Taaka Taste Test

Posted on January 17, 2014 by Kate

In mid-December, alert reader Laine enlightened me with a scientific fun fact: if you take a bottle of really cheap vodka and pour it through a Brita Water Filter, you can turn it into expensive-tasting vodka.

Really?

If you’ve read this blog or followed my Facebook page for any length of time, you know I’m a fan of Taaka Vodka. I have never consumed it, but did use it to invent a fabulous all-occasion gift that can be made for under $5 (see the July 25, 2012 post). Taaka’s parent company Sazerac was so impressed that they sent me a tee-shirt.

On Christmas Eve, I had a captive audience of liquor enthusiasts in my home who were willing to test the theory:

Taaka + Brita-filtering = Expensive-Tasting Vodka.

I spent a great deal of money on Ketel One ($26.99) and $6.99 on a similar-sized Taaka. The Brita Filter cost about $5.00.

When I purchased the Taaka at The Purity, I felt the need to explain the pending experiment to the cute little pixy checker. (I’ve alerted all Purity clerks that if I ever claim to buy Taaka for personal consumption they are to call the police and request a mental health evaluation).

The clerk advised that it was best to run the cheap vodka through the filter three to four times. What a great suggestion! Thank you cute little pixy clerk!

With the help of my friend MW, I set up a blind taste test. The four volunteers—Harrison, Laine, Jacob and Erica—were each presented with three shot glasses.

The first was unfiltered Taaka Vodka.

The second contained the expensive vodka.

The third held the four-time filtered Taaka.

Are you ready for the unanimous results?

The unfiltered Taaka was chosen the most expensive! Each of my vodka connoisseurs claimed it flowed smoothly across the palate.

The Ketel One tasted like rubbing alcohol yet was voted #2. (I learned something about my volunteers that I’m not sure I want to know—apparently each has sampled rubbing alcohol.)

The filtered Taaka was rated #3.

So there you have it. Why spend $26.99 on expensive vodka (or $5.00 on a Brita Filter) when you can simply pour Taaka directly from the bottle and have a smooth, satisfying experience?

(I think alert reader Laine deserves a tee-shirt.)

Fan Mail

Posted on December 27, 2013 by Kate

Here at ithappenedatpurity.com, it is our policy to not publish fan letters (mainly because we don’t receive any).

Sometimes rules are made to be broken—as in the case of Lucy receiving her first fan letter.

Arlo sweetened the deal by offering Lucy a spread of cheesecake photos and his phone number. How’s a girl supposed to resist after seeing his cute little baby picture and his sexy expression as he describes himself “On the hunt”? On the hunt for Lucy that’s for sure.

A meet and greet is pending. We’ll have an update soon.

Merry Christmas

Posted on December 20, 2013 by Kate

If Wilson was here, he’d let us, like the ninja that he was, decorate him for Christmas.

Lucy, on the other hand, will have nothing to do with it, eating the tinsel faster than we can sprinkle it over her head. It’s a bitter-sweet tradeoff. We miss our old friend, but take great delight in the puppy energy that now dominates our household.

Letter to the Editor: People running for office such as the Fort Bragg Fire Protection District Director and Mendocino Coast Recreation & Park District director should submit biographical summaries that pertain to the office when they file to run for a position. How is the voter supposed to make an intelligent choice when they have no information. (I am considering voting for my dog because at least I know about him.)

Gary and I remain as boring as ever, yet somehow manage to have fun. Our children and grandchildren have exciting lives—and we love hearing about their adventures.

Police Report: Officers received a call from the 200 block of Main Street reporting that a shoplifter had stolen a pair of long johns.

Laine recently moved from San Jose to Oakland, having transferred with her company to their San Francisco office. Harrison is still with Okta and living with his darling girlfriend Kasi.

Police Blotter: Officers were dispatched for a report of domestic violence assault. Upon arrival, they determined the victim had been struck in the head with a glass vase while trying to leave the apartment of his ex-girlfriend. Further investigation revealed that the ex-girlfriend had left her 10-month old child alone and unsupervised in her apartment while she walked to the victim’s apartment and tried to persuade him to come back to her. When the victim walked back to the apartment to check on the welfare of their child, the ex-girlfriend struck him in the head with the vase to try and prevent him from leaving.

Jennifer wrote and published a novel entitled Four Rubbings. She’s happily busy promoting the book, writing a sequel, writing a blog, illustrating other books, painting…oh and raising two darling girls and a puppy. (I need a nap after writing that sentence.) Granddaughter Ellie will have her driver’s license within a month; and “baby” Bryn is in fifth grade.

Court Report: Mikel E. Rexrode admitted violation of probation for spitting on someone while riding his bicycle. He was ordered to perform 50 hours of community service and write a letter of apology to his victim.

Garth’s elementary school teaching job is keeping him extremely busy. Granddaughter Ceri is in her second year at MIT; Marcus a junior in high school.

We offer warm wishes for a happy holiday season. In the New Year, we hope you will remember:

Vote for your dog in upcoming elections.
Always pay for your long johns before leaving the store.
If you want to prevent someone from leaving your home, you should avoid the technique of striking them in the head with a glass vase (apparently it can result in criminal charges).
If your original condition of probation was that you were to refrain from spitting on people, make certain you don’t violate it by spitting on someone while riding your bicycle. You may fare better by hitting them in the head with a glass vase (or at least incur a new condition of probation). (The letter to the editor, police report, etc. were lifted throughout the year from The Fort Bragg Advocate News.)

My Love Affair with Fort Bragg

Posted on December 13, 2013 by Kate

Guest Blog by Jennifer Hotes

Fort Bragg has provided a respite to my family for decades. Before it was the permanent home of my father’s second family, Fort Bragg was our yearly escape from the stagnant, hot, dusty Central Valley. We’d overstuff the car with luggage and kids, boom the La Bamba soundtrack on the stereo, and wind our way to the coast. Twisting, lurching, singing, laughing and puking, we’d cut through the woods to Fort Bragg. When we finally spilled to the curb, we were coated in goldfish crackers and barf. Sure, the fancy B & B’s of Mendocino would have turned us away with one sniff, but not Fort Bragg. You welcomed us with open arms. Loving.

Back then, Fort Bragg wore a layer of gritty industry, a lumber mill blocked the view to the ocean. Locals scowled at the sight of seasonal tourists and the marina still bustled with crusty fishermen and their weathered boats. No wonder we fit in so well. We were not pretty, but we had substance—a salt of the earth quality no layer of silk or perfume can feign, just like Fort Bragg.

Fort Bragg, you do what all of us should. You make no apologies for who you are. Like us or get the hell out of town. Authentic.

When I first dared to dream of writing a novel, I knew I’d come back to you, Fort Bragg. I’d been away for sixteen years, but needed to wander your streets, eat at your restaurants, sleep with the sound of trains in the background, walk your cemeteries. And that’s what I did. Adventuresome.

Sure, you’d grown prettier over the years. The revamped Pudding Creek trestle, the new North Coast Brewery, the renovated historic homes—God, if only I had aged so well. I got reacquainted with you surrounded by my loving parents and old family friends. Over the course of three days, accompanied by my father and Jared Williams, I visited a handful of local cemeteries. Jared shared the story of a baby whose burial was delayed by the county because she had died from meningitis. Once cleared by the bureaucracy, Jared lovingly dug the grave by hand. I was touched by his tenderness and intimate care of the child. Tender.

There were places in the cemeteries where the terrain made it hazardous to walk, but we treaded softly, our steps light and slow. This was the poor part of the cemetery, Jared explained, where the deceased were buried in thin, redwood boxes, boxes that decomposed within months of being lowered into the ground. Fragile.

Over the next few days, I returned to a few cemeteries with my loving step-mother and her dogs. We visited the graves of her friends who had passed, and Kate related their stories. We laid stones on their graves to mark our visit and acknowledge that their lives continue to matter. We cried a little. We laughed. And all the while I wrote down names, took pictures and scratched sentences into my journal. Mindful.

As the airplane carried me home, I felt as though I’d been wrapped in a security blanket, safe and snug. The visit had healed me somehow. I’d spent three days in the loving care of Fort Bragg, and not once had someone mocked my idea to write a novel. In fact, I was encouraged. I left your loving arms, Fort Bragg feeling bold, strong and determined. I was ready to wear the title of ‘writer’ and complete my working manuscript, which is what I did. Emboldening.

Today, after trading in my title of ‘writer’ for ‘author,’ I can’t help but wonder. Would my dream have died without you, Fort Bragg? Magic.

Thank you Fort Bragg, friends, loved ones and strangers who make this unique place your home. I hope to see you again soon.

Jennifer Hotes is author of Four Rubbings, the first novel in the Stone Witch Series. She illustrates children’s books, designs book covers, and blogs when she’s not helping to raise funds for Providence Hospice of Seattle Foundation. She loves to hear from her readers, so drop her a line at www.jenniferlhotes.com.

Wanted

Posted on December 6, 2013 by Kate

Lucy and I cross Franklin Street at Alder, from the post office to The Purity. We walk north on Franklin. Up ahead, a large woman with tightly curled gray hair and black-framed glasses gets out of a blue van. She moves to stand on the sidewalk and looks in our direction. She’s obviously waiting for some puppy lovin’.

Lucy’s impression of The Flying Nun

As we grow closer, I notice her expression differs from that of most people who see Lucy for the first time—she does not smile and giggle at the goofy dog with the brown eye patch. There’s a deep crease between her eyes. She gnaws her lower lip.

“That your dog?” There’s a muscle to her tone that would have frightened me in my younger years.

“Yes ma’am.” I smile. “Would you like to pet her?”

She squints and gives me the once-over. “Just saw a missing dog poster. Looks exactly like the dog on the poster.”

“She’s not. She’s mine.” I continue to smile.

She raises one eyebrow. “Where’d you get her?”

“The Humane Society.”

Lucy does all she knows to entice this woman to pet her—fanatic tail wagging, piddling on the sidewalk and wiggling into a sit. She throws herself on her back to offer a submissive tummy, mopping up piddle with her fur.

“What’s her name?”

“Lucy.”

Lucy looks up at me.

“Good thing for you that she knows her name.” The woman takes a few steps away before stopping and turning around. “You live in town?”

“Yes I do.”

“Give your dog bottled water. City tap water is polluted.” The woman points west towards the former Georgia Pacific mill site. “Because of all those years of toxic waste they dumped into the land, there’s a high incidence of cancer among dogs in this town. Don’t risk it. Give her bottled water.”

“I will.” (No I won’t.)

“You should drink bottled water, too. A lot of people in this town get cancer from drinking tap water.”

I give her a thumb’s up and coax Lucy away.

“You’re sure that’s your dog?”

“I’m sure,” I holler over my shoulder.

Shooting Blind – Part II

Posted on November 15, 2013 by Kate

(If you haven’t read Part I, please scroll down and read it first.)

Erik describes his vision as looking through the slit of a fence. The closer something is to the fence, the fewer parts are visible. Further away, a greater number of parts can be seen. For example, if a truck is parked right next to a fence, a person can see the door keyhole. Park the truck across the street, and a person will see nearly the entire vehicle.

A couple of years after his accident, Erik attended a school for the blind to learn how to navigate his visually-impaired world. His roommate Jeff was also partially sighted and, like Erik, an adventurer. They discovered a grassy hill behind the fenced off grounds of the school perfect for “sledding.” They stole a couple of large cardboard boxes from the garbage to use as sleds and began sneaking out of the school on a regular basis. They had so much fun on these outings they wanted to share them with classmates who were completely blind.

One late afternoon, Erik and Jeff escorted eight of their classmates over the three-foot fence.

“Jeff put a person on the ‘sled’ at the top of the hill and gave them a push. I caught them at the bottom. Everyone laughed and hollered.”

Once it began to get dark, Erik became concerned about getting caught by school officials who would expect the students to be in their rooms.

“Jeff hopped the fence to the school grounds and helped the kids over one at a time. I stayed at the back of the line to make sure everyone got over. After the last guy was safely on the school grounds, I tried to hustle to the other side so I could help Jeff get the group into the building. I didn’t realize I was parallel to a loading dock area with a 30-foot drop to the ground. I took a hard fall and broke my leg.”

Three days later, he was asked to leave school.

“If I had to get kicked out for having the most fun any of us ever had, it was worth it.”

He returned to Fort Bragg to teach himself how to rebuild his life in familiar surroundings. He was welcomed by friends and family who supported his desire to resume his active outdoor life.

His softball team convinced the pitchers on opposing teams to make sure Erik could locate the ball before it was pitched. He became the team’s star hitter. Running to first base was another matter. He once ran toward the pitcher’s mound. The pitcher, thinking he was charging the mound, threw down his glove, ready for a fight. The solution was to paint a big orange “3” (in homage to Dale Earnhardt) on a sign and hold it above first base. Once safely at first base, his team sent in a pinch runner.

His hunting and fishing buddies serve as his guides in the field. Erik refuses to let anyone physically guide him over rugged terrain. His friends warn him about potentially hazardous branches and rocks.

“It doesn’t stop me from taking some nasty falls. My shins and knees are constantly bruised and scraped.”

He is grateful his friends make it possible for him to continue to hunt. “I can get a buck in my sights and shoot, but once it runs off, I can’t see where it went. My buddies help me track it or spot another shot.”

Erik lowers his head and chuckles when he begins to relay one youthful hunting adventure. “About 10 years after my accident I went deer hunting a few miles northeast of here. My buddy and I were heading home about ten at night when we came across a bear standing in the middle of the road. My buddy pulled the truck over, we got out and ran after the bear. Don’t ask me why, but at the time, it seemed like a fun thing to do.

“It was dark and I couldn’t see a darned thing. I just followed the sound of my buddy and the bear. We got to an old railroad boxcar bridge and I could hear the bear’s claws running across the metal. The bridge turned, but I kept running straight and flew over the side 25 feet down to the dry creek bottom. It knocked me straight out.”

His friend revived him and took him home where his wife insisted he go to the hospital for a CAT scan. The scan showed no brain trauma. When compared to the scans of his original brain injury, the blood clot that is the source of his blindness had shrunk by a third.

“It gives me hope that someday it will totally shrink and I’ll get all my eyesight back.”

***

Erik’s wife, Bobbi, is a former high school classmate. They have two boys, Cody (twelve) and Emmett (eight). Erik would like to get off disability and have a job.

“I’ve applied for things like city maintenance worker and tree trimmer, but nobody wants to take on the liability of having a blind employee doing physical labor. I guess I could enter a program to get trained for something else, but it would kill me to be locked up in an office eight hours a day.”

In the meantime, Erik is a stay-at-home dad who teaches his sons in the tradition of his father and grandfather.

Winter is the time for steelhead fishing and setting crab pots. Spring and summer bring herring fishing and abalone picking. Fall is deer hunting. Despite his blindness, Erik’s ability to carry on this family legacy is as important to him as the recreation it provides.

Shooting Blind – Part I

Posted on November 8, 2013 by Kate

There’s a large segment of Mendocino Coast residents who have roots that go back several generations to a time when harvesting game from the countryside and fish from the sea was necessary for survival. Even today, the ability to hunt and fish goes beyond recreation—it continues to be an economic necessity for many families. These practices are also part of a deep tradition that honors family legacies as they are carried forward to future generations.

***

One of my favorite home-grown local boys is 42-year old Erik Filosi who grew up with a sportsman father and grandfather. He once told me, “I can’t remember the first time I went hunting or fishing. I’ve been doing these things all of my life. I do remember catching my first limit of steelhead when I was 10 years old.”

Erik has many hunting and fishing stories. Recently, he told me about one of his more frustrating deer hunting adventures.

On an early Sunday afternoon in mid-September Erik and his friend Justin decided to end their weekend trip. The buck Justin had shot earlier in the day was in the bed of the pickup. Hunting buddies since they were kids, Justin was reluctant to leave until Erik bagged a deer. As Justin drove the winding mountain road, he scanned the sparse woods and spotted a buck and doe standing along the tree line about 400 yards from the road. He pulled over, stopped the truck, and grabbed his binoculars to spot the buck.

Erik got out of the truck and stood behind the open door. With his rifle in his left hand, he put the barrel through the open window, resting it on his right hand. The buck stood broadside with the doe in front. He waited for the doe to move, aimed at the buck’s head and took his shot. As the bullet whizzed past, the buck looked around. The doe began to walk away. Erik fired another shot and hit the buck behind the ribcage. Both deer vanished into the bush.

After three hours of tracking, the light began to fade and Erik worried they would not be able to find the buck. They lost the blood trail a couple of times, but managed to pick it up again. The trail ended at a 40-foot ravine where they found the dead buck. Erik crawled down, hoisted it over his shoulders, and hauled it back to the truck.

“He was pretty small, but legal. He looked like my fox terrier with antlers.” Erik laughs. “But I’m glad I got my deer.”

There is a sparkle in Erik’s eyes as he tells the story, a glow that belies the fact that he is legally blind.

Growing up, Erik cultivated many friends who shared his passion for the outdoors. They also shared a passion for drinking beer and having fun. One rainy winter night when he was 19 years old, he and a group of friends drove to McKerricker State Park, an oceanfront preserve about five miles north of town. They came upon a parked truck where they discovered the girlfriend of one member of the group with another guy. The driver of the truck sped out of the parking lot.

The Bronco driven by Erik’s friend followed the truck at speeds of 70-80 miles per hour along the narrow roadway leading out of the park and across Highway One. Neither vehicle slowed at the stop sign. The truck made it through the intersection.

The Bronco was hit broadside by a car heading north along the highway. Everyone was thrown from the SUV. It rolled three times before coming to rest on top of Erik.

He remembers nothing of the accident, but was told later that after the Bronco was lifted off of him, he had only a cut on his right hand and another on the back of his head. One friend had a minor back injury, another broke a shoulder, and one suffered a head injury. The driver of the car was unharmed.

Erik’s mother says when she got to the hospital that night, he appeared fine. He was talking and his only complaint was of a backache. Within a few hours, doctors discovered he had punctured a lung. Days later, they found a broken jaw.

Erik remembers waking up in the hospital and finding everything jet black. He heard his grandpa talking and asked him to turn on the lights. He heard his grandpa start to cry. Erik’s mom took Erik’s hand and told him that a blood clot had choked off the vision center in his brain. He was blind.

He squeezed her hand and said, “All right, let’s do it.” He was willing to do whatever he needed to resume a normal life.

Erik spent a month in the hospital. While there, he began to regain bits of his sight.

“Lying on my back, I saw little holes, tiny dots. I moved my eyes around and realized it was the ceiling.”

He reported this to his neurologist with excitement. The doctor said he imagined blinking lights and accused Erik of not accepting his blindness.

“This made me really mad. My Uncle Curt sat across the room and I said to him, ‘You’re wearing a hat that says Point Arena Rod and Gun Club.’ I swear that doctor’s jaw hit the floor.”

The desire to prove people wrong would serve Erik well in the years to come.

CSI: Fort Bragg

Posted on November 1, 2013 by Kate

Twenty-one years ago our family moved to what we thought was a sleepy small town—Fort Bragg, California. In reality, we entered a hot bed of criminal activity.

Nine months later, we became victims of the crime of the decade. We were startled awake in the middle of the night by the sound of cops pounding on our front door.

Did we own the Chevy Blazer parked out front?

We did.

Did we know the tires and wheels were missing?

We did not.

The perpetrator left the car balanced on blocks of wood. At first light, a detective arrived and did his detective thing. Throughout that Sunday, strangers came to our door to ask if we knew our vehicle was propped up on wooden blocks.

We did.

The cops had a suspect in mind and quickly nabbed him. He lived down the street and owned a Chevy Blazer a few years older than ours. It was sporting fairly new tires. On the floor of the vehicle was a knife that matched the puncture holes in the dozen or so tires that had been slashed the evening of the theft of our tires and wheels.

The suspect’s explanation for taking our tires was simple: within a few weeks he was scheduled to report to the Navy in San Diego. In order to travel safely, he needed new tires.

The cops wanted this guy out of town. They asked us to forego pressing charges in exchange for the kid making financial restitution. We agreed. He went off to serve his country. This made me feel safer (not for our country, but for our town).

A mere fifteen years would pass before we once again became crime victims.

I had arrived home from my Thursday morning volunteer work in a first grade classroom. I was in my office giving thanks that I had not chosen to teach first grade for a living when I heard two male voices coming from outside. I looked out the window and saw nothing.

Gary was in the kitchen down the hall watching television and eating lunch. I shrugged the voices off as coming from the television program.

About five minutes later, our neighbor Larry knocked on our back door. (Our backyard can be accessed through a gate from the alley.)

He said, “Did you see those two guys go through your gate? I think they went into your garage. A few seconds later, they came out with what looked like a bottle of juice.”

Our garage is located about 25 feet from the house. We use the workbench inside as a pantry to store things like bottles of fruit juice and paper towels. During this period in our lives, we had a couple of ancient cats who preferred to live outside. We kept the garage door open so they could seek shelter.

It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Gary and I were both home. The voices now made sense. We’d been ripped off!

Larry witnessed the activity from his window across the alley. “They rode up on bicycles and dropped them in your driveway. I thought they might be Harrison’s [our son] friends, but I remembered he’s away at college. They took the juice and headed north.”

Gary thanked him for telling us.

My hair ignited. Two guys had the audacity to come onto our property in plain daylight and steal something that belonged to us. It was only juice, but it was our juice!

I grabbed my car keys and raced to the garage.

“What are you doing?” Gary hollered.

“I’m going to find those guys and get our juice back,” I snapped.

Gary has mobility and eyesight issues—otherwise he would have tackled me and wrestled the keys from my hands.

“I’d help you, but I have a meeting,” Larry said.

“I don’t need your help,” I growled.

I sped north through the alley and drove up and down the streets of our neighborhood. I mumbled the speech those dirty thieves would get when I found them. It contained a lot of “F” words and a guarantee to kill if I caught them on my property ever again.

I widened my search and still could not find them. It took some time for reason to grip me. “What if you issue your threats and later they retaliate by doing something like spraying graffiti on the garage or burning the house down while you sleep?”

Uh-oh!

I draped the veil of shame over my head (it was in the glove compartment) and returned home to apologize to Gary and Larry for shouting at them. I called our handyman and scheduled him to install a lock on the garage door.

I’ve spent the following six years preparing for the next assault on our property. I cannot reveal the security measures I’ve taken, but warn anyone who thinks of trespassing: Lucy is mastering some amazing ninja skills in Puppy Kindergarten.

Lucy bustin’ one of her ninja moves.

Dollar Store – Part 2

Posted on October 25, 2013 by Kate

Just when you thought the controversy was over, the Fort Bragg Advocate News Facebook page reported: “Planning Commission to hear Dollar Store application.”

Once again, this gives me the opportunity to classify some of the more insightful comments.

The possibilities are endless: I envision the great dollar mall: all businesses providing goods and services for only a buck. The dollar barber shop — half a bad haircut for only a dollar. The used food store. The dollar motel. Dollar brothel and laundromat. How about the one dollar limousine service? Takes you to the end of the parking lot and back. Buck a beer bar. Dollar doctor.

Getting by on a dollar: My dinner cost about one dollar tonight: rice, three potatoes, carrot, little bit of cauliflower and broccoli, stalk of celery. I’m saving up to get a big stack of corn tortillas.

Freedom from the good ole boys: This is exactly why we have to shop out of town! There is no competition for the good ole boys businesses that are here already. What happened to Freedom of Enterprise? The working people cannot afford to shop in Fort Bragg.

What’s the matter with you?: What “good ole boy” businesses are you talking about?? It is clear that you do not really take the time to actually shop in our town. If you did you would know already that many local downtown businesses are owned by locally grown young women who are working hard to provide merchandise for local people as well as visitors. Before you yell loudly about “affordable” priced goods, you might want to consider the cost of doing business here, the cost of shopping out of town, and the fact that when you actually DO spend money in Locally owned business more of those dollars Do stay here and benefit our city, roads, CV Starr, etc.

Shut up!: I am sixth generation here, need I say more.

As goes Portland so goes the world: I hope this doesn’t happen. One went in a small suburb of Portland that I visit a lot and it has really brought down the value and unique character of the neighborhood. It also added A LOT of litter to the streets and sidewalks surrounding it. One of the reasons I moved to FB was to get away from these types of businesses – they are not inexpensive, they are cheap.

Perhaps you can relocate to an even more remote area: Well, I guess you could always move to Caspar to get away from the evil chains. I think the other 90-95% of Fort Bragg will welcome this.

You effing idiots: I hope it happens. And, all u who say its bad and all that othr crap u say, ill take ur pic at the willits dollar store and post it for all to see! And then catch ya at the “all evil wal-mart”! lol, effing idiots.

Let’s not disgust our sister city visitors: Every summer we welcome our Japanese groups from our sister city… i think they would be disgusted with a china store exploiting children to make crap for a penny to be sold here for a buck… if i want china, i just shop on amazon….

What?!?: So you’re telling me its NOT ok to buy child-made stuff from dollar store but that its ok to buy child-made stuff on amazon?

A short lesson in Sino-Japanese relations: It seems [he] is lacking in a basic knowledge of Sino-Japanese relations. If anything, the Chinese would be disgusted more by the Japanese, in general. You see there was something called the Rape of Nanking where the Japanese commited some of the worst atrocities you can imagine. The Chinese never really forgot about it.

A basic finance lesson: Well I am off to Santa Rosa to buy a super economical car there where I can afford a nice one. Then to Target, and then Cost Plus, with a stop at Cost Co before going to a sears that doesn’t look like a run down mess and has products in stock. I will then Dine at a Sizzler, before driving to Ukiah to go to the Big Lots there and then to Big 5 and Home Depot lastly stopping at the dollar tree in Willits and finishing the day with a tank of Safeway gas and dinner at a jack in the box. Sales tax = Public services; Businesses = Jobs. Just saying Marketing and Business 101

Changing times: In the good ol’ days you could get a nickel for three cents. Now you’re saying a good deal can be had for a buck? My, how times have changed! Fly that flag, comrade! Most American flags are made in China as well. Mine, of course, is American-made — 48 Stars version.

Attack of the Seniors

Posted on October 18, 2013 by Kate

As I approach senior citizen status, I’m beginning to experience what it means to belong to this age group—young people look upon me with pity and I probably should schedule a facelift. On the bright side, I’m allowed to become cranky with anyone who doesn’t respect my opinion as the only one that matters.

I’ve also started to take a modest interest in things labeled “senior.” Thus I was attracted to the recent headline in the Fort Bragg Advocate News: “Senior Center Vote to Fire Bush Baffles All.”

On the surface, the senior center board had silly reasons to fire their executive director Charles Bush. He allegedly has a messy office, spends too much time in the dining room, not enough time fundraising, and refuses to fire a crabby volunteer.

Of the 9-member board, the vote came in 4-2 with 2 abstaining. The ninth member claimed that the vote was called for illegally and walked out before it was taken.

Tensions ran high at The Purity as people wondered aloud: Was Charles fired or not?

The plan to dump him began brewing over the summer. The seniors who frequent the center are highly supportive of him and none too happy with board members who favor letting him go.

After the “firing,” the board president was spat upon one afternoon while walking through the halls of the center. Another time, she found her car had been keyed. She received a death threat. All board members suffered harassing telephone calls.

How could I not be captivated by a story that included death threats, crank calls, car keying, senior citizens spitting on one another, sex, drugs, alcohol and adultery?

(The sex, drugs, alcohol and adultery claims have not been corroborated—so it’s probably best not to repeat them.)

Suffering from a lack of drama in my life (new puppy notwithstanding), I decided to attend the senior center board meeting on September 27th.

I arrived 15 minutes early to find people pouring into the vast dining room faster than Charles Bush could haul out chairs to seat them.

I looked toward the open kitchen and saw two people stirring a large cauldron. Others plucked feathers from chicken carcasses. The thick scent of tar hung in the air.

The room was packed with a growling gray-haired mob, worrying stones in their pockets and hoping their aim was as good as in years past. I estimated 10,000 people, but it was probably closer to 200.

A weary looking vice-president attempted to call the meeting to order amidst problems with the sound system.

Angry cries of “I can’t hear you!” and “Put the microphone up to your mouth!” reverberated throughout the room.

The glitches were worked out. The vice-president’s first announced was that the president (who had previously been spat upon and received death threats) and three other board members would not be at the meeting. The crowd grumbled.

What would become of all that tar, all those feathers?

The collective expression of the five board members present was a mixture of fear and disdain, self-protection and disgust. They would not cower before a bunch of peon vigilantes.

Charles pleaded with everyone to simmer down, to treat one another with respect. This harkened me back to the days when my daughter Laine attended Redwood Elementary. Each Friday, the student body gathered on the playground for “Friday Opening.” The short session ended with everyone reciting the Redwood Oath: Be kind. Be safe. Be responsible.

Fort Bragg Advocate News photo

The crowd grudgingly shifted from feral to nearly calm. A half hour was set aside for public comment. Each person who wished to was allowed a few minutes to express his or her opinion. The opinions were overwhelmingly in favor of keeping Charles as executive director.

At the close of public comment, four letters of resignation—from absent board members—were read into the record. The crowd gasped.

Another letter of resignation was read, then one more. The crowd gasped again as the two grim-faced quitters got up and walked out of the room.

In less than one hour, the Redwood Coast Senior Center Board of Directors went from nine members to three. I have not witnessed such drama since “Dynasty” went off the air.

The senior center should have no trouble filling the vacant board seats. Perhaps the person who spat on the former president will apply. And the one who keyed her car. And the one who issued a death threat.

The final three seats can be fought over by those who made the threatening phone calls.

Before each board meeting, the principal of Redwood Elementary can lead a recital of: Be kind. Be safe. Be responsible. Don’t threaten to kill one another.

It Happened at Purity

Small town adventures on the Mendocino Coast

Category Archives: Fort Bragg California