Three Gifts for Under $5

Posted on March 29, 2013 by Kate

Devoted It Happened at Purity fan and first-class Purity clerk Alana became inspired by this blog’s frequent references to Taaka Vodka. (Either that or the number of 200 ml bottles she sells each day.)

On Valentine’s Day, she cobbled up this clever greeting:

Cost: $2.09 for the Taaka + 10-cents for the bag.

This one might work for Easter or perhaps to cheer up a sick friend:

$2.09 + $2.50 for the card. (The basket is not for sale, but wouldn’t it be cool if you could buy it?)

There are many occasions for which this would work:

The party’s at The Purity! $2.09/bottle + 25-cent toppers from the toy vending machine.

Thank you Alana! I hope you inspire others to share their Taaka Vodka gift ideas with It Happened at Purity.

The Incredible Becky Walker

Posted on March 22, 2013 by Kate

Becky Walker’s first year as a Fort Bragg Middle School math teacher was 1997-98, the year our son Harrison was in sixth grade. She looked more like a junior executive of a Fortune 500 company than a teacher in a school on the Mendocino Coast. She wore pant suits and pumps, and often pulled her hair into a severe ponytail with a puff of bangs. It was unsettling.

She exuded the warmth of a Marine drill sergeant. Her job was to teach math to children. And they would learn. Oh yes, they would.

As time passed, Becky also learned a thing or two. (Living in Fort Bragg, California does that to a person.) She began to relax her professional guard and expose her playful side. The pant suits disappeared, her hair became casually styled, and she grew to be hilariously funny. Still, she has never compromised her quest to elicit high standards of behavior from herself and her students.

I feel fortunate to have grown close to Becky over the years. I’m in awe of how this dynamic woman has blossomed from middle school to high school teacher to vice-principal to principal of Fort Bragg High School.

In honor of her birthday on March 24, I propose a series of action figures dedicated to her superhuman abilities.

Thunder Queen

Towards the end of her first year of teaching, the sixth grade students went on the traditional camp out at the Boys and Girls Club Camp Mendocino. Mayhem reigned as kids disembarked the bus, wrestled with camping gear, and frolicked like young puppies. A group of teachers were barely able to corral them into a grassy area.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” shouted a voice with the force of a bullhorn. All 200 students froze. “Sit down! Now!” Two hundred students sat.

Becky shouted instructions and rules. If a student looked away or had the audacity to whisper to a neighbor, they were called out. “Mr. Riley, your eyes me, please.”

When she finished, I turned to Harrison and whispered, “My God, that woman can yell.” His face burst into a smile. “Isn’t she great?”

Boundary Maker

Becky is a genius at defining clear boundaries of acceptable behavior. When she was a teacher, her room was intersected by a laser light grid in 3-D visible to only her and the students. As long as a student stayed within the confines of that grid, he or she was lovingly attended to by Ms. Walker.

Step a toe outside and Boundary Maker awakened the wrath of Thunder Queen. A quick verbal smack down snapped the kid back into place where he or she would once again be treated kindly.

If somebody violates my weak boundaries, it can take days, weeks, months or even years for me to speak politely to them, let alone kindly. Not Boundary Maker. Boom! Done. Let’s move on.

Antenna Woman

On campus, Becky can carry on a conversation with an adult while tracking every student in the hallway. In the middle of a sentence, Antenna Woman will arouse Thunder Queen. “Mr. Myers, keep your hands to yourself!” She returns to the conversation, picks up the sentence, and finishes her thought.

Whenever I spoke with Becky at school, there were numerous disciplinary interruptions that made me jump with alarm. Yet Becky never gave me less than her full attention.

This alone qualifies her as a Super Hero.

Pack Leader

One day, I participated in the eighth grade’s cultural diversity potluck and assembly. After the luncheon, the kids were ramped up. Becky settled them by loudly announcing, “I expect you to be quiet as we walk to the auditorium. We’re going to pick up another class along the way and I won’t tolerate even a whisper as we go through the halls. Sixth and seventh grade classes are in progress and we will respect their need for quiet.”

She assembled her students in the hallway and gathered the other class for a total of 60 eighth graders. Her full-bodied voice directed, “We’re going to start walking now. If anybody makes a peep, we’ll back up and start again.”

Ten steps forward. Stop. The talkers were ordered to the front of the line, next to Ms. Walker. Ten steps back. A review of the rules—No talking or we’re backing up. Ten steps forward. Stop. More rule breakers were moved to the front of the line. Another review of the rules. Ten steps back.

On the sixth attempt, the silent group arrived at the auditorium, a bit drained by their hard won accomplishment, yet faces sporting proud grins. They had climbed Mount Olympus, a journey plagued by fits and starts, but motivated by Ms. Walker’s unwavering belief that they would make it.

Shaper of the Adolescent Mind into Something Resembling Human

Becky creates an environment where the rules are clear. She generously praises, encourages, laughs with, and enjoys her students. As a result, they strive to please.

If she has to yell to get her point across—well, anyone who has dealt with teenagers knows that hormonal surges make pudding of their brain matter, which can block their ability to hear anything but high decibel sounds.

Whenever my kids were in her class, they exhibited a higher level of maturity as evidenced by such adult statements as “Ms. Walker says you always need to have a savings account because you never know when you’ll get an infected ingrown toenail that requires medical attention,” and “Pies aren’t square, they’re round, silly” (which refers to area of a circle = pr²).

Gary and I found these quotes fascinating. Our adult children find it haunting that they remember them all these years later.

In eighth grade, our daughter Laine did a Power Point presentation for a homework assignment. Becky called to say that Laine’s outstanding effort made her cry. We felt like we were raising the next Einstein.

A few years ago on Becky’s birthday, I stood in the lobby outside her vice-principal’s office with a young fellow who looked down in the dumps. He said he’d just been suspended for a week and was waiting for his dad to pick him up.

When Becky emerged, I handed her a gift. She was giddy as most of us are when being honored on our birthday. As we chatted, the student who she’d just kicked out of school looked up and smiled. “Happy Birthday, Ms. Walker.”

Her birthday is this Sunday. Let’s do a little math problem to figure out her age. She was 24 years old when she started working for the Fort Bragg Unified School District in the fall of 1997. In March of 1998, she turned 25.

2013 – 1998 = x + 25 = OMG, she’s that old?

Take a moment to wish her a happy day. (She has a Facebook Page: http://www.facebook.com/beckycwalker?fref=ts. Or you can leave a comment here and I’ll pass it along.)

If you were once her student, tell her how Thunder Queen, Boundary Maker, Antenna Woman, and Leader of the Pack worked to shape your mind into something resembling human.

Stupid February

Posted on March 15, 2013 by Kate

Okay, I’m going to call it—February is the stupidest month of the year (so far). The following are three acts of idiocy reported in the Fort Bragg Advocate-News last month:

One arrested for DUI causing outage

On Friday, February 15^th, a 35-year old local man used his 2008 Chevy Suburban to celebrate the end of the work week in an interesting manner. Around 11:00 pm, he hit a parked car with enough force to move it 10 feet onto the sidewalk.

I imagine him having a moment of shocked sobriety as he backed up, slammed the vehicle into drive, floored the gas pedal, and zoomed forward 30 feet to hit and shear off a main PG&E power pole.

Goal!

When the police arrived, they discovered Mr. Chevy Suburban attempting to flee the scene. He managed to drive about 25 feet despite major front-end damage and the absence of his front passenger tire (in the whirlwind, it had been ripped from the axle).

Fort Bragg Advocate-News photo

As his Friday night party came to an end, the adventure for 2,600 Fort Bragg residents deprived of power was just beginning—and lasted until 9:30 the next morning. I suppose we should be grateful that he allowed us to unexpectedly experience a simpler time when electricity, electronic entertainment, and central heating didn’t exist.

Pair nabbed while packaging marijuana in motel room

I guess if you’re from out of town and buy a crap-load of marijuana that needs to be packaged for sale and you don’t have friends or family to stay with, it would make sense to rent a motel room. It would also make sense to behave yourself and be very quiet.

On February 25^th, Fort Bragg police were called to a local motel to investigate a domestic disturbance.

They heard a gal yelling at a guy. The guy came outside. As police questioned him, they smelled marijuana. They peeked inside the room to see “packaging material and large garbage sacks full of processed marijuana.”

A search warrant was obtained and 16 pounds of pot was confiscated along with packaging material. The domestically-disturbed couple was arrested.

Maybe the next time they’re in a motel room processing pot and he foolishly does something to tick her off, she’ll use her “inside voice” to resolve the situation.

High-risk ‘honey oil lab’ cleaned up

Perhaps you know all about honey oil, but I did not. (I grew up in Spokane, Washington in the last century.) Thanks to these dumb asses in Willits, I have garnered new terminology to add to my growing knowledge of the marijuana industry.

On February 26^th, the Mendocino County Major Crimes Task Force arrived at a duplex in Willits where they found “150 butane cylinders being used in an alleged marijuana honey oil extraction operation.”

The two geniuses running this operation had placed the highly flammable cylinders near a fire burning in a fireplace. They also possessed a half-ounce of meth and 25 pounds of pot. Oh—and they had a child—a four-year old child.

Of course they did.

They were each charged with a bunch of stuff and the guy was also charged with “being armed with a deadly weapon in the commission of a felony and committing offenses while out on bail.”

Of course he was.

Oh—and he is currently “facing court after his arrest in June 2012 for possession of a controlled substance for sale.”

Oh—and “he was picked up again in January 2013 for possession of a controlled substance for sale, possession of a weapon in commission of a felony and committing a crime while out on bail.”

Of course, of course, of course.

Now some of you may be curious about honey oil. Thankfully, the Fort Bragg Advocate-News article (which was actually a reprint of a Willits News article) gives an explanation:

“To extract the honey oil, liquid butane is mixed with ground up marijuana in a tube.”

Sounds yummy.

“The liquid butane dissolves the tetrahydrocabinol and other ingredients from the marijuana. The person processing the material then pours the butane from the tube into a bowl and allows it to evaporate, leaving behind the marijuana honey oil residue.”

Hum—with its fewer petro-chemical additives, honey oil might be a healthier choice than meth.

With 150 butane containers, a vapor cloud of evaporating butane, and a fire in the fireplace, these master chemists turned their duplex into a ticking time bomb capable of doing grave damage to their child and neighbors.

Yes, they were arrested. Yes, their child was taken away from them. Who knows where they are now—probably back in their duplex in Willits.

So there you have it—Stupid February.

A Boy & His Dogs

Posted on March 8, 2013 by Kate

During the 1999 basketball season, our son Harrison was in seventh grade at Fort Bragg Middle School. He’d been an avid sports fan since the age of three when he learned how to work the television remote control. In those days, neither his dad nor I gave two hoots about sports, but were supportive of most any activity that kept our little guy entertained for longer than a few minutes at a time.

Even though Harrison was only in seventh grade, that college basketball season was pivotal in determining the course of his young life. It was the year the Gonzaga Bulldogs made it to the Elite Eight in the NCAA college basketball tournament and earned the label “Cinderella Team.” They virtually came out of nowhere to capture the nation’s attention.

Casey Calvary and Matt Santangelo became familiar names in our home. Gonzaga gear was ordered from the school’s bookstore and Harrison made a solemn vow—when it came time for college, he would go to Gonzaga. He would not consider another school; a school where he couldn’t support their basketball team. And the only team he cared about was Gonzaga.

The population of Fort Bragg, California is about the same size as the entire student population of Gonzaga (7,250 vs. 7,764). Harrison’s peers were fans of such schools as UC Berkeley, Duke, and University of North Carolina. They didn’t care about a puny school in a part of the country they’d never heard of.

By seventh grade Harrison was bitten with Zags Fever, a highly contagious disease that spread throughout the family—even to his 85-year old grandmother. (The only one immune was his younger sister Laine who, from a very early age, inoculated herself against sports-related diseases.)

Gonzaga is located in Spokane, Washington and is where his father and I grew up. Gary was fortunate to go to college there. I had spent a fair share of time hanging around the campus imagining what it would be like to live in the Madonna Hall dorm.

Over thirty years after his parents left Spokane, Harrison was able to realize his dream—not to attend his dad’s alma mater or to live in his parents’ hometown—but to join the school that was the birthplace of his basketball team. He enrolled in Gonzaga in the fall of 2004 and lived in Madonna Hall.

During basketball season, he would text us from the games as we watched on television, giving us coordinates to where he was located in the student section. Gary and I would search the backs of male heads with similar haircuts, spending most of the game saying things like, “Is that him? I think that’s him!” It gave us a thrill. (Remember, we live in a very small town.)

One time, the television camera slowly panned the student section and briefly rested on Harrison. He mouthed, “Hi Mom!” My heart swooned. At that moment, every sacrifice we had made to send him to that school was entirely worth it.

When I picked him up at the Oakland airport for Thanksgiving 2005, one of the first things he said was, “We’ve got to find a TV.” Gonzaga was playing Michigan State in the Maui Invitational and the game would begin within a half hour. I argued that I had already driven four hours to the airport and we had a four-hour drive home, his dad was recording the game, and he could watch it later.

I apparently wasn’t in my right mind.

We found a restaurant in Jack London Square with a semi-secluded banquet area in the back that had a small TV mounted on the wall. Since it was only 5:00, the place was sparsely populated and the waiter graciously allowed Harrison to turn on the game. (The restaurant didn’t have ESPN, only ESPN 2—fortunately, the station the game was on.)

We ordered food and became so engrossed in the game that we barely noticed the restaurant fill to capacity.

As the game went from one to double to triple overtime, our waiter gave up on his customers to watch with us. In a heart-pounding battle to the finish, Gonzaga beat Michigan State in the final seconds 109-106.

I was so happy Harrison had insisted we stay in Oakland to watch the game. Adrenaline fueled our four-hour trip to arrive in Fort Bragg at one in the morning.

When Harrison had the opportunity to study abroad in Florence, Italy his junior year, he nearly didn’t go because he didn’t want to miss the basketball season. He was able to find a contraption called Slingbox that we attached to a cable box on a spare television. In Florence, his computer could access this device and allow him to watch our cable channels. He watched every Zags game that season—even if it meant getting up at three in the morning.

It’s been nearly five years since Harrison graduated from Gonzaga. His Zags Fever rages nearly as strong today as in the past. A couple of seasons previous to this one, while his team suffered some setbacks, he defended the work the coaches were doing to eventually build a great team.

That work has paid off with the Zags earning the #1 spot in the Associated Press and ESPN Coaches Poll. That’s #1 among big schools like Duke, Indiana, and Michigan State. This little school, this little Cinderella team has finally gotten their glass slippers and made it to the ball.

Throughout it all, Harrison never wavered. Gary and I have had our doubts, but continue to watch Gonzaga basketball, sometimes thinking we see the back of our boy’s head in the student section.

Coffee Bliss

Posted on March 1, 2013 by Kate

A few weeks ago, I was swept into an alternate universe while visiting San Francisco. I was with four young people, aged 12-27, had been on the go all day, and knew I’d be expected to stay up past my bedtime. Thus, I was required to break my one latte per day habit and have a late afternoon pick me up.

Our group had just chowed down a dozen French macaroons from Chantal Guillonour in Hayes Valley. It is the best French macaroon bakery on the planet. (Okay, okay, so maybe the best outside of Paris.)

My son Harrison suggested we visit Ritual Coffee located about a block away.

This particular location is an open air coffee stand. It is housed in what looks like a renovated train car, which gives it an industrial, hip, startup kind of vibe. Or—if you’re my age and from Fort Bragg, California—a vibe akin to “I guess they can’t afford rent on a nice place.”

Ritual Coffee Logo

Duck & cover flashback logo

Their logo reminds me of the former Soviet Union’s flag. Growing up in the Cold War era, my young brain was imprinted with the threat of communist takeover. The Ritual Coffee logo gives me disturbing flashbacks to a time of duck and cover drills.

As we stood in line, Harrison explained that Ritual’s claim to fame [aside from the fact that they operate out of train cars and might be communists] is that they individually slow brew each cup of coffee.

There were six people in front of us waiting to be served by two baristas. The young woman took orders and made lattes or cappuccinos, working at the pace of an artist restoring a masterwork of art. The young man carefully poured hot water into cone-shaped filters to ensure each cup of coffee was brewed at the speed of a saline drip through an intravenous therapy tube.

Unlike a shop where baristas seem to dance to the Rolling Stones’ Jumpin’ Jack Flash to get orders out post haste, these baristas swayed to a Mozart flute concerto.

After each customer interaction, the female barista issued a lilting laugh. When the next customer approached, she gave a sweet smile and asked for a moment so she could craft the previous customer’s order.

Instead of growling, “I’ve been standing in this line for half a freaking hour and I want my coffee now!” the customer silently nodded.

As we waited (and waited), the line behind us grew to at least 20 people. The baristas appeared unfazed. The guy smiled peacefully and the gal Glinda-laughed. No one twitched with the caffeine joneses. No one complained. Voices were muted as the baristas drew everyone into their state of serenity.

When it was my turn, I ordered in gentle, hushed tones. When she said it would take just a moment, I understood. It was fine. Everything was fine. The world is a kind, peaceful place and I’m so happy we are all one.

Lattes in hand, our little group sat on benches near the coffee stand and admired the milk-painted hearts atop our drinks. We had places to go and things to see, but chose to leisurely sip our coffee, enchanted by the nirvana that resonated from the train car and held us in its comforting embrace.

Upon my return to reality (Fort Bragg, California), I visited the website of Ritual Coffee to discover:

“Ritual has been a pioneer in this delicious shift in coffee consciousness since we opened our doors on Valencia Street in 2005 and started what some call a coffee revolution in San Francisco. Our goal then–and our goal now–was to craft the very best cup of coffee available anywhere. Period. We’ve learned a lot over the years, but the care and attention we lavish on our process is unchanged, including tasting every coffee several times before it goes out to our coffee bars and into your cup.”

May I be so bold to suggest an edit of this last sentence? It’s a bit disconcerting to know my coffee is tasted not once, but several times before it goes into my cup.

“We don’t do all of this to make coffee more complicated. We do it because pretty much everybody who works here has had a moment where a really, really good cup of coffee changed their lives.”

I want to interview these people. I want to know what their lives were like before they were changed by a really, really good cup of coffee. Were they once, like me, anxious about such things as the continued well-being of themselves and their loved ones, how much longer their 14-year old dog is going to live, and the effects of global warming on the Kardashians?

“And we want to do every single thing we can to create that kind of experience for you, or at the very least, give you a really, really good cup of coffee that makes you feel like your day just took a turn for the better.”

Bingo! I was transformed into a kinder, gentler person for at least an hour while residing in the Ritual Coffee Universe. Did my day get better? It had already been pretty awesome and I’ll be darned if it didn’t maintain a similar course.

“We are endlessly enchanted by the coffees we discover and continually delighted by the experience of sharing them with our customers. And just like with any passionate affair, we find ourselves more in love with coffee today than we were when we started.”

A word of warning Ritual Coffee: passionate affairs can suddenly fizzle and degrade into stalking, nasty text message exchanges, keying of vehicles, and restraining orders.

If you’re ever in San Francisco or Napa, take the time to visit a Ritual Coffee shop. They understand that life’s pleasurable moments are often all too fleeting. You’ll be grateful that they strive to stretch your coffee moment into an experience you won’t soon forget.

We Eat Meat

Posted on February 22, 2013 by Kate

In 1992, our son Harrison entered first grade at Redwood Elementary School. A couple weeks later, he brought home the reader We Eat Meat. (I kid you not.)

If you’re a parent, you know the warm pride of listening to your young child read. In this case, I had to press my knuckles to my lips and refrain from making eye contact with my husband Gary so I wouldn’t ruin the moment with laughter as Harrison recited the lines: “Meet Pete. Pete eats meat.”

When our daughter Laine entered Redwood three years later, the book had disappeared. Perhaps it has been banned.

Laine is a vegetarian. Harrison is a meat eater. Is this merely a coincidence or the product of early educational imprinting?

Gary and I are meat eaters. While I fancy I could easily become a vegetarian, he grows faint at the mere thought of two meatless dinners in a row. He’s also of the mind that to eat Mexican, Italian or Chinese food more than once a week is to venture precariously into uncharted epicurean territory.

It took years before I realized that Gary has some serious food issues. (Never mind that missing my daily 10:00am latte makes me break out in distress hives.)

Gary has suffered from Type 1 diabetes since the age of 12. When he was diagnosed back in the fifties, his physician told him he’d be lucky to live past the age of 40. (Inmates on California’s Death Row have longer life expectancies.)

Gary views each dinner as his possible last meal. Unlike many people, he is void of the luxury of believing a disappointing meal doesn’t matter.

One Saturday evening when Harrison and Laine were home for a visit, we treated ourselves to a meal from Jenny’s Giant Burger. I joined Laine in ordering a veggie burger. Harrison and Gary each requested the giant burger.

In the car on the way home, I snacked on a number of crispy hot French fries (one of my favorite things that I’ve not, till now, confessed to my family). Moments after the food bag was set on the kitchen counter, we attacked it like a pack of starving wolves.

As I choreographed the eating of my meal—bite of burger, one French fry, sip of chocolate shake (one of nature’s most perfect taste combinations)—I marveled at the remarkable deliciousness of my veggie burger.

Half way through his burger, Gary’s face contorted into what looked like a precursor to vomiting. “This burger tastes like crap! It’s the worst burger I’ve ever eaten!”

Beware of the poisonous veggie burger.

I peeked under the bun of my sandwich to discover the reason my veggie burger tasted so good. “Oops! Looks like I got yours, Gary.”

You would have thought I’d said, “Oops! Looks like you just ate rat poison.”

Gary fled to the bathroom where I heard him spit out veggie residue. The kids and I rolled our eyes and chuckled.

When he returned to the table, we exchanged the remainder of our burgers. All was well until later that evening when we tried to reach consensus on what might possibly be the last movie Gary would ever watch.

Meet Gary. Gary eats meat.

Gary likes Quentin Tarantino and Wes Craven movies. Gary does not like Meryl Streep movies.

Definitely not Meryl Streep movies.

Definitely not.

Pot Debacle

Posted on February 8, 2013 by Kate

I must apologize for the delay in posting this, but so much has happened since the end of October that I simply forgot.

Marijuana reports in Mendocino County often solicit big yawns among local residents. However, my national and international (Oklahoma City is international, right?) readers are not so jaded.

Despite its Mendocino County setting, the following is a universal story that epitomizes the fragility of the human condition. (If you have trouble relating to it, you may want to substitute “kitty” for “marijuana.”)

This is a story of how anger can sometimes make us do things we later regret. Stupid things—really, really stupid things.

Fort Bragg Advocate News Facebook October 30, 2012:

This just in from the Sheriff’s Office: On Oct. 24, at approximately 8:15 p.m., deputies were dispatched to a reported robbery of marijuana. While the deputies were en route, the caller, Kristen Wright, 32, of Leggett, advised that no actual robbery had been committed.
Wright advised she had arranged to sell 10 pounds of marijuana to three men for $20,000. They had given her four bundles of cash which they had represented as being $20,000 in U.S. currency. The men fled with the marijuana just as Wright realized that only the bills on the top side of the stacks were $100 bills, the rest were $1 bills. She had been left with slightly over four hundred dollars, not the $20,000 they had agreed upon.
Wright and a male companion followed the suspects as they drove south from the intersection of Hwy 1 and 101 in Leggett. Two of the suspects were in a dark Scion. The third man drove a light colored sedan. Deputies intercepted the Scion occupied by two of the suspects, Christopher Jaramillo, 18, of Willington, and Jose Lemus, 20, of San Pedro, in the 44800 block of Hwy 101 in Laytonville. Over 10 pounds of marijuana was located inside the car. Kristen Wright arrived at the scene a short time later.
Lemus and Jaramillo were arrested for possession of marijuana for sale, transportation of marijuana and conspiracy. Wright was arrested for possession of marijuana for sale. All were transported to Ukiah and lodged in the Mendocino County Jail, with bail set at $30,000 each. The third male suspect was never located.

Of course, no sharing of a Fort Bragg Advocate News Facebook posting would be complete without classifying my favorite comments:

The Sarcastic Humorists

“Steal my pot, will ya? I’ll go to jail before I let you have it!”

Gotta love idiots

good to see criminals with principles

Morons all around.

It s still illegal sell, transport and steal. $20,000 sounds like more than personal use. Just a few more pounds and idiots off the street. I bet she is on state aid too.

Sales 101 always count the money

The Educators

you can have up to 6 mature plants and 6 immature plants at 1 time. and all depending in how skilled you are, you can have more than $20,000 worth of crop. And if your selling to someone who has a license which most people do, theres basically no rules…

It never ceases to amaze me, but here I go anyway. Weed is not the problem, really. It’s the people who generally choose to partake at such levels that create the criminal and social stigma. The reality is it alters one’s perception and judgement, as CLEARLY displayed by this brilliant chain of events.

ok this is a crime. what the fuck. if it was a tv and they had given the wrong amount of money it would be considered a crime but not if its marijuana? bullshit! We can cultivate, conceal, transport, & consume cannabis for our own use. why can’t we sell it? Especially nowadays, almost everyone In California has a medical marijuana license. My boss, teachers, nurses etc. Come on people its 2012!

The One Who Reminisces

This reminds me of a story where a deputy from point arena got a call from a person complaining that the people next door were making meth and that the chemicals were running down into their marijuana crop.

The Defender

At least the thieves were caught! She sacrificed herself so they wouldn’t do it to someone else.

The Unclassifiable

Yup i sren something just as stupid the other day regarding someone taking someones car without consent. The person went to get their car that got pulled over and ended goumg to jail too . WTF

5 Minutes, 5 Broken Rules

Posted on February 1, 2013 by Kate

For decades, the Mendocino Coast Parks and Recreation District struggled to raise money to build a community center to replace their 100-year old pool and rec center in Fort Bragg. As time went by, the donations continuously proved inadequate to the rising cost of construction.

About 10 years ago, a local resident had a brilliant idea. A man by the name of Cornelius Vander Starr had grown up in Fort Bragg during the early 1900’s and went on to form an insurance company that grew into AIG.

That’s right—A–I-freakin’-G!

When Cornelius died in 1968, his estate created a foundation now worth bazillions of dollars. The aforementioned brilliant local, phoned the Starr Foundation and asked if they would be interested in helping fund community center in Cornelius’s hometown.

They did. And so did a few others—like local Harry Spath who lived like he didn’t have two nickels to rub together, yet left a million dollars to MCPRD when he died.

The CV Starr Community Center opened in 2009. It is so beautiful, so unlike much of the beloved funky construction in Fort Bragg that some residents complain that it’s too nice for our little town.

I attended the opening ceremonies with some young friends and, yes, dared to put on my 20-year old sagging swim suit to join them in the pool on opening day. (Fortunately, no photo available.)

A few months later, I bought a new swim suit and took a water aerobics class. Most of the participants were at least 20 years older than me and bitched continuously about the coldness of the water and difficulty of the moves.

Despite the entertainment of listening to prickly, grousing elders and the thrill of feeling comparatively youthful, I determined water aerobics classes were not for me.

One afternoon, I headed for the pool to do my own workout. Little did I know I was about to break a number of rules.

The locker rooms of the aquatic center exit directly in front of the Olympic size lap pool. I was delighted to find it empty—in contrast to the large number of people in the play pool. Only three swimming lanes were designated, which left a huge empty space that looked perfect for the workout I had planned.

I entered the lap pool via the gently sloping stairs and had submerged to my waist when a lifeguard appeared.

“Excuse me, you can only be in this pool if you’re going to use the lap lanes.”

I smiled into the face of a teenager who is a lifeguard only because his unreasonable parents insisted he get a job for the summer. “I thought I’d exercise here because it’s so crowded in the other pool.”

“You can’t.” (Broken Rule #1.)

“Ok.”

“Did you shower before you got into the pool?”

“Do what?”

“You have to shower over there before you get into the pool.” (Broken Rule #2.)

“Thank you, I’ll do that.”

As I showered, I noticed the “lazy river” was running. I had heard that walking against the current is great exercise. I slipped into the river. Trying to dodge kids who slammed into me added to the adventure. I had traversed about half way when I heard, “Excuse me.”

I looked into the pimply face of another bitter teen. “If you want to be in here, you can’t go against the current.”

I smiled. “But I want to get a workout.”

“You can’t do that now.”

“When can I?”

“Noon to 1:00 and 5:30 to 6:30.” (Broken Rule #3.)

I floated to the narrow bridge that separates the river from the play pool. This bridge is partially submerged in water and allows the lifeguards to pace back and forth, prison guard style. I flopped like a harbor seal onto the bridge.

“Excuse me.”

Stomach suspended on the tile, I looked up at the lifeguard.

“You’re not supposed to be on this.” (Broken Rule #4.)

I quickly slipped into the play pool. “Sorry.”

I spotted the foam rubber “weights” that I’d used during water aerobics class on the deck area on the far side of the pool.

I swam to the side, climbed the ladder to exit the pool (legally, I presume since no said, “Excuse me”), took two weights, and jumped back into the water.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to use those unless you’re taking a class.” (Broken Rule #5.)

By saying, “I don’t think…” instead of the more powerful “You’re not supposed to…” this new lifeguard created a loophole. I explained that I only wanted to use the equipment for 15 minutes and I would put them right back.

I promised.

She hesitated.

“Would you mind asking someone if it’s okay?”

She agreed and left the area.

Two boys—about ten years old—swam towards me. “Where’d you get those?”

I held the weights to my chest. “They’re for adults only.” I had a vested interest in making up my own rule. I didn’t want to jeopardize my ability to use the weights if the child population started raiding the bins.

A male lifeguard replaced the female who had moved to supervise the empty lap pool. I turned my back on her replacement and kept the weights submerged while I completed my workout.

Like shopping at The Purity, swimming at the CV Starr Community Center is a must do. However, unlike The Purity, there are rules of conduct that need to be obeyed. Before you take your first aquatic voyage, I encourage you to review my five broken rules in order to save yourself from teenage lifeguard angst.

Tip Top Pick Up

Posted on January 24, 2013 by Kate

Before I turned 21, taverns were easier places to score a night of drinking with my fake ID than an upscale establishment. But the depressing feng shui always offset the thrill of getting away with breaking the law. After I became of legal drinking age, I avoided taverns.

So it was after much persuasion that I agreed to accompany my underage son to the Tip Top Lounge on a Saturday afternoon a few years ago to buy a tee-shirt for his college girlfriend. My mother came along for the adventure.

The bartender told Harrison that he had to stand outside the door. My mother went with him. The bartender disappeared into a back room to fetch a box of shirts.

As I waited, I surveyed the patrons. Sitting about three feet to my right was a gentleman in his sixties who was dapper in the way of someone who frequents a tavern in the middle of the afternoon: Grecian formula hair slicked into a pompadour, his once handsome face creased with wrinkles that only alcohol, cigarettes, and hard living can provide.

He was staring at me, so what was I to do but smile and say, “Hey.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Your mom and kid dropping you off?”

It had been years since I’d been hit on, but I remembered the difference between a flattering hit and a I’d-better-set-this-guy-straight-that-I’m-not-a-whore hit.

A spit of gagged air escaped my mouth followed by a loud “No!”

What type of woman do you think I am? Oh, yeah, my mom and kid frequently drive me to bars in the middle of the day and drop me off. And after I get drunk enough, I find a nice looking man like you to take me home. Don’t talk to me!

The bartender returned with the tee-shirts. I held up a few for Harrison to inspect. He chose one quickly and handed me the money. I paid the bartender and turned to leave. The pickup artist bid me farewell. I was only too happy to tell him the same.

In retrospect, I don’t know why I was so offended. The guy thought I was hot—or at least worthy of spending time sitting next to him on a bar stool on a Saturday afternoon at the Tip Top Lounge in Fort Bragg. Granted, he was drinking, but perhaps it was still early enough in the day that he only had a buzz on; he hadn’t hit blind drunk.

I should have been honored. In the past 15 years, I can count on one hand—make that one finger—the number of times a guy has made a pass at me. The only hoots I get on the street are either directed at my dog or my sporty 2010 red Honda Civic.

Maybe I would have felt differently about garnering the gentleman’s attention if it hadn’t happened in a tavern. Maybe I would have felt better about it if it had happened at The Purity.

Green Chain

Posted on January 18, 2013 by Kate

By 1993, we’d lived in Fort Bragg for a year. I worked part-time as an investment advisor through the local branches of a major bank. My clients were semi-happy when the stock market was up, and extremely unhappy when it was down. My children were in preschool and grade school. My husband was beginning to experience eyesight problems, the result of the diabetes he’d had from childhood. We both knew his days of being the breadwinner were numbered.

We’d acquired a golden retriever who liked to chew our possessions and two cats who liked to shred our furniture. I maintained a second job as domestic servant to my family. I pretended to handle life with ease, but most of the time I was a stressed out mess.

So what did I do?

I joined the Leadership Mendocino program. On the surface, this might sound insane, but in reality, Leadership Mendocino gave me one entire day off each month for eight solid months.

The third Friday of the month, people treated me as if I was important. I was offered snacks, lunch, and snacks again. The classes were held in a variety of locations throughout the county and opened my mind to issues from natural resources to law enforcement. I met interesting people from diverse backgrounds. Ginny Rorby became a wonderful friend who continues to nurture my secret desire to write.

One of the highlights of that year was when our class got to tour the sawmill at Georgia Pacific. The mill played a vital role in this community’s economic health for over 100 years. The original was built in 1885 as the Fort Bragg Sawmill. It was renamed Union Lumber Company in 1893. Georgia Pacific bought the operation in 1973, and ran it for 29 years before closing down in August 2002.

Each member of our group was handed a hard hat, safety goggles and earplugs. I was excited. I had been a city girl all my life. I did not know how trees were harvested and processed into lumber. The only things I knew about the Georgia Pacific operation were: (1) the noise from the sawmill which could be heard throughout town, (2) the noon whistle that blew each day, and (3) the smokestack’s white plume that told how hard and which way the wind blew.

As our group neared the sawmill, I physically felt the noise—like coming upon a living, breathing dragon. It gave me shivers.

Inside, I was surprised by the high tech appearance of the operation. The catwalks brought to mind the boiler room of a freight ship. Two cutting operations ran side by side. A log appeared on a conveyor belt and was grabbed by a mechanical arm. A red laser beam guided a huge saw that sliced it like butter.

Similar to this, but not as illuminated as this.

Each cutting operation was controlled by an operator who sat in what looked like the cockpit of a wheat combine. The darkness surprised me. It would be depressing to work in such sensory deprivation. The heavy duty ear protection made it impossible to exchange quips and gossip with co-workers. I wouldn’t want to be a cutting operator.

One occupation did strike me as potentially inviting. Outside, I asked our guide, “What’s that job where guys pull lumber off the conveyor belt and stack it?”

“The green chain,” he replied.

The green chain beckoned me. If I worked the green chain, my only concern for eight hours each day would be to pick up the next board and stack it. I could hum endless loops of Beatles’ and Rolling Stones’ songs. If someone yelled at me, I’d point to my ear protection and apologize while thinking, Thank God I can’t hear you, bitch. Best of all, I could possibly drink in the mornings before work instead of having to wait until after work.

Working the green chain became my meditation. Whenever life got overwhelming, I closed my eyes, imagined myself dressed in jeans, heavy boots, and a hooded sweatshirt. I picked up a board and stacked it, picked up a board and stacked it . . . . My heart chakra would eventually open, allowing me to carry on.

It Happened at Purity

Small town adventures on the Mendocino Coast

Category Archives: Humor