservers and preparing for graduation night and the presentation of ceremonial aprons, I’m even more excited than I was at the start, more than five weeks ago. I’m so looking forward to the growing season so I can try some new stuff...like sauerkraut. </span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TCrEpApJdaI/VuXq2UniXFI/AAAAAAAACeQ/KGcG20sULaUTspL6kVijW5-OIbTjeMveQ/s1600/2016-03-13%2B11.40.29%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TCrEpApJdaI/VuXq2UniXFI/AAAAAAAACeQ/KGcG20sULaUTspL6kVijW5-OIbTjeMveQ/s640/2016-03-13%2B11.40.29%2Bsmall.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have never been a fan of sauerkraut and generally thought it was a perfectly crappy thing to do to a perfectly good hot dog (or corned beef on rye). Several classmates were already experienced in fermenting sauerkraut and Jeffrey brought some for me to try, promising not to take offence if I winced and even gave me a napkin to … purge into should I feel the need. As it happens, fresh (I use the term loosely) sauerkraut tastes NOTHING like the noxious stuff that comes in a can. It actually tastes like cabbage. With a kick.</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fSQNV56_csU/VuYAHp5PdVI/AAAAAAAACeg/6eQr4AU7rK8T0giIgWZr7VTZng0zG0reA/s1600/2016-03-13%2B11.45.22%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fSQNV56_csU/VuYAHp5PdVI/AAAAAAAACeg/6eQr4AU7rK8T0giIgWZr7VTZng0zG0reA/s640/2016-03-13%2B11.45.22%2Bsmall.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> A few years back I fell in love with a cabbage salsa served at a (now defunct) Mexican restaurant here in Eureka and made a decent attempt at replicating it though it wasn't </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>quite</i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> right. Now, I have begun wondering if it was actually fermented. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I did some online research and found a number of spicy kraut recipes that added jalapenos so I jumped in and started my first batch of kraut...with a few jalapenos tossed in. Now, I wait for the bubbles, showing me the fermenting process has begun. Soon, my kitchen should smell like....well, like the kraut should be aging out in the barn. If it turns out, I plan to make more this year when my <a href="http://www.cityofarcata.org/439/Bayside-Park-Farm-Community-Garden" target="_blank">Bayside Park Farm CSA</a> share is overflowing with cabbage. I also pickled a few jars of asparagus this weekend while they're in season. With new skills acquired, seasonal </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">abbondanza</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> is anticipated greatly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">I recommend the </span><a href="http://cehumboldt.ucanr.edu/Programs/Home_Horticulture/Master_Food_Preserver/" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">Master Food Preserver</a><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"> program highly. The State Ag Extensions make these programs available as a way to get the information out to the people. There is a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MasterFoodPreserversUCCooperativeExtensionHumboldt/?fref=ts" target="_blank">Facebook page</a> that you can follow to keep up on upcoming classes and demos. The </span><a href="http://cehumboldt.ucanr.edu/Programs/Home_Horticulture/http_Master_Gardener/" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">Master Gardener</a><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"> program works similarly. Ours was a fun class with awesome fun people. Though I’m not much for public speaking and waxing eloquent in front of a crowd, I’m looking forward to maintaining my certification by sharing the information I now posess. Food Security is more than just a buzzword around here and I hope to help people to recognize that feeding their families well IS possible, no matter the income. Taking advantage of gleaning opportunities and planting just a few vegetables in the summer that can be preserved to last through the off-season can greatly expand your food budget. PLUS, it’s fun and few things are as satisfying as a collection of jars filled with a rainbow of foods that you have canned yourself. </span></span></div>
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</span>beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-28157745436623475212016-02-13T17:17:00.000-08:002019-09-11T12:25:18.163-07:00Gitchi Gitchi Ya Ya Da Da<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qyyW1BpX2Tg/Vr_OYPenaDI/AAAAAAAACdY/ph1cQeAmoNU/s1600/2016-02-13%2B11.31.39%2Bfilter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: white;"><img border="0" height="468" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qyyW1BpX2Tg/Vr_OYPenaDI/AAAAAAAACdY/ph1cQeAmoNU/s640/2016-02-13%2B11.31.39%2Bfilter.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: white;">Today's adventures in Master Preservers...we entered the realm of "Fruit Spreads and Syrups" and twice today got to break into groups and create. The kitchen at the Eureka Co-Op was filled with the smells of lemons, ginger, strawberries and the sounds of crashing pans, timers and laughter. My group made "Quick" Lemon-Ginger Marmalade. I'm not sure about the "quick" (thus the quotation marks) since much time was spent separating the membrane and seeds but the end results were worth it. I've never been a huge fan of marmalade, probably because commercially created versions are sticky sweet but this version was SO flavorful. I can't wait to recreate it in my own kitchen. Most of us had some experience with water-bath canning but it's good to correct and adjust our processes and even understand the reasons we do what we do. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">While we made our Lemon-Ginger Marmalade, other groups made a Mango Salsa and Apple Pie filling. The smells were heavenly. I feel as if we dirtied EVERY bowl and pot in that kitchen on the way to finishing these three projects. After washing the mountainous pile pots and pans followed by a brief lunch break, we gathered in new groups for another project. This time I worked on a low-sugar blueberry freezer jam (the jury is still out on the flavor of this particular recipe) while the other two groups created Fig Jam with dried figs and Strawberry-Kiwi Jam. Again, the fragrance was so heavenly, we couldn't resist poking our heads into the projects the other groups were working on. I have plans now to expand my repertoire beyond my beloved blackberry jam and have my sites set on marmalades. I know exactly what to do the next time I see a great deal on lemons!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">This course is so fun, I'm not even sad in giving up my coveted Saturdays. I'm learning so much and am well on my way to being a much more confident canner. Monday evening, we'll do some pickling, including a chutney which is another step outside my comfort zone. Somewhere in there, I need to conjure up a homework assignment for a class presentation (we each have to do two) and, after the great jobs done by this morning's over-achievers, I have some work to do.</span></div>
beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-16872395133985598192016-02-11T21:00:00.000-08:002016-02-11T21:00:05.442-08:00We Be Jammin'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_sIQeaQlUHY/Vr1jgb51msI/AAAAAAAACck/UkJX1dfUHPY/s1600/09%2BCanned%2B%252810%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_sIQeaQlUHY/Vr1jgb51msI/AAAAAAAACck/UkJX1dfUHPY/s640/09%2BCanned%2B%252810%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since starting the Master Preserver Course</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, Clostridium botulinums</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> has become part of my vocabulary. Nasty nasty botulism, as opposed to the </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">fun</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> kind of botox the Hollywood types have injected into their skin to smooth out wrinkles (who the HECK thought THAT was a good idea?!) is “an anaerobic, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">spore-forming rod that produces a potent </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">neurotoxin.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The </span><a href="http://www.fda.gov/Food/FoodborneIllnessContaminants/CausesOfIllnessBadBugBook/ucm074156.htm?spores" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #003153; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">spores</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> are heat-resistant and can survive in foods that are incorrectly or minimally processed…..”. Yikes! And the capper? “Most of the 10 to 30 outbreaks [of foodborne botulism] that are reported annually in the United States are associated with inadequately processed, home-canned foods". (straight from the USDA’s </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bad Bug Book). </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ugh! I'm a bit of a rule-rebel but even I can see some rules are based in logic.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After just two class meetings, I have learned that the method of jam-making my mom taught me is “open kettle canning” and, “We don’t recommend it”. Well, crap! I haven’t killed anyone but I’ll have to reteach my kids the proper way, instead of Grandma's way. I have also learned that I really SHOULD be removing the canning jar rings when I store my canned product away. Why? Any</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> schmutz</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> left under the ring from the canning process could contaminate the ring and cause it to not seal the NEXT jar properly. Not only that but the ring will keep me from noticing a seeping jar which, if not sealed properly, could begin to nurture those nasty little </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Clostridium botulinums</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> spores, all hidden behind a ring that APPEARS to be sitting pretty on the shelf.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh well, I hope to regale y’all of my adventures learning (and, in some cases, relearning) how to safely and properly “put foods by”. The course will keep me busy for a month of Monday nights and Saturdays, freezing, canning, pickling and dehydrating in order to save the season's harvests. After that, I will be expected to put in some volunteer time proselytizing in the name of safe food preservation, because the recipes and processes recommended by State Cooperative Extensions are vetted..scientifically tested to contain proper processing times and procedures. I will be available to entertain at a kitchen near you in order to put in my time. It looks to be a fun group I am learning </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">with</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and learning </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">from. Look out pickling cukes...I’m comin’ for ya!</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-4a999c48-d3bd-55a9-f2f0-d40d716b34f8"><br /><br /><br /></span>beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-89776633525200380672016-01-22T21:11:00.000-08:002016-02-12T17:53:36.444-08:00No More Three-By-Fives<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bj3c8YSq6mQ/Vr1pgIRMc4I/AAAAAAAACdA/LoIgKfrmVRI/s1600/13%2BStBernies%2B%252814%2529%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bj3c8YSq6mQ/Vr1pgIRMc4I/AAAAAAAACdA/LoIgKfrmVRI/s640/13%2BStBernies%2B%252814%2529%2Bsmall.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #474747; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 17.333333333333332px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hoping I would see the world with both my eyes</span></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-8f346ee0-d3dc-3b58-68e5-6f8385a1f361" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #474747; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 17.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Seems like the drearier our Humboldt weather is, the more enthusiastically the interwebs explode when the sky is airbrushed with a glorious rainbow, jaw-dropping sunset or wondrous sunrise. If you follow Twitter or Facebook or Instagram, your feed is painted the fanciful shades of a blue-gray sky brushed by the sun with pinks and oranges. Whether with the ubiquitous smart phone or a billion-dollar DSLR, we struggle to get THE photo, the one everyone sees and “sighs…” and shares with the rest of the digital universe. But sometimes I just can’t get THE photo.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #474747; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 17.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The fabulous sunrises we have been blessed with this season, while visible and awe-inspiring, are impossible to commit to digital “film” from my house without the web of powerlines that cross the sky. Try as I might to use those black lines in an artistic way, they just undermine all of my efforts to record the perfect sky. The houses don’t darken enough to be the perfect silhouettes. I pull off at the Humboldt Hill vista point to catch the view on the way to work, but the sun’s effect was hidden behind the trees. I pulled to the rear of the parking lot at South Bay Elementary School south of town but, by then, the sun has climbed beyond a point where the clouds were the fiery orange they had been just fifteen minutes before. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #474747; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 17.333333333333332px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today I finally overcame</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #474747; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 17.333333333333332px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Trying to fit the world inside a picture frame</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #474747; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 17.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, I probably didn’t really OVERCOME the urge, but have come to the realization that sometimes I need to just stop. And enjoy. Without the camera…..and, like this John Mayer song, trying to enjoy it with BOTH my eyes. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #474747; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 17.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, it won’t be easy. I’ll still dodge through traffic after work, trying desperately to get to the perfect spot to photograph that stunning sunset I can see from the highway during my evening commute. Or I’ll text the boss from the ‘T’ on the north spit, to let him know I’ll be a bit late while I try and capture the red rubber ball of a moon as it sets in the morning. But sometimes, when those things don’t look promising, I will just sit and enjoy those few fabulous moments. With both my eyes.</span></div>
beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-88638344244001491102015-08-03T15:56:00.000-07:002015-08-03T17:58:12.507-07:00Hate Your Next Door Neighbor but Don't Forget To Say Grace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z9LVAkQSMBk/Vb_uQPFGpfI/AAAAAAAACD8/wdGI26BIn0w/s1600/steeple%2Bfilter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="484" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z9LVAkQSMBk/Vb_uQPFGpfI/AAAAAAAACD8/wdGI26BIn0w/s640/steeple%2Bfilter.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For those of you, my friends and loved ones, who take pleasure in posting the most current horrific videos attacking Planned Parenthood and the pregnancy terminations that are performed by them, please stop. They make me cry. They make me cry because, believe it or not, I am pro-life. And I </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">cry to think that those of you who know me, who sign “love” when you write me messages, actually think that I support the killing of babies. And for that, I’M outraged!</span></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-ce42e63c-f5bb-3112-bd51-91002a821572" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am pro-life. I am pro-baby...for those who are ready or at least have a support network at hand. I am pro-life and thrilled when someone finds themselves surprised (or even shocked) by pregnancy and has the life situation to keep and support it, in spite of not being prepared. I am thrilled for my friends who were able to adopt because of those who did find themselves pregnant but not prepared...and were brave enough and had the option to share that child with a family who would keep and support it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Those awful videos you keep posting? I cry grieving my two miscarriages...tiny souls, potential children, who never made it into this world or our arms. But you know what? I know that my God (yes, I DO believe in God) took care of my babies. I have Faith (yes, I also have Faith) that God has allowed the earthy vessels that those souls were carried in to be used for research so that fewer families have to go through the pain and heartache I did. We did. I know those babies returned, whether to me or someone else, for a happy, healthy existence. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I stand with Planned Parenthood because I am pro-life. I support them because they will educate the people who are so judged by their families and churches that that cannot seek the information and the protection that will prevent the unwanted pregnancies. They fear talking to those that should support them for fear of being judged. I stand with them because, I want very much to have ALL children wanted. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Being pro-birth does not make you better than those women who find themselves in a place where they feel abortion is their only way out. Perhaps you don’t have the same Faith in your God as I do in mine. When you turn away those those who cannot support an unwanted child, you are not pro-life when it comes to those children or you would be waiting to take them in yourself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So please stop with the videos. This isn’t politics. It isn’t me being “liberal” or you being “conservative”. This is people. These are children or the potential for children. It just makes me more determined than ever to support this organization who will educate instead of judge. They will provide birth control to the youth who have NO ONE they trust enough to approach for help. Planned Parenthood, and those of us that support it, will be there when you and your beliefs will not. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6666666666667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">I will pray for you. I will pray for the children not yet born, that they be born for families who will love them and care for them and bring them up to be warm, loving, non-</span><span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px; line-height: 20.2399997711182px; white-space: pre-wrap;">judgmental</span><span style="font-size: 14.6666666666667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"> people. And, if it is not their time to be born, I pray their time will come soon and perhaps I will enjoy seeing them running and playing because it was the right time for them to be born to the right people.</span></span></div>
beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-3904404412122256802014-06-29T10:46:00.000-07:002014-06-29T10:46:30.677-07:00With Your Mother On A Sandy Lawn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X84BgDinskE/U7BOEu9sCfI/AAAAAAAAB7g/zvs0vOix_yo/s1600/Weekes_collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X84BgDinskE/U7BOEu9sCfI/AAAAAAAAB7g/zvs0vOix_yo/s1600/Weekes_collage.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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With the death of my mother-in-law, Phyllis, in April, has come the not-surprising changes of losing a loved one who has always been there. Even with one in the deep golden years who suffered the maladies of being a smoker for 70 years, death is not a surprise but still brings sadness and loss. Nana’s gained admittance for my husband into the orphan club, where I have been a member since my mom passed in 2004. It also removed the last remaining grandparent from the lives of my girls (and their Washington cousins) and the only one with which they had any kind of relationship, tarnished though it may have been. </div>
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We haven’t yet had the “closure” that will come with burial since, truthfully, we’ve not yet make a decision and so her cremains sit on the entertainment center next the the bowl of chocolate I’m sure she would have enjoyed. The only closure has been the returning of the key to her landlady after we spent a month cleaning out her apartment. She had few belongings and even fewer with sentimental value as she had long since sold off her things when she sold her house then had to replace them with second-hand purchases when she moved into her own apartment. So her passing left us with the usually tawdry duties of paying her final expenses, notifying creditors of her passing and emptying her apartment. Odds and ends were disbursed to the kids. Loads of clothes and tchotchkes were taken to local thrift stores. The rest was carted and piled into our laundry room where we had slowly picked and decided and tossed, whittling the pile down to a few boxes of photos. And in those photos we have found immense value. </div>
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Phyllis had some photos tucked here and there. Mostly from family we know but some, we believe, from people she had met recently. No one we had a connection to. Then...tucked in the back of the closet was a suitcase that belonged to her mother, Helen Weekes Campbell, who passed away in November of 1979 (but returned in the form of Monica, born seven months later).Inside this case were photos..FAMILY photos. Some snapshots.Some professional. Some identified but many...were not. Some we know. Others….Who ARE these people?! Mark didn’t recognize them. Little Nana (Helen) was born in Lynn, Massachusetts. When she married Charles, they moved to California and never really looked back although Helen never lost her New England "accent". She was descended from Stephen Hopkins who signed the Mayflower Compact. She had many “people” but most all were still on the east coast, many on Cape Cod. I started scanning photos into a “mystery family” folder then signed into my Ancestry.com account. </div>
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Mark’s family tree heads off on a few tangents because of the Mayflower history and those records have given me names of “leaves” on unfamiliar branches that I didn’t think I’d ever need but added them to our tree in hopes they might eventually help with confirming other leaves as needed. I found members of those distant families, whose trees correlated with mine and started sending messages via Ancestry, offering up photos in exchange for identifications.First one connection in Nova Scotia - New Scotland, home of the Campbells. Then another. And another. Photos were identified. Others remained in the "folder of mystery". Excited emails were exchanged.
The most recent connection started out on Ancestry then, thank Gods for social networking, a friend request on Facebook from Mark’s second cousin, once removed (I’m trusting him on that) who lives in Florida. He proceeded to post on FB some of the photos I had sent, sending out feelers to his cousins. As he said..it started “a firestorm”. Too stinking fun to read the comments and chat back and forth with family, even if it is distant family. Memories of events and of pictures “that grandma had hanging in an oval frame”. The level in my “mystery family” folder is going down as the “old family photos” fills up. </div>
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Of course, these are not MY family. They are names Mark remembers and some I have heard in passing over the past 40 years in conversations with Phyllis. Some, were never mentioned because even she had not met them. In those cases, I suspect the pictures were sent, as some of us do, in Christmas cards to catch up our friends and relations on our lives and those of our children. The thing is, often we don’t keep those photos and I’m thinking that maybe we should. We should label them, including the year and squirrel them away in a box for our children to find years from now. And for THEM to contact distant friends and relations and make connections on whatever comes after Ancestry.com and Facebook. When I’m done with the scanning and identifying, I will bundle up the photos and ship them across the country to the family members who will most enjoy them. Or maybe….we’ll deliver them ourselves.
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beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-75421772677432089092013-03-07T18:21:00.000-08:002013-03-08T07:25:52.034-08:00With Arms Wide Open<div style="text-align: justify;">
I know it's been awhile. Although it may seem to the contrary sometimes, I generally feel that, if I have nothing worth saying, why take your time making you read something not worth reading. Today, I have something to say.</div>
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Today was a cop funeral. There was a funeral cortege that stretched from the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz to the HP Pavilion in San Jose. There were flags flown from fire trucks. Salutes from fellow officers. There were police officers from across the country in cars and on motorcycles. There were bagpipes. I didn't know Butch Baker or Elizabeth Butler, officers of the Santa Cruz Police Department but I knew cops like them. I KNOW cops like them. I know Santa Cruz. I know Santa Cruz Police Department. I know their badge numbers, 172 and 105 because I DISPATCHED those badge numbers. Those were numbers that belonged to officers I knew, people that meant something to me. </div>
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All of the publicity from the time of the horrific shooting barely more than a week ago clutched at my heart as I read Facebook posts and Twitter feeds from media and from people I know who knew them. People whose hearts were breaking. People who didn't know them also feel that pain because they do the same job every day that those officers did, the same jobs they were doing when their lives were taken. I also thought back to my days as dispatcher and some of the more memorable calls, all of which paled to the job those dispatchers did on that day. What put me over the edge, what brought me out from behind a curtain of unfamiliarity was a reference on Twitter to the dispatchers. <a href="https://twitter.com/NativeSantaCruz" target="_blank">Mark Woodward, @NativeSantaCruz</a> on Twitter tweeted: "I've listened to police scanners for years but was not prepared for what just happened". I knew at once what he heard. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=Vf-dGb0hRfs" target="_blank">This FINAL CALL</a> went out....the End of Watch for Sgt. Butch Baker and Detective Elizabeth Butler called by a Santa Cruz Police Dispatcher who knew them both. I found the recording on YouTube and listened. As she ended her call.."Santa Cruz clear....KMA233"., I cried. I heard those FCC call letters I recited dozens of times every day. That girl is tough. Of course she is, she's a dispatcher. Tough. Cool. Calm. I cried. I cried for two people I didn't know. I cried for the people who know them. I cried for the people I know who do that job every day with little respect.</div>
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I know that, for the next week or so, the officers in Santa Cruz will receive hugs and respect and offers of coffee and lunch which, of course, they are not allowed to accept. The citizens will go back to their lives, their jobs. They'll go back to speeding to work and cursing the cop that gives them the ticket. They'll go back to growing dope and teaching their children that cops are the bad guys... unless and until someone tries to rip them off at which time, of course, they will call for help. As for the cops? They will have taken their black ribbon and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Thin_Blue_Line_%28emblem%29" target="_blank">"thin blue line"</a> from their Facebook profiles. The flags will once-again be raised to the tops of the flagpoles. Life will return to patrolling their streets and taking reports and investigating crimes. They will be even more aware than they were two weeks ago, however, of their safety. They will be more vigilant about wearing their body armor. Their husbands and wives will breathe even more deeply a sigh of relief when they walk through the door safely each night to kiss their family and do it again another day. To quote <a href="http://youtu.be/Jmg86CRBBtw" target="_blank">Sgt. Phil Esterhaus.</a>.."be careful out there."</div>
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NOTE: My titular reference was for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Durbin_%28singer%29" target="_blank">James Durbin</a> who sang that Creed song at the funeral.</div>
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<br />beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-23261486926844241352012-12-01T17:16:00.000-08:002012-12-05T13:52:14.723-08:00Your Cash Ain't Nothin' But Trash<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">On this City Council Agenda for this week, I noticed this. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><i><span style="color: #674ea7;"><b>ORDINANCES/RESOLUTIONS</b><br />10. Solid Waste and Mandatory Garbage and Recycling Collection Ordinance Amendment Bill No. 858-C.S. Recommendation: Waive reading, ready by title only, and adopt <a href="http://eureka.granicus.com/MetaViewer.php?view_id=2&clip_id=121&meta_id=8973" target="_blank">Bill No. 858-C.S</a>., an Ordinance of the City of Eureka amending Title V, Chapter 51, inserting Sections 51.34 through 51.38 and renumbering previous Sections 51.34 through 51.37 to Sections 51.39 through 51.42 pertaining to Solid Waste and Mandatory Garbage and Recycling Collection</span>. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">It is just one more chapter in the saga of the mandatory garbage collection we are forced to pay for in the City and it continues to PISS ME OFF! I sent this off to the City Council today but doubt it will get any more attention than my concerns did when the previous Council passed the mandatory trash ordinance that made the City of Eureka look like Bin Town.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Dear Mr. Mayor and City Council,</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Although I receive the
agenda, I admit to being remiss in not following up on this amendment
earlier. It may be too late to make a
difference but I have something to say:</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>This amendment will make it
possible for people taking recyclables from the recycling bins to be cited for
same. Here is my problem with this
concept: From my understanding, trash is
fair game. If I have been paying
attention to a million episodes of Law and Order, a warrant wouldn’t even be
required for police to go through my
garbage because it is just that: GARBAGE.
</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>If the theory here is that
the recyclables are OWNED by Recology, I object. I PAY Recology because the City Council
forces me to do business with a private company. Now, Recology is having the City police
PROTECT the recyclables so they can get even more? What is up with THAT? And, as I asked the City council members when
this was being proposed, how does my husband get the City Council to require
HIS business be the only motorcycle shop in town? Is Recology paying some sort of fee for this
pleasure? </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Personally, I produce very
little trash. I pay to have my garbage can emptied of a single small bag of garbage each week. My recycling bin is put out maybe once in six
weeks and is full of cat food cans and wine bottles, none of which are CRV. BUT, if I put CRV out there and some
transient with a need for a pack of smokes is industrious enough to go through
it, so be it; it does not belong to Recology until they haul it away. If someone is looking for a reason to stop
the transients, I don’t think protecting the interest of a business that is
already being handed a pretty financial package by the residents of this City
is the way to do it.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>I totally and thorough object
to my being forced to pay a private company as it is. I REALLY object to their financial interests
being protected even further by the Police Department.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Yours truly..... </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>UPDATE:</b> I had a nice phone conversation with Eureka Deputy Public Works Director, Miles Slattery who was forwarded my letter from one of the Council members (or perhaps ALL of them). I SWEAR I've exchanged emails with him in the past but...perhaps not. This conversation was informative for me. One very important point he made was that the City, as part of their bid contract with Recology, retains the ownership of the items placed in the recycling bins. Those funds (which last year amounted to $32,000) offset the costs and reduces the rates paid by the residents - that would be ME. So any removal of items from those bins will not go towards that offset. He did verify that the contract for trash hauling was put out to bid in 1997 and Recology (previously City Garbage) won the bid by a hefty margin and is reviewed regularly but will not be put out for bid again until 2020.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He did remind me that I could apply for an exemption (which I tried when this started and was rejected) based on my recycling/composting practices and that it likely would be approved. That process has to be repeated for each fiscal year. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Truthfully, I've grown to enjoy the convenience of the recycling bins as much as I am agitated by the trash bins so may just have my husband get the exemption at work and have him bring HOME his small amount of shop trash and fill the home can. Mostly, I was impressed by the actual response I got and the adult conversation I had with Mr. Slattery. When the mandatory trash service was initially implemented, I tried to absolutely no avail to discuss the concepts with the Council members. I got a stock "thank you for writing" note from Virginia Bass and a two page, unrelated diatribe from Jeff Leonard. None would respond to my specific concern. At least the current council had the decency to pawn me off on to a competent City staff member.</span> </span></div>
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beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-77766527401036263072012-10-30T21:06:00.001-07:002012-10-31T08:40:46.482-07:00Got the Sun On My Shoulders and My Toes in the Sand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"> Beautiful autumn afternoon. A break away from the office with thoughts of a <a href="http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/49605748/ns/weather/" target="_blank">much rougher ocean </a>on the other side of the country. Grateful for the peace and quite of our little Bay. </span> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5mKcRI1EOEc/UJCehFVl5WI/AAAAAAAAB1Y/kT9kA3cNGAE/s1600/30+King+Salmon+%2815%29+small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5mKcRI1EOEc/UJCehFVl5WI/AAAAAAAAB1Y/kT9kA3cNGAE/s640/30+King+Salmon+%2815%29+small.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I headed to King Salmon; closest beach to campus so easy to get a nice walk and still not spend too much time away from the office. I parked on the road outside <a href="http://gillsbythebay.com/" target="_blank">Gil's</a> parking lot and walk along the tiny jetty to the beach. As I walked, I was joined by thousands of sandpipers (variety unknown to me) swooping overhead in that way they do, in their amazing ballet, mysteriously able to travel en masse bobbing every which-way without collision.</div>
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I did catch them resting in a cluster as I walked along the shore, huddled tightly ...until they were disturbed, perhaps by me or perhaps by the urge just to fly.</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I could have watched them all day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> Then they disappeared. </span></div>
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beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-39040929270537433012012-10-02T21:19:00.000-07:002012-10-02T21:19:12.174-07:00We Are Family<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">The search for family history in Wisconsin continues:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">A trip to Milwaukee, when one has never been, can hardly be considered a waste of time but, for the purpose of this trip, it offered no information for me. Since I had found nothing more on Uncle Charlie in the Milwaukee Public Library, we opted for a trip to Appleton which is where he had lived and worked. Appleton was much closer to our Green Bay base so the decision was easy. Charlie was a baker and I found a number of newspaper articles from the mid-twenties describing problems with his neighbors who were none-to-pleased to find out he had been granted permission to expand the bakery he was running from his home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Monica and Alton wandered the weekly Farmers Market while I hit the adjacent library, combing through Polk's City Directories for bakery addresses as well as more info on Charlie. No luck beyond 1930. What the heck? He wasn't in Appleton and he wasn't in Milwaukee. Now what?! I WAS able to find and print the obituary for an aunt whose birthday had evaded me, giving me fodder for Ancestry.com searches so the trip was not a waste. While we further pondered the expanding (or at least NOT diminishing) mystery of Charlie, we headed to neighboring town, Neenah to make the first of many cemetery visits to my aunts and uncles. I had already been given the general vicinity of the "drawers" where I would find my Aunt Betty and Uncle Bernie so Monica and I began wandering. In the process, she spotted the familiar last name of one of my cousins - Charlie's daughter! The stone had both birth and death dates of her husband but only her name, indicating she was still alive, information I hadn't been able to confirm and was excited to learn. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After a quick trip south to Oshkosh to take a picture of little Alton in front of the water tower wearing locally named overalls, we sat alongside the Fox River, watching <a href="http://www.uwosh.edu/fallfest/DragonboatFestival" target="_blank">dragonboat races</a>, eating cheese curds and pondering our next move. Through the miracle of the smart phones, we found a phone number for Alice and, at Monica's urging, I made the call. How do you announce yourself to a person who doesn't even know you exist? Happily, Alice recognized my mom's name and invited us to her house but, truthfully, I was a little concerned that she did so since we may NOT have been who we said we were. I'll allow her own children to do THAT scolding.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">When Alice answered the door, it was clear we were related and she said the same...we laughed at our similarities and, when I took my mom's photo albums out, she marveled at how much my mom and her older sister looked alike. Since my mom was the youngest and Charlie was the oldest, his daughter and his youngest sister were just three weeks apart. It turned out that Alice had only minimal contact with her father from the time she was born as her birth coincided with their divorce proceedings. She had little information and we were careful to not bring up dirt I had unearthed but, when Monica asked just the right question, she casually mentioned that Charlie had changed his name. He what?! "Alice, this is HUGE!". That tiny piece of information made a world of difference to this trip and the research I was doing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It turned out he had returned to Appleton for the last few years of his life, information known only by one of my aunts. Alice was only told at the time of his death. Charlie had chosen a new name from one he saw on a sign, presumably to keep himself off the radar of creditors. His new wife and son had taken the new name and Alice, when asked where he was buried, suggested we try the tiny community of Medina (Ma-DY-nuh), where his wife's family had lived. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">That night, I checked the Find-A-Grave website and confirmed there were relatives of the second Mrs. Charlie buried in Medina. The next day, we decided we would start at the cemetery in Medina, then to neighboring Hortonville cemetery should we not find Charlie at the first. Medina was a leisurely twenty mile drive on a beautiful little two-lane highway 96 and we had no problem finding the town's cemetery. We wandered the rows and easily found the missus, with her new name, but were still trying to find Charlie when a car pulled in and parked near us. A nicely dressed lady, fresh from church, walked over to us and asked if we were looking for anyone in particular. It turns out she was the secretary of the cemetery and knew everyone in town. When I told her, she knew exactly who I was talking about. She knew Charlie. She knew his son, Jack. She knew Jack's son "who lives in the white house over there around the corner...". "Wait, I have Jack's phone number at my house; I'll be right back". With that, she drove off, leaving Monica and I standing there, stunned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">As we waited, surrounded by the grave stones of the residents of this town, it occurred to us that some were OUR family members. That name change started a new line of a new family, forever breaking their link to the family name but <i>their</i> blood was <i>our</i> blood. As we pondered this, the lady we now knew as Evelyn returned. She popped out of her car along with a young women. "I got Jack's number but I did one better...I brought his granddaughter." Seriously? This beautiful young lady, about Monica's age, was really Jack's granddaughter.....my uncle's great-granddaughter? We hugged. We laughed. We agreed to meet at the town's tavern, once run by her mother's family, for lunch. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">When Nicole arrived, she was soon followed by her mother and the four of us spend several hours filling each other in on family history, previously undiscovered by either side. She had no idea that her great-grandfather was born with a different last name or that he was one of nine children. We had no idea that Charlie's son had also grown up to be a baker and he had worked at that very tavern when he was married to Nicole's grandmother. And Nicole knew where Charlie was buried. I got names and dates to add to my family tree and, after lunch, we headed to the Hortonville cemetery to finally visit with my uncle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The visit ended up being somewhat anti-climatic because there was no stone to mark Charlie's final resting place. There had been a temporary marker but, since he had passed in 1969, the marker had become brittle and was nowhere to be found. Nicole had been there before and knew where he was so I spent a little time wandering the bare lawn, finally at the end of this search. I had figured out where my Uncle Charlie ended his days and our journeys both ended in Hortonville, Wisconsin. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The next morning, found us on the road east, heading to Eau Claire, the city where my mom was born and raised. Mark and I have seen much of the country's perimeter but the midwest had never been on the radar except for the fact that it was my mom's home. The four-hour journey across a state was beautiful. Flat. Farms. A bald eagle. The changing colors of the trees that warmed my soul almost as much as the ocean. In Eau Claire, we tracked down the rest of my family's graves, including my grandparents whom I never met. In the process, we drove around the same town my mom had driven around with her friends. We couldn't find the family house but found out since that the house was renumbered so that will be a visit for another day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">On the return trip from Eau Claire, Monica again urged me to make a phone call, this time to Jack. He at least at been warned about us by his granddaughter who had called while we had lunch. He gave me directions to the house and, in their home on a very dark Wisconsin highway, I made the acquaintance of another cousin, one whose name had been changed when he was six years old and who had no real information of his father's family. Again, I shared my mom's photo album and plan to make some copies to send him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">When I started making plans for this trip, it was pipe dreams. I had originally planned to stay in Eau Claire but changed to Green Bay when it because obvious that finding my Uncle would require research in that eastern part of the state. I came for family. I found family. I had planned to go alone to eliminate the need to drag others along which I attended to the drudgery of library research. I invited Monica and Alton to ensure I ventured out to see some sites outside of the library and maybe try a midwestern microbrew. It proved to be a good decision since Monica encouraged me to take chances with making those phone calls and Alton, like all babies, was a great ice-breaker. Although he won't remember the trip, the photos we took were memorable and he'll know he was a part of it. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Monica decided that the word for this trip was "serendipity". The serendipity of her spotting the grave marker with Alice's name. The serendipitous visit from an angel named Evelyn who stopped by the cemetery to see what the work party of the day before had wrought and, instead, facilitated a family reunion. There was also a black swallowtail butterfly that fluttered by us at the cemetery that Monica plans to add to the ink butterflies she collects. Serendipity indeed.</span></div>
beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-37977595163926947752012-09-21T21:56:00.001-07:002012-10-03T12:31:46.335-07:00I Belong To You..You Belong To Me<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sitting in a motel room in Green Bay, Wisconsin pondering the plans for our first really somewhat normal day. It should have been yesterday after a Wednesday night arrival. Unfortunately United had other plans. </div>
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I lean towards patience with companies that function at the mercy of weather and such but sitting in Cleveland, awaiting our last hop to Wisconsin, only to be told our flight was cancelled because the crew had "timed out"? Really? A half hour before takeoff and you figure this out? There were eight of us and we were tired. To the airline's credit, they bought us a night at the Howard Johnson but when the "shuttle" arrived at the curb, it proved too small for all of us, let alone luggage and the stroller/car seat contraption that the Toppings are dragging about plus one seat didn't have a seatbelt..."no no no...it's good" "But there's no seatbelt and my son needs to be buckled in'. 'No no no...it's good". "NO!...I'll put in the other seat". "OK OK OK..that's good". So Monica rode to the motel sitting in the seat with no belt. We slept fast and were up prior to the crack of dawn for a seven o'clock flight replacement to Green Bay, then had our rental car and were checked into our real hotel by nine in the morning.</div>
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After settling in and gathering our thoughts, we headed to the University of Wisconsin so I could start some research that will help me locate information on two of my mom's siblings. No luck on the sister for whom I lack a birth date in order to choose the correct documents on Ancestry.com but I hope to find something when we go to the research center in Eau Claire where the family lived.</div>
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Uncle Charlie has proven to be more interesting than expected. I came across the court documents for his divorce proceedings including the transcript where much dirty linen was aired. On a high note, the documents included paperwork showing where he was working when wages were attached for child support he skated on....*sigh*...THIS I didn't expect.</div>
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When Charlie's brother, my Uncle Joe, died in 1954, the obit referred to survivors and mentioned Charlie as being in Milwaukee. This was today's project, drive to Milwaukee. We tracked down the library and searched through death records and city directories with no luck; no sign that Charlie had ever lived there. The <a href="http://www.mpl.org/file/libraryhistory.htm" target="_blank">library</a> was fabulous, a glorious limestone building with amazing marble staircases so much like Hogwarts that I expected the stairways to swivel and deposit Harry Potter. Even the unsuccessful research was worth the trip to this building. </div>
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We spotted the original Pabst Brewery so wandered the area a bit to check out the buildings before tracking down a brew pub and have dinner and a tasty ale before heading back to Green Bay.</div>
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The title song has been popping into my head these last few days and, after I thought about my family connections, it just fit.</div>
beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-84569888441421685492012-09-16T13:42:00.000-07:002012-10-26T09:23:46.192-07:00Ain't No Big Thing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sNwn5s0P2rM/UFYyI_hkpaI/AAAAAAAABzE/kZZQy9VTMyc/s1600/15+Coastal+Cleanup+002+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sNwn5s0P2rM/UFYyI_hkpaI/AAAAAAAABzE/kZZQy9VTMyc/s640/15+Coastal+Cleanup+002+small.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Coastal Cleanup. Third Saturday of September. An opportunity, an excuse,
to get down to the sea and walk. And pick up trash. This
year, rather than walking the same beach with dozens of other people, I
decided I would head to the South Spit. My occasional lunch-hour walks
always produce trash and I presumed there would be fewer people heading
that way. I was not wrong - I was IT. I had this beautiful stretch all to myself. In the grand scheme of things, not such a bad thing.</div>
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The air was thick. Drippy. It got a little difficult to see my way with the spectacles covered as they were.<br />
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I watched these guys huddle. And land. And sprint. And flow. Amazing ballet, stop on a dime as a group.</div>
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I have found that this beach collects most of it's debris high up. As folks come to "appreciate" the serenity, they build lovely little dwellings and leave their trash behind, which is gently nudged by the rising tides as if to prevent its being swept out to be be consumed by the creatures who live there. This means I have to trudge in the soft sand to find the trash. Not as much fun as the water's edge where the cold can lap at my toes.</div>
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Gratefully, there were no large items. No big things. Just many many small ones. As my bucket got fuller, and I would think, "that's it, nothing else will fit", I would find one more thing and tuck it in amongst the other small pieces. As I neared the parking lot, I spotted a beer box filled with paper, probably left behind from a bonfire, so finally had to break down and use the feed bag I brought. </div>
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I sorted and counted and will report my findings to be included in the count. Multiply that by the hundreds of others who were out in Humboldt and California and the northwest and the right coast and we kept a lot of trash out of the ocean. My final tally:</div>
<ul>
<li>61 cigarette butts</li>
<li>1 chew can</li>
<li>2 coffee cups/1 lid</li>
<li>5 beverage bottle lids</li>
<li>1 CD</li>
<li>17 pieces of dense foam from floats and floatables</li>
<li>15 pieces of foam meat trays</li>
<li>1 shoe</li>
<li>28 pieces of plastic from buckets, tubs and such</li>
<li>19 pieces of plastic bags and wrappers</li>
<li>9 shotgun "innards"... wadding...whatever</li>
<li>1 cardboard box of paper</li>
<li>1 shoelace</li>
<li>1 bag of poop</li>
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I have to say this last one boggles my mind. Someone took the time to carry a bag to the beach to clean up after their dog. They picked up the poop. Then left it. Thank you people...almost. You were <i>this </i>close to being responsible....</div>
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If you didn't make it out this year, it's not too late. Go out to the street in front of your home or business and pick up the litter there that will flow to the storm drains in the next rain and will end up in the sea. Look at the cigarette butts and candy wrappers the next time you walk down the street. They WILL end up in the bay if someone doesn't stop them. And put the third Saturday in September on your calendar for 2013.</div>
beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-6089507491295654652012-08-30T17:29:00.000-07:002012-08-30T17:29:21.546-07:00We Thought He Was Gone.....<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4xElBgPe368/UD2gVGBE--I/AAAAAAAABvU/g0TDq4jpcak/s1600/Herman+%284%29+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4xElBgPe368/UD2gVGBE--I/AAAAAAAABvU/g0TDq4jpcak/s400/Herman+%284%29+small.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YRLQg2CXtow/UD2gWAkAkEI/AAAAAAAABvk/nf-g6GYrNMU/s1600/Herman+%286%29+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em;"></a><span id="internal-source-marker_0.36436483891976024" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">In
the late 70’s, Herman arrived in Santa Cruz. He was fun. We shared
his company. He attended parties and family functions. But frankly,
after a while we just wished he would die. </span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Herman
was a sweet sourdough started introduced to us by Barbara Burklo, late
food editor of the Santa Cruz Sentinel. The process involved making
this simple starter, feeding the starter and stirring daily. After ten
days, you would bake one of a selection of recipes including pancakes
and coffee cake using a fourth of the starter. You would divide the
remaining starter, keeping a cup and sharing the other two portions with
friends, who would then be expected to feed, bake and share with THEIR
friends - a baking pyramid of cosmic proportions. At first, it was
GREAT. Cinnamon rolls, and coffee cake, and pancakes and .....you can
see where this is going. After a while, every baking friend you knew
had Herman stewing in a bowl in the frig and most all were fed up with
Herman. You would jump at the opportunity to bake a double batch of
something Herman for a potluck only to find Herman was the main
selection on the banquet. Herman became the zucchini of the baking
world. Eventually, people would just “forget” to feed the starter and
“accidentally” kill Herman. Others would, in a mad fury of baking, use
all of their starter and be done with it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Fast
forward twenty years. We were living in Minden, NV when a teacher gave me, as an appreciation gift, a starter for Amish Friendship Bread, white goo in a ziploc baggie.
Directions had you leave it sitting on the counter, squooshing it each day in
lieu of stirring, feed it after ten days and divide it into bags to be
presented to friends. My initial problem was having few friends that
baked so no one wanted my ‘gift’. The bigger problem was the attached
tea bread recipe - it required a box of instant pudding. Even then, I
was not a fan of eating packages of mysterious ingredients so the
thought of lovingly tending to starter only to contaminate it with a box
of instant pudding was well, off-putting. I went looking for an
alternative recipe. It took a while but I persevered and found a recipe
using the starter that contained only recognizable ingredients. And
when I found it, it was named “Herman”. Really? It’s just Herman? Two
decades pass and I am once again dealing with Herman?</span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Prior
to receiving the Amish Herman, I had mixed up a standard sourdough
starter with my Girl Scout troop as we worked on the Folk Arts Badge.
This was in 1992 and It was shoved to the back of my frig between uses
- I reasoned that anything able to survive in the saddlebag of a
crusty miner, would certainly survive in a chilled box. Once I realized
that Herman was apparently Amish, I decided he could survive in my frig
as the other starter had done. Then I decided that one jar was enough
and dumped them all together - cohabitate successfully or die! </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kEj6Qa7Z6o4/UD2gVqJ4a5I/AAAAAAAABvc/iSXhgDp6_aU/s1600/Herman+%285%29+small.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kEj6Qa7Z6o4/UD2gVqJ4a5I/AAAAAAAABvc/iSXhgDp6_aU/s320/Herman+%285%29+small.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We moved from Nevada in 1995 and Herman came along. That’s
right, I have something in my refrigerator that we actually consume
that is nearly twenty years old. And I will tell you that he packs a
kick! Those starters are not frail. They do not need to be coddled or
used up quickly. They apparently can be stored indefinitely with the
right care. With no kids at home, I don’t bake as often as I used to
but, when I decided to take Herm for a spin, I just feed him, stir him
down and back in the frig he goes. I’ve offered to share but, even
after enjoying a taste of coffee cake or other succulent offering, no
takers. One co-worker is still </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">repulsed</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> by the fact that I have kept something that old in my refrigerator. And EAT it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YRLQg2CXtow/UD2gWAkAkEI/AAAAAAAABvk/nf-g6GYrNMU/s1600/Herman+%286%29+small.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YRLQg2CXtow/UD2gWAkAkEI/AAAAAAAABvk/nf-g6GYrNMU/s320/Herman+%286%29+small.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Now, more than twenty years after “Amish Friendship Bread” came
into my life in the form of a pasty white mass in a plastic bag, Herman is still residing in a plastic jar in the back of my frig. To be
honest, I’m not happy about the plastic but frankly, Herman gets a
bit....gassy and at least the plastic can expand under pressure. I
don’t want to think about a glass jar exploding in the frig, not to
mention the loss of Herman who has become a part of the family. Occasional pancakes, biscuits, cinnamon roles and the subsequent rejuvenating feeding keep Herman happy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Is
the current resurgence of homesteading and scratch baking and
preserving a sign that it’s time for another run at this starter? I
have a Herman Cookbook that is out of print and in these days of online
recipe forums, have found a number of postings about Herman/Amish
Friendship bread. There are even people who cryogenically store Herman
in the freezer then reanimate him when needed. I couldn't take the chance but you can. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">If you decide to try it,
just be assured that he saves well. Search <i>"Herman"</i> or <i>"Amish Friendship Bread"</i> and you'll find all sorts of recipes. Ask me nice, and I might, to use
the local vernacular, offer a </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">clone</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> from this kicky little mass I have. Come on...you know you want to.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span>beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-44126832915059561652012-08-28T19:06:00.004-07:002012-08-28T22:02:34.001-07:00Find Your Own Way Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kz_9GRXem9Y/UD1yCDlD8jI/AAAAAAAABuc/ZExXfLOPUD8/s1600/Websters+Crew+1939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kz_9GRXem9Y/UD1yCDlD8jI/AAAAAAAABuc/ZExXfLOPUD8/s640/Websters+Crew+1939.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span id="internal-source-marker_0.0543830895885522" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Should
a person really be this excited about a trip to a place that is neither
exciting nor exotic? Well, to be honest, maybe Wisconsin is both; I’ve
never been there. I just know my mom USED to live there. Until her
father passed away in 1941, she lived in Eau Claire. She worked at a
candy plant and the pressure cooker plant. I know this because there
are old black and white photos of her with the “pressure cooker gang” or
the "Webster's Crew 1939" from the candy factory. There are countless pictures
of her with her friends and old beau in their brand new winter coats
hanging out in a park along a river. Well, next month I plan to see
that river and, hopefully, that little park. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.0543830895885522" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">While she is on maternity leave, Monica
</span><span id="internal-source-marker_0.0543830895885522" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">(along with little Alton) </span><span id="internal-source-marker_0.0543830895885522" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">will accompany me on this adventure to Wisconsin to
visit the graves of my grandparents and many of my aunts and uncles.
We’ll visit the University of Wisconsin at Green Bay where there is a
research library of Wisconsin history in hopes of tracking down my
elusive uncle Charlie. I
hope to meet family but, to be honest, I’m not sure they feel the same.
I have searched with <a href="http://ancestry.com/">Ancestry.com</a> and the world-wide interwebs, the names of
my cousins and their children then have tried to make connections
through Facebook but they don’t respond. My paranoid self wonders, could it mean they <i>have </i>looked
at my profile and don’t see anything they like. </span><span id="internal-source-marker_0.0543830895885522" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Perhaps they don’t often go on Facebook so just haven’t seen my messages.</span><span id="internal-source-marker_0.0543830895885522" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Perhaps they will eventually respond and we will knock back shots of
Patron and have a high ol’ time. I hope so.</span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UcRq0bXf9ew/UD102eVWUJI/AAAAAAAABus/Dw_QapMRvqI/s1600/Goettlicher_GmaGpa-crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UcRq0bXf9ew/UD102eVWUJI/AAAAAAAABus/Dw_QapMRvqI/s400/Goettlicher_GmaGpa-crop.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aloisia and Karl Goettlicher</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.0543830895885522" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My
German (actually Austrian) side seems to be a mite....standoffish which
was the impression I got from my mom and, in later years, my aunt who I
contacted for info. Seems no one ever talked about the past. They
didn’t discuss the journey they made from the old country when my
grandfather and his oldest son, Charlie, boarded the SS Cassell in Bremen on August 4 of 1910 and barely two weeks later, made their American landfall in
Baltimore. My grandmother didn't talk about the subsequent trip <i>she </i>made in October, with six children,
including a 9-month-old Raley sailing on the Freidrich der Gross (Fredrick the Great), coming through Ellis Island. Such an amazing journey but they didn’t
talk about it. They apparently didn’t share the stories of their portage that would
make them come alive in my mind.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.0543830895885522" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So I have the headstones of Karl and Aloisia; just their names carved in
granite. Aloisia, the inspiration for my middle name - Louise. I wrinkled my nose at the name as a child but have grown to love my connection with a grandmother I never met, who died when my mother was only nine. It was
also passed on to her second daughter, Louise. When in Eau Claire, we will visit
my Uncle Joseph who is buried with his wife near Grandma and Grandpa as well as my
Aunt Raley, Aurelia, and her husband. I have tracked the locations of my
aunts Louise and Augusta (Gusty) and Anna but am still searching for
Mary. And Charlie. But if they are all I have, I want to visit. I
want to walk among those fields of granite and stroll past the river
where my mom hung with her besties. </span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark and I have traveled the southern part of the country on our honeymoon drive to South Carolina. We've visited the east coast and the north as far as Montana. Until now, the midwest has escaped my
company. We will actually stay in Green Bay...two people people who care
less about baseball, you’ll never find...*<i>kidding</i>*. We’ll probably spend a bit of time tracking down a lighthouse or two along Lake Michigan. But mostly this trip will be about family and about following the trail of crumbs that lead us to our ancesters. The connections that make me laugh when I see my mom and her sisters when I look in the mirror. It's nice to know I have that connection. If my relatives are concerned about this stranger from California, I suspect they will see the family resemblance.</span></div>
beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-53885441334276189362012-08-06T21:03:00.000-07:002012-08-06T21:03:14.796-07:00In These Troubled Times It's Hard Enough<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZrUBW6pjVR0/UCCRBqwhPmI/AAAAAAAABs4/syKYOp7pXj4/s1600/15+crescent+city+001+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZrUBW6pjVR0/UCCRBqwhPmI/AAAAAAAABs4/syKYOp7pXj4/s320/15+crescent+city+001+small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.11644175911010801" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Yeah
yeah yeah....Chick Fil-A. Much ado about chicken. In case you haven’t
heard, it’s not about the chicken. It’s also not about sex.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">After
a sadly heated exchange last week, and other friends and relatives who
posted...”whoot whoot we support Chick Fil-A” posts, I wanted so badly to say something...WRITE something SO profound that they (or perhaps YOU)
would consider another view. Just for a moment.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
finally decided to challenge those who feel strongly (generally backed with Biblical rationale) that homosexuality is<b> WRONG</b> (bold, uppercase,
exclamation highlighted by a curse from the Almighty)<b>!</b> Yes, I challenge you, DARE YOU to talk to<i> a gay</i>. Yep, find yourself one
of <i>those gays</i> and talk to them. To him. To her. You know you know
one. A friend (well, maybe not a good friend since they know how you feel about them), a coworker. A relative. Pull them aside and ask them
when they decided to be gay. Ask them about their “lifestyle” choice.
Why do they <i>choose</i> to be gay? Or, if you want a more productive
conversation, perhaps ask them when they<i> knew</i> they were gay. When they
knew they were different. Ask them what “coming out” meant to them.
How hard was it? Ask them about the first time they fell in love.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I hope that, for some of you, putting a face and a story on your stand
against same-sex marriage may help you to see these people as they are....as
people not <i>issues</i>. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Not a <i>lifestyle choice.</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Real people just like you and me who love and want to BE
loved. Some of them are jerks. Just like the rest of us. <i>They</i>, like<i> us</i>, are human.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Many, dare I say most. of you are absolutely unable to have that conversation. If that is the case, for
whatever reason, please try and read </span><a href="http://www.owldolatrous.com/?p=288"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">this blog</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">.
I will warn you that it was written by a gay man striving to help
his friends, people who call him their friends yet don’t think he should
have the same rights as others, to understand his feelings on the
issues. To understand why pumping your fists at the long lines at
Chick Fil-A on the first of August was crushing. He does not discuss sex.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> If you get through
THAT, read the follow up linked at the end of the first blog and see
that people DID understand. They reconsidered, against all odds, their previous stance. There is even a man of the cloth who opened his mind and his heart.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Please.
Please. PLEASE try and read it. No one will know. Your best friend
won’t know. Your husband. Your wife. Your drinking buddies at the bar. Your priest won’t know you read
it. You don’t need to comment to my blog. In fact, I don’t WANT you to
comment, unless something you read has profoundly changed the way you
think on this issue. Comment to tell me that something in your
conversation or in reading what Wayne (who I don’t know) wrote has changed
your HEART and made you think how “smiling to wound is its
own punishment". Any thing else will be deleted because, frankly,
there’s just no point.</span></div>beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-107916662195670522012-07-13T17:52:00.000-07:002012-10-30T21:09:53.584-07:00Welcome to the Planet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oWtBHazDpB0/UAC9GG_X4tI/AAAAAAAABsY/dO2id5eTGlg/s1600/07+Alton_Chord_Gabriel+051+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The night little Alton arrived was life-changing for all of us. What a night! </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lsHIlgsrUjs/UAC9FqYJ25I/AAAAAAAABsQ/c9lUD5xbFC4/s1600/07+Alton_Chord_Gabriel+001+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lsHIlgsrUjs/UAC9FqYJ25I/AAAAAAAABsQ/c9lUD5xbFC4/s640/07+Alton_Chord_Gabriel+001+small.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.7325743349907025" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Friday
felt like the day - the day Monica would go into labor and this
“Peanut” would enter the outer world. Maybe because it would have been
my mom’s birthday and a bit of me was hoping he might be born in her honor. In the weeks leading up to this day, there had been nervous anticipation. Peanut was found to be
breech; sitting upright at a time when upside-down was optimum. Breech
babies eliminate home birth as an option so a Peanut-turning was
performed, a procedure referred to as “<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/External_cephalic_version">external version</a>”. Not pleasant
for Monica but a successful rearrangement of this child meant a home
birth was once-again in sight. When Monica called just before eight in
the evening on Friday to say her water had broke, I eagerly and anxiously headed that way.
My first grandchild was coming and I would be there to welcome him or
her into existence. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Beautiful
Violet, Monica's friend and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doula">doula</a>, had already accompanied a neighborhood stroll earlier in the day and when I arrived, it was clear the birthing was moving along nicely. Contractions that had actually begun gently in the morning were becoming more earnest and uncomfortable. The first
of the two <a href="https://www.facebook.com/DancingMothersMidwifery?ref=ts">midwives</a> arrived and did an exam to see how things were
progressing and, although Monica was feeling the need to push, the exam told
the midwife it was not yet time for that. As another contraction began, Violet told Monica she should “blow”
this one off and I laughed. For the men out there,
you’ll have to take my word that someone TELLING you NOT to push during
childbirth does nothing and it just angers the bear. . Monica laughed,
too, because she had heard my story of a once-upon-a-time labor when a
nurse named Shelly told me to “blow it off” and I responded with “YOU
blow it off, Shell....”. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When
the need to push began, I had called Monica’s sisters who also intended to attend the birth. They gathered up Papa and the three of them sat
dutifully in the living-/waiting- room muffling the sounds of labor with
the umteenth viewing of Lion King, reciting dialogue and joking to calm
their nerves. Mark did not like hearing his daughter yell through
labor pains and really didn’t plan to “see” the birth up close but he
did want to be nearby. As mom, the moans were also difficult to hear
and not be able to help. This child whom I had nurtured through the
pains of youth was now an adult - an adult with an adult partner who was
doing an admirable job of calming and soothing. My experience was
useless in this situation as the “hee hee hoos” of my long-past birthing
experiences have been replaced with “huh huh huh” and I hesitated to
offer suggestions that would confuse at an already stressful time. I
could press on the small of her back to help her through the “back
labor” I recognized and presumed I was helping since my had was not
swatted away. I could rest my hand gently on a foot, being careful not
to agitate already over-stimulated nerve endings. I could fetch cool washclothes and
respond to the midwives. I could not take away my child’s pain. Not
this time.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Several
hours passed. It was well past my bedtime in the range of “Jay Leno is
over why is the TV still on”.... As it approached two in the morning,
the midwives once again examined and discussed and eventually made the decision
that this party should move to the hospital to be safe. This birthing was going to <a href="http://www.madriverhospital.com/services/birth_tsuites.htm">Mad River</a>; we were in Myrtletown. Mark decided he was best qualified to
“drive the ambulance” and commandeered Gloria’s (my old) xB since the
doors opened wide and it sat lower making the loading of a birthing
mother easier, a selling point that Scion should consider in their marketing. He launched from the front lawn with a midwife, Daddy Gabe and Monica, yelling with contractions every few minutes. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Five
cars left that neighborhood at 2:15 in the morning,. After hanging back to
check the door, I found myself alone and jumped into my car after everyone else had driven
off. I felt sure I would hit Myrtle just about the time they all passed
by but, when I reached the stop sign, I looked both directions and saw
NO headlights, no tail lights. Wha....? I turned right, feeling sure I
would see the caravan as I progressed but there were NO cars on the road
that I could see. I was pretty sure I knew where we were headed so I would catch up to them on the highway....As I entered northbound 101 at V
Street....no cars in sight. Still. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
really <i>hoped</i> I knew where I was going. Surely I would find them once I entered the “corridor” where
the speed limit was 50. I glanced at my
clock and saw 2:23 and thought sure I would be pulled over by cops on
“bars are closed” patrol but no CHP were visible nor were there tail
lights to be seen for miles ahead.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Eventually,
I pulled into the Mad River Hospital parking lot, following directions I
had only barely listened to weeks earlier when I had asked Monica where
the birthing center was. I spotted Hope’s car as she pulled in next to
“the ambulance” which, as it turned out, had exceeded the posted limit a
bit, in 5 mile-an-hour increments as each contraction came and who
had given himself a point after which he had already decided he would
NOT stop for flashing lights. He had decided that, once he hit the hospital off ramp, he would put on emergency flashers and let a cop
follow him into the hospital. He WOULD. NOT. STOP. Luckily, he didn’t have to resort to that
plan and made it with no law enforcement assistance, positive or
negative. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The
room had been prepared and Monica was hoisted and labor continued.
Harder than it should have been. A doctor was brought in to consult.
Nurses and midwives fussed. Intravenous lines were run. Heart rates
were monitored. Medical personnel spoke in hushed tones. Nothing was
tragically wrong but they wanted to be sure all was well with my
grandchild. Just in case.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The
early pushing was exhausting Monica. She was growing too tired to
fight the urge. Options were laid out, the only one of which she wanted
to consider - push this baby out without unnatural means. When asked
if she wanted anything, she warmly responded, muffled through the
oxygen mask, “Yes, get this baby OUT”. In the final hour, the doctor
was encouraging the baby’s exit and Hope, who remained in the birthing
room, texted her dad with “this is the scariest thing I’ve ever
seen...”. I told her she could join Dad and Glo in the waiting room but she likened it to the proverbial train wreck from which you cannot
avert your eyes. She would stay. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We
encouraged. We “huh huh huh”ed in rhythm and in concert with everyone else in the room when Monica was attempting NOT to do what her body wanted to do. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We marveled. The baby’s
head began to emerge. "Look"....”Is that really the head?”. “Oh my God”. We cried. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We marveled some more.
Finally, long past dawn, on the seventh day of the the seventh month but well past the 7:07 of the morning <a href="http://www.northcoastjournal.com/news/2012/07/12/707-moment-humboldt-winners/">Humboldt Moment</a>,
the doctor moved aside and called Gabe into position to catch his child.
Gabe came around and giggled as he accepted his <i>son</i> into the world and
placed him on Monica’s chest. A boy. “Are you sure?”. Nurse?
Somebody? “Yes. It’s a boy”. Holy cow. “I have a son!”. A boy! We
have a boy! I have a grandson. Go get Papa - WE have a grandson. Hope and Gloria have a nephew. Alton Chord Gabriel Paredes. Named in honor of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=keqkNTqSMGk">Alton Ellis</a>, a pioneer of "rocksteady" music, a Jamaican R&B, of which his parents are particularly fond. Alton is gorgeous!</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oWtBHazDpB0/UAC9GG_X4tI/AAAAAAAABsY/dO2id5eTGlg/s1600/07+Alton_Chord_Gabriel+051+small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oWtBHazDpB0/UAC9GG_X4tI/AAAAAAAABsY/dO2id5eTGlg/s640/07+Alton_Chord_Gabriel+051+small.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Now, nearly a week later, things are settling. At least at our house. At baby Alton's house, things will not settle for many years. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span>beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-71480435247931555752012-06-30T13:42:00.000-07:002012-06-30T20:40:56.078-07:00Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o7P3vVvy60c/T-9OULRztEI/AAAAAAAABrI/Kn7lIDATxnA/s1600/Mowry_JohnO+small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="331" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o7P3vVvy60c/T-9OULRztEI/AAAAAAAABrI/Kn7lIDATxnA/s400/Mowry_JohnO+small.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div>
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I am accumulating a longer list of <a href="http://abeachcombersblog.blogspot.com/2011_09_01_archive.html">hidden headstones at Myrtle Grove</a>. Stones, photos of which have been requested by far-away family members in search of family. It's very frustrating to know that each time I claim a request through <a href="http://www.findagrave.com/index.html">Find a Grave</a>, there is little likelihood that I will actually find the stone. SO MANY that should be there just aren't. Or, they have sunk out of sight. In my continuing quest to uncover hidden graves at Myrtle Grove, along with the ever-lengthening list, I have added tools to my work bag. Recently, I added a probe in the form of a very long screwdriver. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ep2wR2hfQgE/T-9OM2RWABI/AAAAAAAABqw/FJ2k3fvxjTY/s1600/Mowry_JohnO+%281%29+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ep2wR2hfQgE/T-9OM2RWABI/AAAAAAAABqw/FJ2k3fvxjTY/s400/Mowry_JohnO+%281%29+small.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o7P3vVvy60c/T-9OULRztEI/AAAAAAAABrI/Kn7lIDATxnA/s1600/Mowry_JohnO+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
The idea of this probe was to poke around in the vast empty areas hoping that there may actually be stones there. When I found <a href="http://abeachcombersblog.blogspot.com/2011_09_01_archive.html">Alice's stone</a>, most was visible but it just needed some trimming of sod to expose the rest. Today, I headed out looking for Harriet Edeline. The stone of her husband, Edward, had already been located and I thought I might be able to poke around for Harriet's marker nearby. I spotted the name and started pushing the rod into the soil. Turns out the stone I initially spotted was not Edeline but Emeline but, nonetheless, as I poked around... "clunk". Ohmygoditworked.....<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3VWBgcQdxJA/T-9OOgG1LKI/AAAAAAAABq4/l4T7XcM5-5g/s1600/Mowry_JohnO+%282%29+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3VWBgcQdxJA/T-9OOgG1LKI/AAAAAAAABq4/l4T7XcM5-5g/s400/Mowry_JohnO+%282%29+small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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As I poked to find the perimeter of the stone, I used my drywall saw to start cutting away at the sod, finally pushing my fingers through to the unmistakeable cold of granite. I found the stone of John O. Mowry, a 1st Lieutenant in the 55th Massachusetts Infantry, who died in 1884 at 60 years, 7 months and 17 days. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yOMukOP-TA0/T-9OR09Xh8I/AAAAAAAABrA/tqCDYGqmLW0/s1600/Mowry_JohnO+%283%29+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yOMukOP-TA0/T-9OR09Xh8I/AAAAAAAABrA/tqCDYGqmLW0/s400/Mowry_JohnO+%283%29+small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Welcome back, Lieutenant Mowry. I'm certain your wife, Emeline will enjoy having you seen next to her. And, by the way, thank you for your service.</div>
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Sadly, the stone of Harriet Edeline still evades me. Logic (and documents) would have her near her husband but she will require more searching and poking another day. For now, I'll tend to the enormous blister I developed from repeatedly pushing that screwdriver into the ground.</div>
<br />beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-26701397660972468482012-05-30T18:14:00.000-07:002012-06-07T12:38:13.872-07:00Loves Me Like A Rock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FWKQj5jemcg/T8a_DCcfjtI/AAAAAAAABfI/VJ9H-J3NlFw/s1600/26+Trinidad+LowTide+074+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FWKQj5jemcg/T8a_DCcfjtI/AAAAAAAABfI/VJ9H-J3NlFw/s640/26+Trinidad+LowTide+074+small.jpg" width="428" /></a></div>
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My garden is a kitchy collection of mismatched pots and plants, placed willy-nilly based on inspiration and only occasional logic and never on the rules of gardening. Not surprising if you know me at all. There is no fancy statuary but, instead, there are old aggregate pier blocks and bowling balls. I built a couple trellises from driftwood this year. This old hand-truck was left behind from the rug-cleaning business that used to operate from our house decades ago. I've moved it around the garden and finally decided it needed some <i>transformed</i>. While confident I could do it, Mark was home and prefers to wield the power tools so he created, based on my brainstorm, another support for the tomatoes I hope will thrive there.<br />
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Artichokes and zucchini share space in my front garden with hollyhocks and hydrangeas. Herbs are scattered up the driveway among the roses and glads. Fancy brass plant markers would clearly be out of their element. Years ago, I saw an picture in a magazine of painted rocks created to mark plants and I've been painting rocks ever since to identify the residents of my garden. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0nXoBZebnsg/T8W0PTVyUUI/AAAAAAAABeM/b2UECuJvVis/s1600/26+Trinidad+LowTide+004+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0nXoBZebnsg/T8W0PTVyUUI/AAAAAAAABeM/b2UECuJvVis/s640/26+Trinidad+LowTide+004+small.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The first step, and often the hardest, is to find the rocks, especially the larger ones. The smaller ones I've found on the beach. The larger ones are JUST like the ones you might see along a river...say...similar to the area near the Mad River pump station. I'm not sure those particular stones would be okay to take since I'm <i>sure</i> they're hauled in but probably a landscape supply place would sell you a nice stone or two to paint. I will tell you that rocks I once collected at Centerville Beach in Ferndale, eventually broke into pieces proving themselves to be sandstone. Sadly, they already had my artwork when they disintegrated. Don't use those. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lgOrDcQb7Zk/T8W0NdfSzTI/AAAAAAAABd8/3cH7ewNJnRk/s1600/26+Trinidad+LowTide+001+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lgOrDcQb7Zk/T8W0NdfSzTI/AAAAAAAABd8/3cH7ewNJnRk/s640/26+Trinidad+LowTide+001+small.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Once you've found your canvases, wash well and set in the sun to dry a bit while you ponder their shapes for inspiration. Will you mark specific plants? Does it look like a whale? Will you make a memorial to a beloved goldfish interred among the marigolds? What colors will you use? </div>
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I use simple acrylic paints. If you don't have a stash, any craft store has them for less than a buck for a 2-ounce bottle. Grab a few colors. Grab a few more. Except for a small enough brush for lettering (or use rubber stamp letters if you have them) and details, you can do with sponges for most of the base coating. You'll need a can of polyurethane spray; gloss is more impressive than matte but ... it's your garden and your choice.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3cW_29PdS4s/T8a_Dyo4KpI/AAAAAAAABfQ/fY9OXY3nEYA/s1600/Rocks+%25281%2529+small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3cW_29PdS4s/T8a_Dyo4KpI/AAAAAAAABfQ/fY9OXY3nEYA/s640/Rocks+%25281%2529+small.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This is them in progress. Get fancy or not. Add glitter or not. Add dots and swirls and borders - It's hard to see but the "cukes" rock looked like denim so I added yellow "stitches" around the edges. I even did some Mod-Podge with clock faces I've torn from magazines for just such a project.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D3L3Xhpcd3Y/T8W0T8m7wVI/AAAAAAAABes/z9ewX58nD8A/s1600/Rocks+%25283%2529+small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D3L3Xhpcd3Y/T8W0T8m7wVI/AAAAAAAABes/z9ewX58nD8A/s640/Rocks+%25283%2529+small.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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When you're done, let them dry then take them outside to spray with the polyurethane. I like to do this outside on a sunny day and lay on a BUNCH of thin coats throughout the day. Let them dry real well until they are no longer tacky...(OK, sticky...mine are ALWAYS tacky!) before placing them in the garden. They make great gifts for gardening friends, too. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OiLFgk-VEng/T8W0QzOMsqI/AAAAAAAABeU/G6HjXhwO9CE/s1600/26+Trinidad+LowTide+020+small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OiLFgk-VEng/T8W0QzOMsqI/AAAAAAAABeU/G6HjXhwO9CE/s640/26+Trinidad+LowTide+020+small.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-75482382659668052402012-05-13T11:03:00.000-07:002012-05-13T13:25:37.147-07:00Oh Redwood Tree Please Let Us Under<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uovaqpMFok8/T6_uTXnnEjI/AAAAAAAABdQ/OhbD_865RVI/s1600/12+EelRiver+001+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uovaqpMFok8/T6_uTXnnEjI/AAAAAAAABdQ/OhbD_865RVI/s320/12+EelRiver+001+small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I started to use <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tippecanoe_and_Tyler_too">"Tippecanoe and Tyler Too"</a> for this blog but, this paddle on the Eel River really cries out to be recognized by Van Morrison. My second time joining the "Interpretive Paddle" offered by State Parks and led by two Park rangers. I truly enjoyed the rag-tag fleet and its total lack of pretentiousness. Once again, my cohorts piloted a variety of vessels from short river kayaks to inflatable canoes and everything in between. Skill levels were also varied, from the experienced guys who would get distracted by the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eddy_%28fluid_dynamics%29">eddies</a> and play to those of us simply trying to AVOID the obstacles. Lacking experience, there were several exciting episodes, one on the very first river bend past the start. It was a "Tippy Canoe and kayaks, too" with three vessels sucked into the snags and flipped over. I had benefit of a river guy in front of me and I rode the current carefully, following his example to "dirt track" around the turn. We hung for a while waiting for bodies and belongings to be collected and placed back in their boats before we continued on. One of the first things I learned about paddling is "dress for immersion", clearly not a lesson learned by all. To their credit, they were back on board and we continued - I'm not sure that I wouldn't have gone back to the start and called it a day after that.</div>
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This would be Robert, one of our Park Ranger guides (not very tall apparently but the dude walks on water!) guiding some onto the river bar where we made a stop at Canoe Creek, the location of the 2003 </div>
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wildfire that ripped through the old growth forest. The trees and meadow are coming back nicely and it was wonderful to be standing in a spot that is seldom seen. </div>
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On these forays, I have to remind myself to look up once in awhile. If I don't, I miss things like this osprey nest perched on top of a tree.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4u_9KAQAA_g/T6_uXJqycvI/AAAAAAAABdw/P0dde0TbykI/s1600/12+EelRiver+037+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4u_9KAQAA_g/T6_uXJqycvI/AAAAAAAABdw/P0dde0TbykI/s1600/12+EelRiver+037+small.jpg" /></a></div>
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For a day that started out pretty chilly when we were standing in the parking lot at 8:30, it reached into the mid- to high-70's by the time we pulled out around three. I call the day a success, my first with the boat on my new car. I managed to tie it down properly and it stayed put both directions. Twas both an exhilarating and exhausting day. I learned more about reading the current and recognizing that where the river <i>wants</i> me to go is not always where I <i>should</i> be going. As always, it was great to be back on the water.</div>beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-46913625437369238802012-04-06T07:53:00.003-07:002012-04-06T08:10:04.337-07:00Home is Wherever I'm With YouDear Santa Cruz,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I have said, and will say again, that I miss you. Last year was the milestone when, I realized, I have been gone as long as I lived within your silly walls.<br /><br />Yesterday morning, however, I saw a girl with VERY purple hair jogging along the roadside. This in and of itself is not unusual in Eureka although it wasn't particularly <span style="font-style: italic;">pretty</span> purple hair which <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> unusual. She was running behind a young man who I believe was wearing a fox tail attached to his pants....at least I <span style="font-style: italic;">think</span> it was just a pretend tail attached to his pants.<br /><br />This morning, a man sat in the driveway of a boarded-up Jack-in-the-Box, flying a sign trolling for contributions to whatever his daily needs have become. This man wore a hat with ram horns attached....at least I <span style="font-style: italic;">think</span> it was a hat with pretend ram horns.<br /><br />So, Santa Cruz, thank you for sending your minions to make me feel at home. While I still miss running into school mates in the Alpha Beta or seeing the names of people I grew up with in my morning Sentinel, I miss it less every day and every day feels more like home in Humboldt.<br /></div><br />Love,<br />Debbiebeachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-36944332397389632752012-03-28T21:53:00.009-07:002012-03-29T09:14:28.436-07:00Wanna Go Back to My Hometown...<div style="text-align: center;">...though I know it'll never be the same.<br /></div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-du7vOXsr1tA/T3ProoFucDI/AAAAAAAABbg/rFAU02Ohuao/s1600/SantaCruz%2B024%2Bsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-du7vOXsr1tA/T3ProoFucDI/AAAAAAAABbg/rFAU02Ohuao/s400/SantaCruz%2B024%2Bsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725178634506760242" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Santa Cruz is not the same as it was when I left more than a quarter-century ago but parts of it are the same. At least in my mind those things that remain will take me back as if I've never left. Like us, our families moved from Santa Cruz years back and few friends remain, giving us little reason to return ..... except for the inevitable draw of the hometown.<br /></div><br />When I learned of the death of <a href="http://santacruzpolice.blogspot.com/2012/03/scpd-honors-retired-deputy-chief-tom.html">Lieutenant Tom Marketello</a>, one of my bosses from my short stint at dispatching for Santa Cruz PD and the father of a former classmate, I felt that draw. The thought of seeing co-workers I hadn't seen in more than thirty years was a little unnerving but irresistible. Law enforcement relationships are strong owing to the fact that you hold lives in your hands, those of the callers as well as those of the men and women you ride herd on each shift. It felt good to see those faces again - most of them anyway - and to remember the life of this man who was important to so many.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pn0XUMwcWZ4/T3Pro5zhUtI/AAAAAAAABbs/s9-39txfcEE/s1600/SantaCruz%2B026%2Bsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pn0XUMwcWZ4/T3Pro5zhUtI/AAAAAAAABbs/s9-39txfcEE/s400/SantaCruz%2B026%2Bsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725178639262241490" border="0" /></a>We spent a little time wandering the old stomps, neighborhoods and hangouts. Grabbed pastries at <a href="http://www.gaylesbakery.com/">Gayle's Bakery</a> in Capitola and carried them to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steamer_Lane">Steamer Lane</a> to watch some surf action then played tourists wandering the wharf, laughing at the barking sea lions. I had never, in my years growing up there, seen the "rafting" of the sea lions, together as if bound as they bobbed around the pier.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BfnAOQPKeuk/T3PrpO5A_SI/AAAAAAAABb0/CqahGMKtF1s/s1600/SantaCruz%2B030%2Bsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BfnAOQPKeuk/T3PrpO5A_SI/AAAAAAAABb0/CqahGMKtF1s/s400/SantaCruz%2B030%2Bsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725178644922432802" border="0" /></a>We headed north on the coast highway and made a stop we'd made many times before and I have a stack of snapshots to show for it but Pigeon Point Lighthouse is such a pretty tower of rusted metal, I had to stop yet again for a couple more shots.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sO_KbK12X3s/T3PsFJXBC1I/AAAAAAAABcc/k7S7BjTxqiE/s1600/SantaCruz%2B056%2Bsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sO_KbK12X3s/T3PsFJXBC1I/AAAAAAAABcc/k7S7BjTxqiE/s400/SantaCruz%2B056%2Bsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725179124473989970" border="0" /></a>After spending the night in Half Moon Bay, we headed inland, spent a few hours fighting the detours in San Francisco before deciding to save paying fifteen bucks to park so we could wander <a href="http://www.ferrybuildingmarketplace.com/visitors.php">the ferry marketplace</a> on the Embarcadero for another time. <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jlsLs65XQmA/T3PsFvoBaQI/AAAAAAAABc0/U2OnUiRruVo/s1600/SantaCruz%2B093%2Bsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jlsLs65XQmA/T3PsFvoBaQI/AAAAAAAABc0/U2OnUiRruVo/s400/SantaCruz%2B093%2Bsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725179134745864450" border="0" /></a> We made a brief stop at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_Gate_National_Cemetery">Golden Gate National Cemetery</a> to visit with Mark's grandparents and Uncle Bud.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I leave you with this last shot: When we were in Half Moon Bay, I dragged Mark to the edge of the world to watch the sunset. We drove to the end of a road, parked at a barrier close, but not TOO close, to DO NOT PARK HERE signs and ran to the cliff, seemingly alone, to watch the sun drop into the sea. Once down, and my breath released, we hurried back to the car and found six or eight people right behind us. We had not been alone but had been surrounded by others seeking that same peaceful delivery of the sun over the horizon where she would be rising to the joy of those on the other side of the world.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZeVmnfsB5sc/T3PsFShG7RI/AAAAAAAABck/Mie4oA7BwNo/s1600/SantaCruz%2B082%2Bsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZeVmnfsB5sc/T3PsFShG7RI/AAAAAAAABck/Mie4oA7BwNo/s400/SantaCruz%2B082%2Bsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725179126932237586" border="0" /></a></div><br /></div>beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371475280728005363.post-30133140544529744712012-03-19T22:23:00.000-07:002012-03-28T09:55:34.687-07:00Throwing It All Away<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MpyQDKd_dKY/T2lmie05qgI/AAAAAAAABag/7NKSCMdbjP4/s1600/SouthSpit%2B007%2Bsmall2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 202px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MpyQDKd_dKY/T2lmie05qgI/AAAAAAAABag/7NKSCMdbjP4/s400/SouthSpit%2B007%2Bsmall2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722217544127457794" border="0" /></a>A robin is NOT a sea bird. The robin gets the worm, right? What could this guy possibly be looking for in the sand? Perhaps he was just there to greet me as I headed out from the parking lot on the South Spit.<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JvsV3KYiAfc/T2lmi5Ys8sI/AAAAAAAABa0/XOW9NqqU6dE/s1600/SouthSpit%2B015%2Bsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 278px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JvsV3KYiAfc/T2lmi5Ys8sI/AAAAAAAABa0/XOW9NqqU6dE/s400/SouthSpit%2B015%2Bsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722217551256941250" border="0" /></a>The beach at the south end of the spit is great for driftwood hunting and these would make great focal points in my garden but there was no way these would fit in my car or even on the roof rack. What must these have been like floating down the coastline? What must it be like for a fishing boat to encounter a floating tree on the water?<br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hmP9loeuI2E/T2lmimEKZNI/AAAAAAAABas/k94WHaZTiIg/s1600/SouthSpit%2B011%2Bsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hmP9loeuI2E/T2lmimEKZNI/AAAAAAAABas/k94WHaZTiIg/s400/SouthSpit%2B011%2Bsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722217546070516946" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Ygbq_38u7M/T2lmjCHFjII/AAAAAAAABbA/ELhLVwhfC3M/s1600/SouthSpit%2B020%2Bsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Ygbq_38u7M/T2lmjCHFjII/AAAAAAAABbA/ELhLVwhfC3M/s400/SouthSpit%2B020%2Bsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722217553598975106" border="0" /></a>I found two floats on my short walk along this lonely stretch of sand. I also left with a bag full of bottles and caps and various other scraps of trash including a bleach bottle and a big 10-gallon pot that had likely held a substantial "plant" of some sort up stream.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nnY4vhim7wo/T2lmjWPd-GI/AAAAAAAABbQ/fOY_Fc5owNk/s1600/SouthSpit%2B026%2Bsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 294px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nnY4vhim7wo/T2lmjWPd-GI/AAAAAAAABbQ/fOY_Fc5owNk/s400/SouthSpit%2B026%2Bsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722217559002839138" border="0" /></a>Some of the trash was clearly left behind by beach goers, beer bottle left to mark the spot they held while enjoying the beauty of the sunset. Other detritus washed up on the night's high tide, flushed from hiding spots on the rivers or dropped from boats. We must learn to take care of our ocean so she doesn't have to regurgitate our trash from her bowels. </div>beachcomberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13937097661931054380noreply@blogger.com0