Just Can't Wait to Get On The Road Again

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?

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?!

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.

Karma Chameleon

On the list of things that women can't do that men don't think about? Jumpstarting a stranger's car.

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.  

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.  

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.

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?!". 

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?  

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.

Will Our World Come Tumbling Down?

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.

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.

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.

Look At Me...I'm Old But I'm Happy

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.  

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.

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 quite right. Now, I have begun wondering if it was actually fermented. 

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 Bayside Park Farm CSA 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 abbondanza is anticipated greatly.

I recommend the Master Food Preserver program highly. The State Ag Extensions make these programs available as a way to get the information out to the people.  There is a Facebook page that you can follow to keep up on upcoming classes and demos. The Master Gardener 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.  

Gitchi Gitchi Ya Ya Da Da

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. 

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!

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.

We Be Jammin'

Since starting the Master Preserver Course, Clostridium botulinums has become part of my vocabulary. Nasty nasty botulism, as opposed to the fun 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, spore-forming rod that produces a potent neurotoxin.The spores 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 Bad Bug Book).  Ugh! I'm a bit of a rule-rebel but even I can see some rules are based in logic.

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 schmutz 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 Clostridium botulinums spores, all hidden behind a ring that APPEARS to be sitting pretty on the shelf.

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 with and learning from.  Look out pickling cukes...I’m comin’ for ya!

No More Three-By-Fives

Hoping I would see the world with both my eyes

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.

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.   

Today I finally overcame

Trying to fit the world inside a picture frame

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.  

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.

Hate Your Next Door Neighbor but Don't Forget To Say Grace

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 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!

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.

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.  

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.  

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.

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.

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-judgmental 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.

With Your Mother On A Sandy Lawn

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

With Arms Wide Open

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.

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.

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. Mark Woodward, @NativeSantaCruz 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.  This FINAL CALL 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.

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 "thin blue line" 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 Sgt. Phil Esterhaus..."be careful out there."

NOTE: My titular reference was for James Durbin who sang that Creed song at the funeral.

Your Cash Ain't Nothin' But Trash

On this City Council Agenda for this week, I noticed this.  

ORDINANCES/RESOLUTIONS
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 Bill No. 858-C.S., 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.

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.

Dear Mr. Mayor and City Council,

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:

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. 

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? 

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 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.

Yours truly.....

UPDATE:  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.

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.  

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.  

Got the Sun On My Shoulders and My Toes in the Sand

 Beautiful autumn afternoon.  A break away from the office with thoughts of a much rougher ocean on the other side of the country.  Grateful for the peace and quite of our little Bay.  

 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 Gil's 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.

 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.

 I could have watched them all day.

  Then they disappeared.

We Are Family

The search for family history in Wisconsin continues:

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.

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.  

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 dragonboat races, 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.

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.

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. 

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.

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 their blood was our 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.  

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.  

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.  

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.

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.  

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. 

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.