I don’t know about the rest of California, but the drought is having a devastating effect on the sidewalk crack gardens of Fort Bragg.
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Category Archives: Northern California
The Purity Survival Guide
Tip #1: How to make a thumb splint from comfort food
When I think of comfort food, my mind gloms onto Cyrus O’Leary’s Chocolate Cream Pie. Then I think of The Purity. Before I know it, I’ve grabbed my car keys and it doesn’t matter if I’m in my pajamas, I’m on my way to the store.
A recent surgery to remove a hooty from my left thumb placed me in need of a mild sedative, daytime sofa lounging and comfort food. Forty-eight hours into recovery, I went to The Purity to buy a chocolate cream pie. A couple of hours after returning home, I had an epiphany—in addition to putting heft on my backside and a few dabs of plaque on my arteries, that pie could save my life.
I’d been instructed to remove the impressive-looking thumb wrapping two days after surgery. I hesitated. That covering made me look like I’d been through something horrendous and garnered much sympathy.
People exclaimed, “What happened to you?” I’d respond with a dismissive wave, “Oh it’s nothing” when it was truly something. I’d had surgery! My thumb throbbed in pain. It throbbed! All the attention made me feel like a warrior woman—so brave and strong.
If I replaced the wrapping with a couple of wimpy latex bandages, nobody would even notice. I would suffer in silence.
I obeyed the doctor’s orders and took off the bandage. My thumb, forgetting it had a major gash running the entire topside length, started to bend. Up to that point in my life, I’d not given much thought to how it might feel to have a nail driven through my left thumb knuckle.
Now I know.
I needed to splint the back of the thumb to prevent it from bending and tearing the stitches. But I had no splint or substitute. As I mulled over a solution, I pulled the chocolate cream pie from the refrigerator and started eating. Whatever chemicals—I mean, natural ingredients—they put in these pies to supercharge brain matter allowed me to come up with a brilliant idea.
In case you ever find yourself in a similar situation, let me share my step-by-step instructions:
1. Buy a Cyrus O’Leary’s Chocolate Cream Pie (or any other variety, but chocolate cream is the best).
2. Have surgery on or do some serious damage to your thumb.
3. Write some gibberish on your hand with purple permanent ink. (Mine vaguely resembles the former USSR flag or an upside down Ritual Coffee logo.) (If anyone asks, say it’s a tattoo you got in the 80’s while in prison.) (After a certain age people stop talking about you, so it’s imperative to devise new and interesting ways to keep yourself an object of gossip.)
4. Take the cardboard thingy off the pie. (I’m certain it has a name, but who cares?) Cut off the front section.
5. Fold it a few times.
6. Apply it to the back of your injured thumb.
7. Place some gauze on top of the wound.
8. Wrap tape around the whole caboodle.
9. Enjoy your new hokey—yet still impressive—bandage and the attention you’ll receive for another week until you go to get the stitches out and the doctor asks what the hell…?
10. Eat one Cyrus O’Leary’s Chocolate Cream Pie a day until you’re completely healed.
After I’m finished with this pie, I’m out the door to buy another!
Bye Bye Bank of America Pie
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.
World’s End Rowing Club & Dock Services
Lucy & I had so much fun wandering around this area of Noyo Harbor that I have to share more pictures.
Dusty Dillion, our entertaining tour guide.
These brave hearts known as the Women’s Rowing Club head out to sea.
Noyo Harbor Treasure
A few weeks ago, I took an informal tour of the Grey Whale Inn. Later, out of curiosity, I went to TripAdvisor.com to read guest reviews. While the vast majority are positive, one review stated, “Stayed there last minute as we were passing though the awfull (sic) place that is fort bragg (sic), the hotel is a old hospital built 1919 with ghosts whom must have been cleaners the place needs a good scrub….”
I feel sorry for this person. (Not really—I only say that because it sounds more mature than revealing my true desire to punch him in the face.) If he had worried about getting stuck in “awfull” Fort Bragg, he should have stayed in Willits (which is actually spelled with two “l’s”).
For the most part, Fort Bragg is funky and we’re proud of that. According to the online Merriam-Webster Dictionary, one definition of funky is “odd or quaint in appearance or feeling.” Awful is defined as “extremely bad or unpleasant” or “the person who wrote that grammatically-incorrect, nasty review of the Grey Whale Inn.”
One of the areas that best illustrates Fort Bragg’s funkiness is Noyo Harbor. It is a working harbor where commercial boats land fish to be processed. It’s also home to restaurants offering good food and magnificent views. At the far south end is Sportsman’s Dock where people can board charter boats to cruise the Pacific Ocean and watch whales or catch fish.
I’ve been to the restaurant at Sportsman’s Dock many times, but have rarely spent time wandering around the area. The dock was built in the fifties by Richard Lucas (father of my friend MW) and his cousin Ray Welch to provide a recreational spot for sports fishermen.
On a recent sunny afternoon, Lucy and I decided to go on an explore.
Gary: “Where are you going?” Me: “Sportsman’s Dock.” Gary: “Why?” Me: “A voice inside my head commands me to go.” Gary: “Have fun.”
As I snapped pictures and Lucy sniffed seagull poop, a couple pulled into the parking lot and got out of their truck. The man shouted, “How much you want for that dog?”
“A million dollars.”
After exchanging some banter and Lucy petting, he introduced himself as Dusty. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never met a Dusty I didn’t like. This one was no exception. He graciously took Lucy and me on a tour of the World’s End Rowing Club and Dock Services. He talked about the Lost Coast Chapter of the Traditional Small Craft Association and led us behind the scenes where the boats are built.
We went to a fenced-off dock where he encouraged me to let Lucy off leash. I was being overprotective, worried about her wiggling through the slats in the fence (she is, after all, a blog celebrity). He said, “She won’t jump into the water. She isn’t stupid.”
I hate to disappoint Lucy fans, but she sometimes does very stupid things (like trying to catch bumble bees). I made a quick assessment as to who would dive the 30 feet into the water to rescue her and determined it would be me.
She stayed on the leash.
I encourage everyone to take some time and stroll around Sportsman’s Dock. That is, everyone but the aforementioned TripAdvisor.com critic. I wouldn’t want him to write something “awfull” about it. The rest of you will find it delightful. I promise it will make you happy.
Grey Whale Inn
Photo from Grey Whale Inn website
On a recent visit to Fort Bragg, our son Harrison and his girlfriend Kasi recounted a television show called “The Haunting Of” which once featured the Grey Whale Inn. According to them, a psychic entered the inn and said she sensed that it had once been a hospital.
Wow. She probably hadn’t read the About page of the website which states, “The Grey Whale Inn started life in 1915 as the Fort Bragg Hospital.”
The psychic also declared the resident cat to be possessed by a demonic spirit.
For a true encounter with the demonic, I invite the psychic to visit our house and meet our cat Little Mister.
Harrison, Kasi and I dropped by the inn to see what vibes we might pick up.
The local artist who makes these gets to keep the proceeds.
The cat’s name is Sweet Pea. As her name suggests, she is very sweet. Guests find her so appealing that many take home a ceramic magnet to commemorate the time spent with her.
Photo from Grey Whale Inn website
I had toured the inn before, but delighted in seeing it again. It has four stories (counting the basement and the Sunset Room set on top like a penthouse suite). Each room is decorated in an eclectic-country style. Though nicely appointed, the basement feels kind of spooky (but I’ve always been spooked by basements).
After we’d combed the place top to bottom, we ran into Mike, the proprietor.
Mike has owned the Inn since 2000. During that time, he’s renovated the grounds by replacing the lawn with drought-resistant plants. A vegetable garden is harvested for use in the breakfasts he prepares for guests. He gave us a brief history of the hospital—how it was founded in 1915 by Dr. F. McLean Campbell, purchased by Dr. Paul J. Bowman in 1923, and sold to Dr. Mervyn Hamlin, another local physician, in 1966.
During the early 2000’s, I took my dogs Wilson and Tucker for runs in the nearby cemetery. We often encountered the retired Dr. Hamlin in the late afternoons. He always had a biscuit for the dogs and walked with us until he veered off to visit the graves of his wife and son.
He told stories of attending Stanford during the Depression. His tuition was $100 a quarter and he struggled to come up with it. Work in the food service department on campus helped support him. He made his way through medical school and to Fort Bragg where he practiced for many years.
Photo taken by Dr. Hamlin of the dogs & me.
The dogs and I missed him after he had a stroke and could no longer take walks. An online reaction to his death in 2009 states: “Medical practice in Fort Bragg has never been the same since this great man retired. One of my favorite memories of him was as he passed our house on McPherson St., he commented that we should not have our underclothing hanging out on our line to dry.”
The original nurses’ dormitory across the street is now an apartment building.
Mike shrugged off the ghostly findings of “The Haunting Of.” He hasn’t had a supernatural encounter in the 14 years that he’s owned the place.
To hear what others might have to say about spirits rattling about the inn, I went to TripAdvisor.com. I discovered a review written on July 24, 2013 by a teenager named Carl S. from Toronto, Canada titled, “An Odd Experience.” By way of introduction, he states: “I like to think that my family and I are very rational people and we haven’t been able to explain these situations in any natural way.”
Carl describes a distressing night of television malfunction, midnight organ music, and a mysterious caress of his brother’s butt while going to the bathroom. (Click here to read the entire review.)
Haunted or not, the Grey Whale Inn is a charming place to stay when visiting Fort Bragg. It reflects the unique flavor of our town—a dear combination of funky and pretty.
Photo from Grey Whale Inn website
Another Purity Tour
For those of you who live here and have never shopped at The Purity, shame on you. You need try it once, you really do.
When you walk into the store, head to the right. Lift your gaze. You are now officially welcomed to The Purity.
The welcome sign happens to be above my favorite section of the store—the place where the Cyrus O’Leary’s cream pies are displayed. Buy one. Do not read the nutrition label. Eat it. Go bonkers with delight.
Also toward the back of the store is The Beer Corner! I don’t know of any other store that has such a special place to gather between 8-8:15am with those who ran out of supplies overnight and again between the hours of 4-6:00pm with those who need to refresh their inventory.
Think all they have is chocolate cream pies, beer and Taaka Vodka? Think again. They also have ice!
You can even buy a cup of coffee. I must confess I’ve never tried it, but it’s at The Purity so it has to be good.
For extra fun, venture to The Purity after dark. It’s sometimes my favorite time to shop because it’s so mysteriously beautiful and I can sneak in and buy a chocolate cream pie while wearing my pajamas.
The Purity is open until 8:00 every night; 7:00 on Sunday.
Go now. Buy something yummy. I guarantee it’ll make you happy.
Jogging
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
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.
Bucket List
Now that the light is slowly returning to the northern hemisphere, I’m able to keep my eyes open for longer periods each day. One of the first things I’ve noticed is the appalling condition of our yard. This is due to long-term neglect, but I prefer to blame it on lack of rain and the demolition efforts of Lucy-puppy. Since I don’t enjoy gardening, I hunker down in my office and entertain myself with things I do enjoy—like updating my Bucket List.
It’s important when writing a Bucket List to include only those items that are within the realm of possibility. For example, don’t write that you want to die with dignity. Only three people will ever accomplish that, and you and I aren’t one of them. This goes along with wanting to avoid dementia or becoming a burden to your kids. Let’s face it, our kids already think we have dementia, and we are a burden to them.
Over time, your Bucket List will change. As you check off what you’ve accomplished, you’ll discover new things. For example, a few years ago my Bucket List looked like this:
Visit Washington DC.
Visit Boston.
Enter a quilt in the Fort Bragg Quilt Show.
Participate in a flash mob.
Participate in a triathlon (actually, this was not on my list, but on that of my friend Kathleen who forced me into the torture of helping her realize it).
Start a blog.
I have since visited Washington DC and Boston.
I didn’t even know I had the desire to enter a quilt in the Fort Bragg Quilt Show until I made two quilts that weren’t horrible and received compliments from long-time quilters. They assured me I wouldn’t be humiliated—so I entered. I didn’t win a prize, but let go of my grudge against the judges after only a few months.
I organized and participated in a flash mob.
I lived through the triathlon (although while training I sometimes wished for death—with or without dignity—so I could get out of it).
I started a blog.
The items currently on my list:
Get a license to carry a concealed weapon. (Upon hearing this, my husband hid the guns and ammo.)
Find the guns and ammo.
Be a juror on a murder trial.
Get appointed to the Mendocino County Grand Jury (because I am terribly nosey want to be of public service).
Train Lucy to become Fort Bragg’s first bomb-sniffing dog.
Some consider my current Bucket List to be dark and bordering on violent. They may be right. Perhaps the list is reflective of how I subconsciously feel about the approach of another birthday—one that will propel me into a new decade.
I tend to get this way—dark and violent—whenever the second digit of my birthday is a 9. Once the number officially becomes a 0, I settle down and stop threatening to hurt people. By the end of this month, my Bucket List might look a whole lot different than it does today.
***
So tell me, what’s on your Bucket List?
It Happened at Purity 