Water

Posted on October 13, 2015 by Kate

When I was six years old, I stood in the kitchen while my mother washed dishes. It was dark outside and rain splattered against the window above the sink. “What will happen when we run out of water?” I asked. She chuckled as she rinsed soap off a plate. “We’ll never run out of water.”

But now we have. “Council Declares Stage 3 in Emergency Meeting” (Fort Bragg Advocate-News, September 30, 2015). Apparently, high ocean tides have polluted the Noyo River with salt water. This river supplies 40 percent of Fort Bragg’s water supply. So here we are, almost out of water.

I’m not happy to have been lied to all those years ago.

As California steadily dried up, I did my best to ignore it. At the risk of public ridicule, I’m going to admit what others harbor deep in their hearts—the past three winters with day after day of bright, crisp sunshine have beat the hell out of the previous ones where we suffered endless, miserable rain. The warm, luxurious summers have been a huge bonus. There, I said it—so stone me.

In the two decades I’ve lived here, a couple of winters stand out: the one when it rained every day during the month of January, and another when it rained nearly five feet from October through May until it finally, mercifully stopped.

Whenever I hear—usually from others who pay attention to the news—that a town like East Porterville (wherever that is) has run out of water, I frown, tsk-tsk, shake my head, feel compassion, but mostly great relief that I don’t live in a town like that.

Now I do.

I’ve always done my part to respect the planet, which allows me to feel quite smug. For decades, I’ve recycled, reduced, reused. I’ve driven fuel-efficient cars and rarely wasted water to keep them clean. I’m so obsessed with saving electricity that my family calls me the Light Nazi.

We have never watered our lawn and rarely the outside beds. This past summer, we overhauled a portion of the yard and installed drought-resistant plants. We have a bucket sitting in the kitchen sink that collects what would normally be wasted water to feed the outside plants. We have low-flow toilets and water-saving appliances. We repair leaks immediately.

Up to this point, my heroic efforts have caused only minor inconvenience.

I can handle every sacrifice that comes along with saving water except one—at the end of a stressful, planet-saving day, I like a long, hot bath.

My job can be very demanding. I also exercise regularly. I’m not a person who merely perspires. I sweat. After a strenuous workout, I’m often asked if I’ve been swimming.

So yes—stone me again—I enjoy an evening bath where I can relax and let go of the day.

I’ve never been fond of showers. I have difficulty regulating the water temperature. It’s either too hot or too cold. It also irks me that the amount of water that goes down the drain could be used to fill a soothing tub. I leave the experience feeling deprived.

A few years ago, out of respect for the drought, I reduced my baths from seven per week (yes, I hear your gasp of contempt) to six. As the drought gained momentum, I reduced them to four. When the stage three water emergency was declared, I eliminated baths and succumbed to extremely short showers.

This last sacrifice turned me to a fit-throwing two-year old in the grocery store who’s been denied a candy bar. The damned drought has now robbed me of the ability to calm down. Friends suggest yoga and deep breathing. Right. Sure. No thank you.

Two weeks into the new normal, I’ve decided to look on the bright side. I can actually live—not happily, mind you—without an evening bath. Next year, I could be reduced to hauling buckets of water from Pudding Creek. In the meantime, I’ll sing along to this:

Virginia Loperena

Posted on October 2, 2015 by Kate

NL Photography (https://www.facebook.com/nlaumbphoto)

I met Virginia Loperena in typical small town fashion. Norma Watkins belongs to the Writers of the Mendocino Coast. Norma and I belong to the same writers group where we often talk of the quirkiness of Fort Bragg. Norma suggests I contact Virginia about a poem she wrote about our town and presented to the writers club.

In a roundabout way, I already know Virginia. She is linked to Jasper Henderson, a young man who went to school with my daughter. My daughter is friends with Virginia on Facebook.

I contact Virginia through Facebook and she is delighted to share her poem. I meet with her the day before she is scheduled to leave Fort Bragg for an adventure that will start by returning to her hometown of Coney Island, New York.

Virginia went to Harvard where, among other things, she met Jasper. After graduation, they ventured to Anchor Bay where his father lives. A few months later, they decided that area was too isolated and moved to Fort Bragg. In her two years here, she worked as the Marketing and Development Director of the Noyo Food Forest and as an Administrative Assistant and Data Base Manager for the Cancer Resource Centers of Mendocino County.

It took time for her to adjust to life on the Mendocino Coast. “I was surprised that so many people know one another. When I was out with Jasper, he’d always run into someone he knew. At first, I’d stand aside, feeling like a Martian envoy. But it didn’t take long before I became known. I like going to places like Headlands and running into people I know.”

Virginia loves the natural beauty of the area and the preponderance of what she calls “Hippy Stuff”—organic food, Fair Trade, non-GMO food. She recognizes that we’re a passionate community. People rally for protection of the ocean and the whales, and rail against devastating forestry practices. “People having a pet cause makes for an engaged community.”

Virginia also found things that she doesn’t like about living on the Mendocino Coast. It’s very isolated—at least three hours from the bustling urban city of San Francisco. She is also disheartened by the recent rise of a small vocal group of negative people. “They can sap the energy and joy out of living here. In a large city, these voices are like white noise. Here they’re hard to drown out. The rumor mill can quickly get out of hand. It’s not based on fact and becomes a scary thing for those who are targets of rumors.”

I wish Virginia well in her future endeavors and thank her for her contributions to our community and, of course, my blog.

Ode to Fort Bragg in Autumn
By Virginia Loperena
It’s six-thirty and the world has ended.
No, really. The sky has darkened to
Black, like ink, or strong coffee.
Speaking of coffee, at the coffeeshop
(We’re taking Headlands)
They play live music nightly.
The waiting list is a moon’s turn.
The moon is not risen
But will be a waxing gibbous
Tonight. The artist is a local man
Who plays jazz while I drink
Local! Port! Wine!
O, Fort Bragg, land of Laurel Street,
Of Locavores,
Of loquacious signage!
Tonight, the musician will begin his set at seven.
The sun begun its set
Over an hour ago.
We patrons are all tired and reading books.
Talking local politics,
A character we call Karl Marx discusses
A local County Supervisor
“He’s a phony. A phony!
Gladhanding around town,
Calling himself an Avatar.”
The coffeeshop, at this hour,
In this month
(November, just past Daylight
Savings, when the cold begins to set in,
But the leaves and rain remain
Indifferent to the season’s turn),
Is dead.
The night is so black.
Who would take their coffee
Or their reasonably priced port
At this dark hour?
There are no tourists left
To marvel at this quaint coastal town,
And gawk at the glassy beaches,
And kick back trendy microbrew.
Even the locals evaporate
Burnt out like afternoon fog.
My lover, a poet, says,
“They’ve all gone home
To put their animals away.”
O, Fort Bragg!
This lunacy, this love affair
Is delicious. O Karl Marx!
The universe is, indeed, “full of things.”
I do believe in gravity, in energy fields,
In the consciousness of Redwoods.
I believe,
In syncing my menstrual cycle with the moon-mother!
I believe,
In Mercury, in retrograde,
In November,
In the magick of this early falling night.

NL Photography (https://www.facebook.com/nlaumbphoto)

What’s in a Name?

Posted on July 10, 2015 by Kate

Recently, California State Senator Steve Glazer revealed he has a great deal of spare time on his hands. I believe he must have been lounging in a chaise next to his pool in Orinda when he had this ah-ha moment: “I’ll propose a bill that will remove names associated with the Confederacy from all public places in our fair state!”

He composed Senate Bill 539 and introduced it to the State Legislature.

Dan Walters, a reporter for the Sacramento Bee, picked up on this and wrote an article questioning whether the bill might affect our little town of Fort Bragg, which is named after—uh-oh—the Confederate General Braxton Bragg.

This hit the internet and unleashed a torrent of comments.

Reactions in the mainstream media are, for the most part, carefully worded. For example:
I was born and raised in the Deep South. I certainly agree that confederate flags should not be flown over government building but that is where I stop…most of the people things and places are named after did more than just fight in the war on the losing side. In one way or another they helped shape our nation. I gripe all the time about the far right wingers who jump over the cliff about their issues and now the far left wingers are jumping over that same cliff…the bodies at the bottom are really piling up.

Comments on the Facebook pages of the Fort Bragg Advocate-News, Mendocinosportsplus and You Know You’re From the Mendocino Coast if…. are more raw. I must say I most admire these comments because these people are unafraid to say what they really think (no grammatical errors have been corrected):

This is why I say liberals SUCK

WTH…I’m about to leave this God forsaken state…

Lunacy at it’s best! My biggest concern is we may have to change our dog’s name to be in accordance to the law, his name is Braxton. I could say he was named after Toni Braxton. But I will probably say he was named after Braxton Hicks.

It’s going to suck for all of you anti-gun liberals when the next civil war happens which is a lot closer to happening than many would like to think what’s going to happen is a lot different from the civil war that has already happened and that you criticize so much. You won’t have any way to protect you because “all cops are bad” “all guns are bad” you all have got another thing coming your way and honestly when the next civil war happens I’m going to enjoy taking part in the winning side (I’ll give you a hint: its the side that will actually have weapons)

Really?? This is what is on Sacramento’s agenda? With ALL the REAL problems out there, these numbnuts have to after something with no bearing on anything. This state gets more communistic every day, all these bleeding hearts, “oooo, someone’s feelings are hurt”. Grow up this is the real world, if any of these bleeding hearts go anywhere else in the world, it will chew them up and spit them out.

Fortbragg focus on giving us a Taco Bell or even a Mall, Not something that’s part of our History

lol – Bunch of rebels there in Ft. Bragg I was one –

The Dems . Won’t be happy till it’s called Jose’s Rainbow Bay !!!!!!

So if it applies to schools would Fort Bragg High School have to change its name?

I need to start a “WTF” page so people can really say what they feel.

We should probably rename it to “Fluffy Kittens” that way nobody is offended

It won’t happen anyway so I’m not worried about it. However I am curious as to what the natives called this area before it was Fort Bragg.
Response: Maybe they called it “the beach”….but that may have been offensive to someone.

No series of comments would be complete without at least one fight breaking out:
Original commentator: forts and braggng….mmmm the north coast deserves a name more fttng
Response: are u even from Fort Bragg?Or live there? I’ve seen u bad mouthin our home’s name on all Fort Bragg sites and our beautiful home is obviously not a place for u.
Original commentator: I live in Jenner and would love to move farther north, (I’l throw a party you’ll never forget when ft bragg changes its name
Responses: Actually why don’t you stay down there in jenner.
No one in Fort Bragg cares about your party you could never do it Fort Bragg style anywAy that’s obvious
Original commentator: keep playing dumb, and being hurtful, it reveals so much.
Responses: Who’s being hurtful. So far you are the one thats approaching that level.
It only hurts because her ego is being deflated.

Finally, my favorites:

Let’s name it Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. But we’ll call it Fort Bragg for short.

Enough is enough. Find something else to do. Bake some cookies, do the laundry. Try to keep busy.

Science Diet

Posted on June 22, 2015 by Kate

Over the years, I’ve owned five cats. Each lived long lives on a steady diet of Meow Mix. The only exception was when daughter Laine’s cat Figgy went into renal failure at age 13. He was put on a special food that cost a million dollars a day, which he enjoyed for two weeks before he died.

Indy—our son Harrison’s cat—lived to be 150 years old eating Meow Mix and whatever critters she would scavenge.

When Little Mister came into our lives eleven summers ago, I figured what was good for the others was good for him, too. However, for the past year, an increasing number of hairballs have been hacked about the house. Maybe it was time to upgrade his diet.

A month ago, I went to Fort Bragg Feed and Pet to buy Lucy her gourmet dog food. What about Little Mister? asked the voice of my conscience. Lucy’s nuclear Catahoula puppy energy has probably given him an ulcer.

I wandered the cat food isle and found Science Diet Age Defying cat food for Senior 11+. The writing on the package claims: “Precisely balanced, easy-to-digest nutrition to fight 4 important signs of aging in 30 days.” Maybe my husband Gary and I should also eat it.

I bought the food, eager to help Little Mister defy aging. Returning home, I filled his bowl, and he started gobbling it. (I wish this could be a testimonial to Science Diet, but he also enjoys eating gophers and rats.)

What exactly are the “4 important signs of aging,” I wondered. The writing on the Science Diet Senior 11+ bag isn’t very clear. One bullet point states: “Defends the body and brain against aging.” What does that mean? Will my cat lose his flabby tummy? Will eating this food stop him from hallucinating that my legs are monsters that must be attacked?

The bag also states: “Nutrition to improve skin & coat in 30 days*.” The * makes reference to “vs. previously fed U.S. grocery foods.” Does this mean that European grocery foods might be on par with Science Diet or even superior? Since Little Mister refuses to travel abroad, I won’t be able to contrive an experiment to measure this claim.

“Supports long-term heart & vital organ health.” At the age of 11+, is long-term considered 30 days? And how am I supposed to determine if Little Mister’s heart and vital organ health has improved when I’m not certain it was compromised in the first place?

I searched the back of the bag hoping to gain additional insight.

Under the banner of “The Precisely Balanced Benefits of Age Defying” there’s a claim that I found especially intriguing: “Precisely balanced nutrition…to fight litter box accidents….”

What, pray tell, is a litter box accident? I’ve never been fond of litter boxes, but now that I know they can cause accidents, I’m even less so. Little Mister has never had one. He’s exposed to enough danger fighting off cats who attempt to overthrow his hold on the vacant lot next door. He must also be highly vigilant to avoid Lucy’s attentions. I won’t add the potential of litter box accidents to his already hazardous life.

Thirty days have passed and I’ve discovered:

Before starting this diet, Little Mister could barely do one crunch. He’s now up to almost five before viciously attacking me. His brain function also seems to have improved. When he sees me coming at exercise time, he turns and runs like a cheetah. This food has defended him well against his aging body and brain.

As for an improved coat, his fluffiness has always allowed him to be a good-looking, vain creature. (He just told me to say he’s even more gorgeous now.)

The claim Science Diet makes that this food is made of “natural ingredients & high-quality proteins with no artificial colors, flavors or preservatives in a smaller kibble that is easy to chew & digest” appears to be true.

I’m happy to report that in the past month, I’ve only discovered two hairballs and not one pile of puke. (Those of you with elderly cats know this is a true miracle.)

Since I don’t own a stethoscope or MRI machine, I cannot prove the Science Diet claim that this food “Supports long-term heart & vital organ health.” After 30 days, Little Mister is still alive. We’ll consider that success.

Little Mister likes his Science Diet. If it does little more than lessen my guilt over bringing a puppy into his world, I’ll keep buying it.

Space Talk

Posted on October 3, 2014 by Kate

Each week, the Fort Bragg Advocate News posts a question on their Facebook page. The responses are published in the week’s edition of the paper, which comes out on Thursday. Most questions, such as “What is your favorite Paul Bunyan Days memory?” and “What is the most important issue to you at the local and/or state level?” receive only a handful of responses.

But questions about whether our town should have a Dollar Store or the morality of taking down the town Christmas tree donated by Montessori students and replacing it with Paul Bunyan-type tree generate a flurry of passionate replies.

This past week’s question, “What do you think about the new Taco Bell that’s going to be built on the southeast corner of Cypress and Main?” spawned over 100 replies. I now share my favorites. (Spelling and punctuation have not been altered.)

Critics who question the nutritional value of the menu.
I think it’s GREAT! I’m exercising my RIGHT to eat unhealthy food…….I served MY country so that we ALL can eat whatever we want, where we want and how much we want! Can’t wait for the EXTRA BIG Baja Blast soda to be here in town!!!!!!!!
They have an Extra Big Blast Soda? With Bacon I hope!
fast food aside; imagine if you went into north coast brewery and after ordering the waitress asks “would you like to supesize that”? “oh, yess i want a 64oz red seal ale…”
Dogs don’t eat that stuff! I would hope we’d support our locally owned Mexican restaurants who serve healthier versions and thus encourage Taco Bell to leave as quickly as they arrive.
REBUTTAL: hey now!! our dogs will eat it…. if we buy it and smother it in bacon…

Critics who make me smile.
Will it have drive through meth like that last one did?
And mmmmm… How appetizing for those hands to be preparing those meals. Just divine!
Speaking of cops, at least all the junkies will be in a central, convenient location
we live next to a world class coffee roasting company but allowed a starbucks to inhabit the old taco bell building… they made that heap of junk look pretty nice and seem to attract the “desert coffee” clients and tourists…
Rebuttal: seriously…what is desert coffee?
Rebuttal to Rebuttal: the foofie creamy triple choco blahblahblah….

Critics of taco prices.
We have I think 9.00 tacos here in Gualala because they are organic give me a break it’s a taco
Rebuttal: Can walk away from taco bell with a lot of food for $9.00
Rebuttal to Rebuttal: …and walkk straight to a toilet….

Fight! Fight!
No no no… We’re just living under rocks! Tweaker need jobs, too!
Rebuttals: Sure, Debbie, I live under a rock. If that makes you feel better lol.
     Are you living under a rock? The locals who LIVE here and depend on actually working jobs to make a living… If *you’re* motivated, one can get into management – more money and more benefits. Of course – one has to actually *want* to WORK…
      Debbie is right, and Erica needs to go to collage and stay off the Progressive propaganda pages found on the internet.
      Gosh, Crystal, maybe you need to find a COLLAGE under your rock, too.
      Erica Ann sounds like she’s just newly moved here and still has the ‘Bay Area” or So Cal mentality…
    Naw she is just Millionaire I bet who has never had to actually look for work in a town that was killed by out of touch progressives.
It will give jobs to which locals? Hello. The jobs it will give will benefit no one. It’s sick. About as sick as consumption of it will make everyone who eats there.
Rebuttals: You do live under a rock.
      What a doomsayer and bunker nut!

Supporters of a fast food combo.
Hope is is a combo with a KFC
Rebuttal: Now we’re talking.

Outside agitation.
yuck! we don’t live here, but plan to someday. One of the reasons we love Ft. Bragg is because of so few corporate chains.
Rebuttals: Dear Sherry. Ft. Bragg doesn’t need you here. As the other posters who actually do live here mentioned some variety/options will be appreciated in OUR Community.
Sherry is just the kind of person we do need here to keep FB a nice place to live. There are plenty of people here with your perspective, Sherry. Welcome to Fort Bragg!
Interesting that most of the “anti establishment” nut jobs are not the people born in Fort Bragg but those who are transplants. Theres enough of these lunatics ruining the town, they don’t need more. But here’s a suggestion. If Fort Bragg has too many chains for your taste, you could always move to Mendo or Caspar. I’m sure you’ll be more then happy there.
Sherry’s Rebuttals: First, thank you Toni Rizzo. Second, “Dear” Diver Doug, you sound like a real peach , third, I thought this was a place to express opinions, not be attacked. I didn’t know that there was such a “us v. them” attitude in this community. Why are you all being jerks just because I expressed an OPINION?oh, and if you all hate it sooo much, why don’t YOU move?

My favorite: I just can’t believe how many are acting as though it’s like the falling of the Berlin Wall. It’s a frickin Taco Bell.

(Be sure to watch the “Fast Food Folk Song” below. It’s awesome!)

Bye Bye Bank of America Pie

Posted on June 18, 2014 by Kate

Members of Occupy Mendocino Coast gather in Fort Bragg every Friday from 3:00-5:00pm to wave signs in protest of corporate greed. These dedicated souls stand at the corner of Main and Laurel Streets, encouraged by occasional honks from passing cars. On Friday May 30th, they celebrated a milestone—the closing of the Fort Bragg branch of Bank of America.

They served pie.

It’d been a long time since I had pie and even longer since I hung out with a bunch of hippies. How could I resist?

I arrived in the middle of a festive atmosphere, as protesters—like ladies at a church social—carried a variety of pies to card tables, exchanged light banter, displayed literature on an ironing board, picked up signs, and waved to honking cars—all amid the backdrop of a moving van parked beside the doors of Bank of America.

The hippies were a welcoming bunch and everyone I asked let me take their picture without questioning my intent. One woman allowed a photo as long as I swore I wasn’t from the CIA.

I was offered a slice of berry pie. “It’s sugar-free,” the woman said, “except for the crust.”

One woman wore a cute skirt with peace symbols stamped on it. I asked where she got it and she proudly said she’d made it. She said she was running for State Assembly and encouraged me to take one of her home-made campaign fans.

The message on the back of the fan urges the reader to “Stop global warming & the need for war” through five points:

1. Legalize marijuana, grow everywhere for all it’s uses [gasoline, non-toxic biodegradable plastic wrap for food, hydro & nuclear energy, parents for baby trees, clean air, food, water, failing economy & environment.
2. Charge one cent state, federal, county tax every dollar transaction instead of current form to increase tax base.
3. Governments should buy what they want through private business rather than waste taxpayer’s war dollars stealing it.
4. Give business & landowners tax deductions, exemptions only for a portion money spent researching & employing people restoring our earth.
5. Divert money now wasted on taxpayer’s non-profit organizations [defense, space research, charity to other countries, unneeded building], to grants to be used only for restoring earth & Inhabitants.

I returned home, rifled through stacks of paper to locate my mail-in ballot, and voted for her. (Sadly, she did not win.)

During my half hour spent with the protesters, no one claimed that the group was the catalyst for the closure of the BofA branch. However, their presence over the past few years has certainly highlighted the nasty practices of multinational financial institutions and encouraged people to take their business to locally-run banks.

The flip side of the giddiness on that Friday afternoon is the economic blow to the half dozen people who will be added to the ranks of our town’s unemployed.

The loss of this branch also creates anxiety and sadness among the older members of our community who were forced to change banks. I know people in their eighties who have had accounts with Bank of America for 70 years. They were overwhelmed by the process of moving their accounts.

“What’s the big deal?” you might say. “At most, I only go into a branch a couple of times a year.”

My older friends remember a banking system far different from what it is today. They don’t do ATM’s or on-line. They do face-to-face. A trip to the bank is considered a social outing. They write checks for petty cash and keep valuables in safe deposit boxes. Of course, they can still do this, but now they must adjust to the system of a different bank.

Oh well. Times change. What’re ya gonna do?

I’m going to have another piece of pie.

Jogging

Posted on April 4, 2014 by Kate

Throughout my life, I’ve been a lot of things—wife, mother, financial consultant, ninja—but never a jogger. I knew people who jogged and claimed it exhilarated them.

What liars.

I’d read numerous articles that revealed the nastiness jogging does to the body—wearing away every cushion between every joint from the toes to the hips and jostling delicate female organs. I was unclear as to what damage this jostling actually does to the female reproductive system, but didn’t want to experience it. Thus, without ever trying, I hated jogging.

This notion was tested three years ago when my friend Kathleen suggested we train for a sprint triathlon. I agreed before I knew exactly what that was—a half-mile swim, 21.7-mile bike ride, and 5K run. I tried to renege, but Kathleen wouldn’t let me.

Six months before the race, I embarked on a rigorous training schedule that began, obviously, with my hair. I got it cut man-comb short and highlighted. If I couldn’t get out of the race, I could at least give myself a chance to look good—without benefit of hair products—in the after photos.

The hair was the easiest part of training. A far more difficult challenge was keeping up my whining to Kathleen—“We’re too old for this.” “We don’t have enough time to properly train.” “My uterus hurts.” “We’re going to die.” She’d smile and say “We are going to do this,” before she swam, biked or ran away.

For my first running session, I set the thingy on the treadmill to 3.0 and walked at a comfortable pace for a few minutes. I gradually increased to 4.0 which forced me into a baby jog. I struggled for air and battled against vomiting as I pushed this pace for a full minute. I went back to 3.0 for a couple of minutes and up to 4.0 for another minute. Coughing and sweating, I shut off the treadmill and limped to my car.

In between two biking and two swimming sessions a week, I was forced to jog. Each time, I cursed the treadmill and the damned triathlon. Then something strange happened—I was able to add 30 seconds to the baby-jog time before the barfing sensation kicked in.

It got weirder. Within a few weeks, I found myself yearning to jog.

At the end of week three, I pushed myself to run half a mile. It took nine minutes. At that rate, I could finish a 5K in just under an hour!

Whenever my heart felt it would burst, I’d start to cough. (I once read that you should cough whenever you feel you’re having a heart attack.) I released sporadic grunts and groans and whispered, “You can do it. You can do it.” I ignored the eye-rolling glances of those around me.

A month later, I was able to increase my speed to 5.0 for an entire mile. I jogged outside once a week. I learned the virtues of stretching, ice packs and ibuprofen.

While I hoped for an injury that would take me out of the competition, the only mishap I encountered was waking one morning with a rather large, alarming blood splat in the outside corner of my right eye. The doctor explained that it was a harmless hooty and it’d go away. I asked her to write me a prescription against the triathlon. She declined.

The six months of training paid off. I finally learned how to spell triathlon and finished the race in about three hours.

It was exhilarating.

Over the following two years, I continued to run, but often skipped a planned session in favor of inertia. Then my friend Jackie challenged me to do the March 2014 Whale Run (merely by telling me she was going to do it).

I wish I could say the second round of training was easier than the first. But every aspect of running is a chore—from thinking about it, to getting dressed, to leaving the house and actually doing it. It’s only after, when I’m so flaming exhausted, euphoria kicks in and convinces me that it’s a good thing.

The Whale Run began at 8:00 am on Saturday, March 15th. I rarely venture outside at that hour, let alone on a Saturday. All day Friday I twitched with anxiety over making a respectable showing so early in the morning.

At 7:30 the foggy race site teemed with people. A Soroptimist reported that a record number—nearly 800—registered for the 30th annual event. The excitement of the crowd fueled my enthusiasm. My friends MW and Kathleen arrived to act as cheerleaders. (Kathleen sustained a knee injury and is no longer able to run.)

I was able to jog most of the race, slowing to a walk only a couple of times. When I crossed the railroad tracks near the finish line, I noticed the clock showed 34:something minutes. My best training time had been 36 minutes. If I kicked it, I could possibly make it in 35.

I crossed the finish line, my friends cheering me on, at 34:26!

The moments of celebration that followed—hugging my fellow competitors and taking my cheerleaders to breakfast—made all the miles of agonizing training worthwhile.

I guess I can now say that whatever else I am—owner of Lucy-puppy, blogger, whiner—I’m also a jogger.

Poo Patrol

Posted on March 28, 2014 by Kate

During a recent cold snap, I notice what appears to be snow in the alley that runs behind our house. Upon closer inspection, I discover the snow is kitty litter loaded with poo. Judging by the sheer size of these deposits, a mighty big cat lives in that neighbor’s house.

The Control Freak part of me wants to confront the woman who tosses this poopy kitty litter behind her rented house and across the alley onto her neighbor’s property. I want to ask who the hell does she thinks she is? I’m going to call the cops. I will. I mean it.

I take a deep breath and remind Control Freak that since this is not happening on my property, it is not my concern. But a bit of Internet research might make it my concern.

A March 2012 article in The Atlantic catches my eye—How Your Cat Is Making You Crazy. Czech scientist Jaroslav Flegr describes how parasites from cat poo can permeate your brain and cause you to behave erratically.

He claims that the parasite Toxoplasma gondii found in this poo “contributes to car crashes, suicides, and mental disorders such as schizophrenia.” By the fifth paragraph, I am so freaked out that I have to stop reading.

But kitty litter is safe, right? Wrong!

Most kitty litter brands contain sodium bentonite clay and silica gel. How dangerous can that concoction be?

Apparently it can cause bowel blockages, cancer and a whole list of other terrifying side effects that—trust me—you are better off not knowing.

It’s scary to think that whenever my dog Lucy and I walk past that woman’s toxic dump we risk constipation, cancer and a car crash. I don’t even want to think about what happens when the rains wash this cocktail of Toxoplasma gondii, sodium bentonite clay and silica gel down the street, into the storm drains for deposit into the Great Pacific Ocean.

In the midst of the kitty poo scandal, a strange phenomenon emerges around town—tags that identify random dog poos as “Bad Dog Owner.”

Someone with a great deal of discretionary time made dozens of these tags and went in search of abandoned dog poo. I wonder if this might be a piece of performance art or if the inventor thinks that by marking these droppings, he will change dog owners’ behavior.

This got me wondering if the toxins in dog poo are as scary as those found in cat poo.

Just about. (Go to Dog Talk 101 if you insist upon torturing yourself with this knowledge.)

Perhaps the dog poo tagger thinks he’s doing a community service. But I’m not certain this is the best way to manage the problem.

What will happen to the fabric tags and toothpicks after the rain disintegrates the dog poo? Like the kitty litter, they’ll end up in the storm drains and float into the Great Pacific Ocean a few blocks to the west.

I have a better idea.

Our city could institute a system similar to the creative management of CGI Residential, an apartment complex in Charlotte, North Carolina. All resident dog owners are required to take their dogs to the main office for a DNA swab. Whenever a public poo is discovered, it is collected, sent to a lab for testing, the dog identified and its owner fined $250.

This solution might be difficult to enforce in a large city, but in a town as small as Fort Bragg, it should be a cinch. Each swabbed dog will have a large neon-orange “D” (for DNA) sprayed on its side. Permanent barricades will be erected at the intersection of Highway One and Highway 20 to the south and Virgin Creek to the north to check incoming vehicles for canines. In this way, people who live outside the city limits and use our city’s amenities cannot sneak their unmarked dogs into town poo on the sidewalks.

All this research has been exhausting. It’s so much easier to make things up.

Get Your Motor Running

Posted on September 27, 2013 by Kate

Did you know that “Born to be Wild” starts out: “Get your motor running”? If so, I’m impressed. (Or you’re lying.)

That song came out 45 years ago. Until I looked up the lyrics a few minutes ago, I thought it began: “Pitchin’ for a runnin’.”

I never gave any thought to what pitchin’ for a runnin’ might mean. Ever since the sixties I don’t care if lyrics make sense as long as the music is loud.

Big truck, little trailer

I recently learned that someone I’ve known for nearly a decade is pitchin’ to do some runnin’.

Her name is Lynn. She sold her home, bought a large pickup truck, a 1989 trailer and will soon leave her campground at Dolphin Isle to head out on the highway.

She is 81 years old.

Lynn

The desire to travel has been with Lynn since before she retired. But soon after her salary ended, she found she had to take a part time job in order to make ends meet. Between that commitment and little discretionary income, she felt stuck.

She also felt tethered by her possessions. “Some people are limited in what they can do by children or grandchildren. I was limited by my stuff.”

Lynn gave a great deal of her stuff away, including family heirlooms, and narrowed the remainder down to what would fit into a small storage unit, her trailer, and the back of her pickup.

Sparkle

While she knows there are risks involved with an older single woman traveling alone, she’s willing to take those risks to have one last adventure in this life. Besides, she’s not truly alone—she’s got her dog Sparkle for company.

We all make choices on how to live. These are limited by circumstances of time, health, money and age. Lynn’s choices came down to (1) stay put and wait for the inevitable or (2) get moving and let the inevitable track her down.

Here’s to Lynn’s Born to be Wild rebirth at the age of 81. I wish her many happy miles and amazing adventures.

I Wonder

Posted on September 13, 2013 by Kate

Every now and then I wonder about people. This is usually provoked by the Crime Blotter report in the Fort Bragg Advocate News. I wonder about their lives, so foreign from mine. I wonder how they get themselves into such pickles and what course of action could have prevented their being listed in the Crime Blotter.

***

On August 30, about ten in the morning, officers were called to 140 E. Oak Street “for a report of theft of money.” The victim claimed that “a man unknown to him” came into his apartment and asked for a cigarette. He was invited in by a friend who was visiting at the time.

The unknown man, sat down, “grabbed approximately $1,000” that was on the table and “ran out of the building.”

The unknown man got away in a black Infinity SUV driven by a woman.

I wonder if this crime could have been prevented had the victim done a “scared straight” treatment on his friend by insisting he read my July 19 blog post “The Europeans Are Coming! The Europeans are Coming!”

I wonder what would have happened if the victim had no spare cigarettes. What if he only had one to get him by until he could walk to The Purity and buy a pack? Without a cigarette to smoke, the stranger may not have sat down at the table where he spotted the $1,000 in cash sitting there plain as day and begging to be taken.

I wonder if the victim is doubly angry that the dude who took his money also has a relationship with a woman who drives a black Infinity SUV while he lives in a crummy apartment on Oak Street.

***

On September 2, again about ten in the morning, a police officer observed a suspect “standing in some bushes next to the First Baptist Church.”

“He was cutting bushes and told [the officer] he felt [they] were a fire danger and wanted to remove them from the property.” When he was finished doing that, he planned to unclog the drain pipes. Apparently this was not the first time the guy had engaged in this type of activity on property not his own.

It was the third time.

After a church member confirmed that the guy had not received permission to trim the bushes, he was arrested.

Lucy doesn’t have to worry. I won’t let him hack at her favorite hiding place.

I wonder if there might be better therapies available other than throwing this guy in jail. He’s obviously a frustrated landscaper. Perhaps the police could escort him to a property, such as mine, where he could be put to work on an overgrown section to hack away to his heart’s content. When he’s finished, he could clean out my rain gutters.

The community could organize a fundraiser to supply him with canisters of salt. He could travel around Fort Bragg sprinkling salt on sidewalk crack gardens. He could earn the nickname Johnny Crack Garden Destroyer and become a hero throughout the town as he saves sidewalks from being eroded by weeds.

My vision goes beyond the criminal. I see a future sidewalk preservationist.

***

As sympathetic as I am with the eccentric landscaper, I’m equally unsympathetic with the following report. I have a problem with adult males who ride round town on their skateboards. I want to tell them to confine their riding to a skate park. And you might consider getting a job—a real grown up man kind of job.

On September 2, about two in the morning, an officer was flagged down in the 400 block of south Main Street. The victim—age 26—claimed that “two males had taken his skateboard and assaulted him with it.”

I first wondered why a 26-year old was riding a skateboard at two in the morning. I read on—

Apparently, the victim met a couple of guys—ages 22 and 28—in a downtown bar. When he went to the restroom, the two out-of-towners took his skateboard.

The victim located them in the 400 block of south Main Street where they beat him with the skateboard.

Fortunately, the responding officers were able to apprehend the two bad boys from out of town and they were thrown in the slammer.

I wonder if the victim’s parents ever warned him about talking to strangers, let alone trusting strangers with his property.

The 22-year old was from Lower Lake; the 28-year old from Cloverdale.

I have two words for them: Stay home!

And nine more: We don’t want scum like you in Fort Bragg.

And a final 11: If you come back, I’ll douse you with salt, you weeds.