Twenty Mule Team Powdered Cleanser

My lovely wife and I recently went on a rather quick, 450 mile road trip from our locale here in the Northern Sierra Nevada Foothills down the back spine of California on Hwy 395.  Final destination: Dante's View, in Death Valley, CA.

You see, one of my cousins left this earthly dimension quite unexpectedly last summer.  Yeah, he went to the hospital with abdominal pain and was gone within a week.  Poof.

I guess he won't be coming to our house for dinner anymore.

He was assaulted by a very aggressive form of pancreatic cancer, leaving his family and many friends more than just a little surrealistically bewildered.  This was a very funny, intelligent and caring man, he was cherished and is missed by many.  His memorial was last October in Oakland, CA, and one of his last wishes was to have his ashes scattered at Dante's View.  Dante's View is at the peak of the Black Mountains and it is considered one of the great photographic and scenic locations in Death Valley.  It was a place he knew and loved, a place with incredible, sweeping views in all directions.

Although quite bitter sweet, it was great to see that side of the family again.  I hadn't seen his widow in several years.  I hadn't seen his three children in several decades, they live out in Michigan and Minnesota.  And I met his grandchildren; young, intelligent, and aspiring.  His influence can be felt and seen within the subsequent generations.  Yeah, his spirit lives on.

It was good to see his brother and sister (and spouses), my only two remaining blood cousins.  Hadn't seen them for about four years.  Ahem.  They only live about forty miles from here, and we had to hook in the middle of the desert, over 450 miles away?  What the?  We all made a pact to see each other more often.  Period.

As to his children, I discovered I must enlighten them as to part of their Norwegian heritage, Lefsa.  It was one of my cousin's favorite edible treats and a family tradition that is definitely necessary to pass along to his kids.

It was a good occasion, we sent him off with love and peace.  I knew it would be good that morning when I woke up and watched the moon set over Mt. Whitney from our motel window.  It was an awesome wink good-bye.

Those are the neon lights of the Dow Villa Motel, in Lone Pine, CA, in the foreground.

The little town of Lone Pine is the gateway to both Mt. Whitney-the tallest mountain in the contiguous United States at 14,497 feet-and Death Valley National Park, with the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere at 282 feet below sea level.  I bet that valley would fill up really fast if a tsunami the size of, say, Milwaukee hit the California coast and pushed inward.  Now that I think about it, the tsunami would probably have to be taller than Milwaukee for this event to happen.  How tall is Milwaukee, anyway? 

Lone Pine is also home to the Alabama Hills, whose unique granite boulders and rock formations have been a backdrop for many Hollywood movies, "standing in" for locations all over the world.

I read on Trip Advisor a number of old actors had stayed at the Dow Villa, so I had an idea a few movies had been filmed around there.  The Dow Villa was built by some guy named Dow back in the 1920's when he noticed a lot of Hollywood was coming to the area.  Scouts, agents, then casts and crews.  Dow built the first accommodations in Lone Pine to serve the burgeoning clientele and industry.

Folks like John Wayne, Roy Rogers, Gene Autrey, Humphrey Bogart and Clint Eastwood have graced the old hotels halls.  At least that's what I read.  We didn't make any reservations though since I wanted to leave our final destination open.  When we arrived in town we drove by the Dow, which looked nice enough, but then we proceeded south to check out all the remaining one motel.

On the way we noticed a film museum and thought it would be great to visit, but we figured there wasn't enough time.  We drove another mile south to the junction with Hwy 136, the route we'd be taking the next morning.  Then we returned, stopping at the very clean cut looking Best Western Lone Pine.  Since there were only a few vehicles in the parking lot, and since it was only 4:00 PM, we figured the "No vacancy" sign in the office window was wrong.  We politely waited while the only person behind the counter talked on the phone for a few minutes.

Kind of like the gal behind the rental car counter who encountered a rather hostile Steve Martin in "Planes, Trains and Automobiles."  Gobble, Gobble.  Only it wasn't Thanksgiving and she was speaking in Spanish.  After she finally got off the phone we discovered there truly was no vacancy.  In English. What the?

We went back to the Dow, quickly, and fortunately we found they had three rooms left.  One in the newer motel and two in the old hotel.  We opted for a room in the expanded motel section rather than stay in the historic hotel because the motel had wifi.  The old hotel did not.  Imagine that.

As we were checking in, we inquired as to "just what the hell was going on in Lone Pine, CA, on March 6th, 2015?"  For crying out loud.

And then we were informed by the desk clerk, as well as the two outdoorsy looking guys that came in after us, that there was a rather famous Trout Derby being held the following day.

OK, so, besides a few movies having been made in the area apparently there were some trout.  Enough trout to sell out all seven of Lone Pine's motels in early March of every year, and enough trout in the area to maintain three very well stocked fishing tackle shops in a town with a population of 2,000.  The Eastern Sierra is, apparently, an angler's fresh water mecca.  It's famous even.  But then you'd have to be a pretty avid angler to know it's famous.  Besides regular type Rainbow and Brook trout, anglers also vie for the coveted Alpers Trout, which won last year's derby with a weight of over 4 1/2 pounds!  For one trout.

What is an Alpers Trout?  Well, first of all, it's NOT a Herb Alpert trout.  It's not going to play any brass musical instruments for you.  So just get that out of your mind.  Basically, an Alpers trout is a hybrid Rainbow, hand-fed and raised in the pure streams and ponds of Alpers Owens River Ranch.  Alpers trout are named after the man who invented them and they are exclusive to the Eastern Sierra. They average 2 to 3 pounds but can weigh as much as 12.  Pounds.  That's getting to be a big fish.  They are prized fresh water trophies sought by anglers everywhere.  But then you'd have to be a pretty avid angler to even know they exist.

So, like, I wanna know what Tim Alpers is feeding these fish besides anabolic steroids.  Fruity Pebbles?

Once we had a brief Derby description, we got our bags in the room, a glass of wine in my lovely wife and then we flew the half mile to the Lone Pine Film History Museum.  It was 4:15PM.  They closed at 5.  Whew.

Let me start by saying, "We. Had. No. I. Dea."

Over 400 movies have been filmed in and around the Lone Pine area.  Naturally there were many old time Westerns, including TV's Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers and Gene Autry.

But then, as we wandered, I began a dialogue with really no one in particular, "No kidding.  Really?  Unbelievable.  This is amazing.  Holy cow.  No fucking shit."  And so on.  And so forth.

Parts of "Tycoon", "High Sierra", "Joe Kidd", and more recently "Django Unchained" and "Iron Man" were filmed there.  Almost all of "Gunga Din".  Oh yeah, parts of a couple "Star Wars" movies too.  Story has it George Lucas was a few Ewoks shy of a full scene one day so he called the Lone Pine Elementary School.  A half dozen first graders became stars that day.  You can't see their faces, but they were there in hood and robe.  Got out of school, made $25 bucks each and got a free lunch.  And are part of a major fun trivia story forever.

The associate director of the museum overheard my lovely wife and I discussing one of the exhibits, some conversation ensued and we soon got a wonderful background glimpse into the museum.  If you're a film buff, this is a must see proposition.  And you've probably never heard of it.  The hundreds of movie posters alone are worth millions.  Costumes, cars, saddles, boots and infinite memorabilia.  It was a hoot.

Our new friend, the associate director, then gave us a map to the Alabama Hills, a fabulously weird area of unique boulders and rock outcroppings.  Oh, did I mention parts of this backdrop have been other-planetary in more than one of the Star Trek movies?

We drove the couple miles west of town to Movie Road, the main route into scenes-ville, but since the road turned to dirt and it was getting dark we ventured no further.  Besides, it was dinner time. 

The Dow Villa is on the edge of the four block main strip of the town that is Lone Pine.  We parked the car in the now full of mostly 4WD pick-ups parking lot and decided to walk to dinner.  We checked in at the front desk for recommendations, and the nice young man mentioned Seasons, Lone Pine's lone higher end restaurant.  Our new friend at the museum also recommended Seasons, so it was unanimous.  

I ordered the special, which was a perfectly grilled New York Steak.  My lovely wife, always the adventurous eater, ordered the elf.  No way, hey, that's a typo.  Who the heck serves ELF for dinner?  And where the heck would they find an edible elf, anyway?  She had ELK, based on our motel clerk's recommendation, and there's plenty of them in them thar hills.  There were even signs along the highway, Watch Out For Elk, they may be your next dinner.  Or something like that.

Actually, I recently learned, just before going to press, that wild game cannot be commercially served.  On a plate anyway.  I learned this from an uncle of my lovely wife who happens to be an avid hunter.  So she partook of a ranch raised elk, probably grown somewhere nearby. And now we know she wasn't eating epicurian road kill.

We strolled back to the old hotel after dinner, and there, in the lobby looked at all the pictures of the Duke, Clint, Bogey, Barry Manilow and others gracing the walls.  I guess they really had graced the Dow Villa's halls back in their day.   It certainly wasn't the Fairmont, or Beverly Wilshire, but it I'll bet it was an oasis to the acting elite back in the day in that inhospitable environment.

After thanking the desk clerk for his fine dinner recommendation, we turned in for the evening.  The next day we spent traversing Death Valley, visiting with family and enjoying the views and vistas as much as we dared.   With everyone shooting off in different directions, the affair split up around 3:00 in the afternoon.  Many were returning to Vegas, where they flew in, about 120 miles away.  One couple was staying in Furnace Creek, and one family, from Minnesota, was off to Disneyland.  After enduring a ridiculously active cold winter in Minnesota I would imagine a couple extra days in California were a great diversion. 

We returned through the spectacular Death Valley the same way we came, only this time we wanted to make it to Bishop, another 60 miles or so north of Lone Pine.  That way the last day of our drive would be a wee bit shorter.  And maybe allow us enough time to visit Bodie, the best preserved ghost town in the west! 

By the way, if you do cruise down Death Valley way it would be prudent to have a full tank of fuel heading in.  There is gas available, but at over $6.00 per gallon it was almost twice what it was in Lone Pine.  If you're just cruising through, bring a lunch.  Rumor has it a turkey sandwich at the Furnace Creek Inn is over $30.  For that price you can get elk in Lone Pine.

Also, if you plan on spending the night at any time on your scenic 395 byway journey, Lone Pine and Bishop are really the only towns I would consider staying in.  The others look, well, Bates Motel scary.

That's a town above.  Population 14.  Either Coleville or Walker.  Actually, Walker amazingly has a population of 782.  Coleville has a population of 495.  I mean, besides ranching and making meth, what on earth would possess an individual to live in the middle of nowhere?  And I mean, NOWHERE.

Granted, isolation is necessary for some individuals, the really eccentric ones, like me.  But I mean, you can be isolated and still live within a few miles of some form of civilization.

Economics?  My mom had no money and managed to get by in a mobile home park in San Diego.  There were a number of small mobile home parks scattered along the scenic byway, but how cheap can it be to live there if you have to drive 50 miles one way for a quart of beer?  And trust me, you'd have to drink a lot of alcohol if you lived out there.

I found the towns socially fascinating and the scenery utterly spectacular all along Highway 395, or the Eastern Sierra Scenic Byway.  The last time I drove that route was around four decades ago, when it was just a two lane highway all the way from here to there.  Most of it now is four lanes, except when you come into towns, and both directions are separated by a wide median much of the time.
 

By the way, the CHP, or California Highway Patrol, was very active all three days we were on the road.  It was of no concern to me, we had planned well and weren't in a rush.  Cruise control at 65 and enjoy the ride!

From here in Grass Valley we found our way to North Shore Lake Tahoe.  From the east shore of the lake we hopped on over Highway 50 East and picked up 395 South in Carson City, Nevada.  It was about a 15 mile slog through fairly heavy traffic until we got through the bedroom communities of Gardnerville and Minden before we finally broke free.  Twenty-one miles later we passed through the vegetation station and we were back in California again.

Forty some miles more, passing through the just plain why the fuck are you living here? towns of Topaz, Coleville and Walker, we arrived at Bridgeport.  We found a place off the highway by an old, historic marker commemorating an old, historic courthouse to stop and eat our brought along lunch.  Left over pizza and an apple.  Yum.

I think Bridgeport had a motel.  And a gas station.  Maybe an old country store.  I mean, these folks are miles from a gallon of milk. 

About twenty miles south of Bridgeport the road turned into four lanes.  Prior to that, it had been two lanes.  However, both directions were well equipped with well spaced passing lanes.  If you didn't want to take advantage of the many dotted line passing opportunities you wouldn't have to shadow a semi too long before a passing lane came along. 

We soon came upon Mono Lake and discovered there was a lot more water in it than there was forty years ago.  Back then there were a lot of stalagmites. Or stalactites.  You know, those weirdly shaped spires jutting up from the ground, or those death spires hanging from the ceiling.  There was actually water in the lake and relatively few whatever they are jutting up.

At the lake's visitor's center we learned an agreement with the Southern California water thieves and the Mono Lake folks had been reached.  The thieves are taking less water.  Mono Lake will never return to its original state, but through the compromise it is slowly regaining some of its luster.

Dotted all along the route were residential domiciles.  From your essential Cousin Eddie three wheel single wide decaying shanty to very fine Cartwright Bonanza ranch style homes, they were prevalent everywhere.

On the other side of the highway from Mono lake is the back door to Yosemite, Highway 120, which is usually closed in winter, which it was.  We had actually been toying with returning that way.

As you might imagine, the western views from the highway were almost magical.

As we proceeded south it began to look like a haven for beef ranchers.  Or elk ranchers.  Herds dotted the panoramic valley with the stark eastern mountains looming in the background.  We then started into the Owens River Valley, which actually looks like it, too, has recovered some from its darkest, man made water thieves drought stricken days.  By the way, if you are not familiar with SoCal's infamous water grab in the earlier part of the last century, here's a little bit of information:

"The California Water Wars were a series of conflicts between the city of Los Angeles and farmers and ranchers in the Owens Valley of Eastern California. As Los Angeles grew in the late 1800s, it started to outgrow its water supply. Fred Eaton, mayor of Los Angeles, realized that water could flow from Owens Valley to Los Angeles via an aqueduct. The aqueduct construction was overseen by William Mulholland and was finished in 1913. The water rights were acquired through political fighting and, as described by one author, "chicanery, subterfuge ... and a strategy of lies.

By the 1920s, so much water was diverted from the Owens Valley that agriculture became difficult. This led to the farmers trying to destroy the aqueduct in 1924. Los Angeles prevailed and kept the water flowing. By 1926, Owens Lake at the bottom of Owens Valley, was completely dry due to water diversion.

The water needs of Los Angeles kept growing. In 1941, Los Angeles diverted water that previously fed Mono Lake, north of Owens Valley, into the aqueduct. Mono Lake's ecosystem for migrating birds was threatened by dropping water levels. Between 1979 and 1994, David Gaines and the Mono Lake Committee engaged in litigation with Los Angeles. The litigation forced Los Angeles to stop diverting water from around Mono Lake, which has started to rise back to a level that can support its ecosystem.

In 1991, Inyo County and the city of Los Angeles signed the Inyo-Los Angeles Long Term Water Agreement, which required that groundwater pumping be managed to avoid significant impacts while providing a reliable water supply for Los Angeles. In 1997, Inyo County, Los Angeles, the Owens Valley Committee, the Sierra Club, and other concerned parties signed a Memorandum of Understanding that specified terms by which the lower Owens River would be re-watered by June 2003 as partial mitigation for damage to the Owens Valley."

Ever see the movie "Chinatown?"

Hint: It has nothing to do with China.

The further south we went in the Owens Valley the more it seemed like I had seen some of the country before.  I felt like Julie Andrews could approach from the west, which looked like the Alps, at any time, lilting a lovely tune. 

From the East, a starker and darker mountain scene, I felt like Rory Calhoun or a band of Apaches could swoop on in on horseback at any time.  Then it would be time to circle the car.  Or turn the car in circles. Whichever would have been appropriate.  When we got into the film museum I discovered why parts of the journey seemed so deja vu.  I had sub-consciously seen the background scenes we were driving past a hundred times.  Or more.

Death Valley, too, was truly remarkable.  There were incredible vistas from every foot of the drive in on Hwy 136.   I would like to have spent another day or two in the area, but, alas, time prevailed.  At least the main event, the reason we all assembled from all over the country, was accomplished with humor and grace.  Much like the man we were commemorating.

We got into Bishop about dusk, or 6:00 PM, whichever is greater.  There were infinitely more motels in Bishop then there were in Lone Pine.  OK, at least five more.  We ended up staying at the Best Western Bishop Lodge.  Both motels we stayed in, by the way, were comfortable, CLEAN establishments.

The town of Bishop is on the back side of Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks.  As a matter of fact, Highway 168 heading west out of Bishop is the only eastern approach available by car towards the park.  Highway 168 was also the road our dinner destination lay on, the Bishop Burger Barn.

Referred to the place by our ever loving daughter, a burger queen, we found the ambiance to be, well, downright funky.  Totally our kind of place.

The drive up and walk up window are the same and all seating is outdoors.  It made for a coolish evening dining experience, but we brought out a blanket from the car which helped immensely.  The burger was great, as were the onion rings and fries.  Highly recommend it if you're passing through.  And like burgers.

The drive out was a little disconcerting until we actually got there.  The Burger Barn is a couple miles off Hwy 395, the beaten track.  I thought most all the commercial whatever establishments would have been on or close to the main drag.  We made a right at the light per the desk clerk's instructions and headed out into the darkness, away from the bright lights of downtown.  I was beginning to think the kinda weird young desk clerk with no future in Bishop was leading us out into the wilderness where a crony would steal our hub caps.  Yeah, a mail order hub cap business maybe could fly in Bishop.  Other than that you're ranching or making meth.  Or checking people in at midnight. 

Bishop holds the formidable distinction of being "The Mule Capital of the World" and actually holds an annual week long festival celebrating pack mules.  Other than that, the main draw of Bishop, population 3,879, has to be for the outdoorsy experience type people.  There are a lot of motels for a town that otherwise really doesn't have much of a draw itself.  Besides fishing, and mules, apparently there are a lot of rock climbers in the area too.  Or at least that inhabit the Burger Barn.  The guy in front of us ordering was a climber.  Or so he was saying.  The two guys at the table next to us were climbers too.  Or so they were saying.  And then I read some promo literature when we got back to the motel.  It's a climber's mecca.

The next day we hit the road after a fairly decent motel breakfast.  You know, waffles, sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs, muffins, fruit, juice, all that.  I had coffee.  I can't eat breakfast.  I'm still digesting dinner.

The drive north was just as spectacular as the drive south, only the Sierras were on the left instead of the right.  And Mono Lake was on the right instead of the left.  Stuff like that.  Just north of Mono Lake, on the east side of the highway, lies Bodie, an original gold mining "ghost" town from the late 1800's, frozen in time.

The road to Bodie can also be closed in winter, but we were happy to find it was open.  No snow.  We passed the open gate on a finely paved road and imagined how it would have been to traverse the rough and rocky terrain on a horse, or stagecoach.  We also tried to imagine what the hell William Bodie was doing in the MIDDLE OF FUCKING NO WHERE to eventually discover gold and draw ten thousand more seekers to no where land.  And I mean NO WHERE.  There's not even a lamp post.  Or an elevator.

Ten miles in we gave up the ghost, so to speak.  The road turned to dirt the last three miles.  We were in our touring car, which does not do dirt.  Not three miles of it.  That's my car, it was at home.  So, keep this in mind.  If you want to go see Bodie do it in your truck.  Or a nice rental car that you feel comfortable destroying.

We tucked our head between our tail and headed home.  A continued nice drive through our lovely back yard high mountain terrain, past Lake Tahoe and back to reality.  Which is nice to leave every once in a while.

If you live out here in California or Nevada, The Eastern Sierra Scenic Byway is a drive you really don't want to miss.  I was totally unaware.  It is amazing. It is inspiring.

If you're an angler there's another reason to go.  You need an Alpers Trout above your mantle.

If you're a film buff you need to go.  You need to visit the Lone Pine Film Museum and the Alabama Hills.  You'll appreciate it more if you're over fifty, by the way.  Sixty even more.  The Hopalong Cassidy exhibit is epic.  Anyone under thirty ever hear of ol' Hoppy?

If you simply love unbelievably glorious, majestic scenery, it's a fabulous jaunt and contains all the elements for an excellent road trip.  If you're on a budget, campgrounds abound.

My cousin could not have chosen a more magnificent location for his send off, and the adventurous journey to and fro was an unexpected, exemplary treat.  Thanks for the gift Cuz, who knows if we ever would have made that drive without your final wish.  Happy trails, we'll catch up with ya 'round the next bend.

Gettin Old

The other day a couple of months or so ago I was out with the boys.  Out with the boys?  My son and son-in-law, plus my grandson.   A few decades ago out with the boys would have meant I was running errands with a few of my homeys, no doubt misbehaving and exploring the limits of alcohol and other ethereal substance consumption.  There are glorious, hallowed stories that could fill a shelf.  I almost remember some of them. 

All us fellas were out picking up a wood dining set my son had purchased on Craig's List.   It was around the holidays and I think we needed to get out of the house and do some guy stuff.  Like flex our muscles and pick up some furniture.  Eat beef jerky and tell third grade jokes.  You know, guy stuff.

My son went in the house and did the deal while the other three of us waited respectfully outside.  After the money exchanged hands it was time to get the oak set into my son's truck.  A little bit of this and a little bit of that and the table and six chairs were almost in the back of his truck and tied down.  Around this time the former table owner came out of his house to inspect our handy work.

Some chit chat ensued and then the former table owner inquired, "Is this set for the older gentleman?" referring to me.

WTF?

Granted, I hadn't said much.  I had carried out a chair or two, but I left the heavy stuff to the younger generation.  At 60 I've earned that right.  I've moved a lot of stuff.  Heavy stuff too.

My hair isn't totally grey.  It's salt and pepper, a little more salt than pepper, but it's still got some pepper.  I'm in pretty decent shape.  I can do a sit-up.  And a push up.  I can still converse.  I'm reasonably articulate.  I wasn't drooling.  I can still answer a direct question and do not need to be referred to in the third person.  Yet. 

WTF.

I'm a San Francisco Giants baseball fan.  I have been since 1962.  I'm also a Grateful Dead fan.  Have been since, uh, well, I can't rightly remember.  It's quite possible I was stoned the first time I saw them.  What decade was that, anyway?

When a T-Shirt appeared combining these two wonderful by lines of my life it was a natural fit for me.

So I was wearing my T-shirt a couple summers ago when a guy I would put in his mid-40's happened upon me in a grocery store.

"Wow, great shirt," he said, nodding in affirmation and pointing at me, "I was there.  I was there too."

"Like what, when you were two?" I was thinking.

He was getting excited, you know, like maybe he was having a flashback or something.  And then he turned, calling to his son, "Hey, Jimmie, come here.  Check out this old timer's shirt."

What The Fuck.

I will turn 61 later this year.  I sure don't feel like I'm going to be 61, at least mentally.  I'm locked in somewhere in my early 30's, and when I see folks with grey hair I think they are old.  Then I look in the mirror.  I see way graying hair and I see my father's neck when he was gettin old.  Damn.  What the hell happened?

My poor, old, tired, used and abused body, that certainly feels much older than the early 30's.  Of course, when my appendix burst last October, that also knocked the wind out of me.  I'm still not quite up to 100%.  I keep on thinking I am, then I really push and my body says nope.  Stop.  Cut it out.  I'm still within my three to six month recovery window, so hopefully I'll grow out of it.  If not, then, I guess I will have to accept that little slice for life permanently slowed my roll a bit. 

Sigh.

How do I feel about gettin old?  Melancholy mostly.  Now that I'm on the downhill side of things it means there's less time to laugh and love here on the planet.  And I so don't want to leave my children and grandchildren with a heartache, which I know I'm bound to do.  Sorry gang.  

They make pills for boners now.  I'm hoping somebody develops a pill soon for that other type of longevity savored by man, you know, life.

On the positive side, I had a vision that I am going to peak at eighty, so I got that going for me.  And them.  Some folks peak in high school, I'm gonna peak when I'm a real dirty old man.  Plus I just figured out what it is I'm supposed to be doing with my life, I should be allowed to do that for a little while.   

Actually, I never thought I'd live past forty.  See "Late Night Letters to the Moon".  There were at least three times I should have bought the farm before that tender young age, but somehow I survived.  Lucky me.  Lucky you.  If I wasn't here, how the heck could you possibly be so mindlessly entertained at this particular juncture in time?

I'm not afraid of "death" either.  I've already danced in the bright white lights, it was ecstatic.  Or maybe that was the acid.  Whatever.  However I got to where ever I was I found it to be profoundly limitless.  And unbelievably euphoric.  There's more than a few dimensions out there, enough room for a wastrel like me to bump, grind and shine for eternity.  Probably enough room for you too.  We'll surely get down when the time is right.  

You know, there's not a whole heck of a lot of stuff I urgently want or need to do, no bucket list per say.  I am happy to be here, on this planet, breathing.  I want to be here with my family and friends, to share in their stories and further exploits.  Don't need to climb a mountain.  Don't need to jump out of a plane.  I wouldn't mind a little more travel, it's a pretty big planet.  See and experience a few more worldly treasures.  There's eternity for the rest of the universe.

I like to witness my lovely wife when her face lights up looking at a work of art in a museum.  That makes my heart sing.  The laughter of my kids, my grand kids.  That'll make my heart sing.  A great tune will always make me think that this is More Than Just a Dream.

Snow capped vistas, high mountain meadows, cool, clear meandering streams.  The piercing cry of a hawk on the wing.  The melodic tune of the Canadian Geese as they traverse their ancient course on high.  A pristine sunset.  Or sunrise.  The purr of a cat, the wag of a dog. The clean, fresh smell of the earth after a rain.  Cookies.  These are a few of my raindrops on roses.

I first kinda knew I was getting old back in my early forties.  It was another place in time, around the corner, up the bend.  It was around the holidays, I was out on our acreage looking for mistletoe.  The twenty acres we lived on was scattered with oak, many of which also harbored that parasite, mistletoe.  I found one with a huge patch that looked accessible and began my ascent.

I have climbed a lot of trees in my time.  That's one of the best things ever for a young boy to do.  I'm not that afraid of heights and my target was probably only twenty five feet in the air.  But as soon as I got myself contorted into the initial bowel of the lowest branches, I found I could not un-contort in a plausible fashion as to further my ascent.  I was able to descend, fortunately, which I did.  It's called jumping.  Four feet on to soft dirt.  Then I went back to the house to get the .22 rifle.  Upon my return to the tree, I banged off a half dozen shots where mistletoe met oak.  The mistletoe fell, defeated, and I ended up with a wheel barrow full of the stuff.  So, you know, now I can add "Mr. Mistletoe Hunter" to my resume.

There was a time in my life when I was actually trying to look older.  That would have been back in the high school era trying to score beer.  Somewhere along the line I found an old dress suit, probably at the Good Will or Salvation Army.  I had also scored a greying fake mustache at a costume shop.  Sporting that stash with the old, ill-fitting suit and tie, and further emboldened by some of my mother's talcum powder splashed on hair and sideburns, a few of us tried the ruse.  I don't think it ever worked once.

A funny, underage, youthful scoring story:  One of my best buddies and I were waiting in line overnight for some George Harrison tickets.  Ya, this was in the days before the internet.  Jobs, Woz and Gates were still tinkering in their garages.  For really big shows, sometimes it was necessary to wait in line overnight at the ticket outlet to ensure tickets.

We, of course, brought some beer.  But silly us, we probably thought at some point we might actually put our bodies into our sleeping bags and close our eyes.  Nope.  This was becoming an all nighter.  So somewhere around 3:00 AM Miguel and I went off in his jalopy in search of some hops.  We found a 24 hour convenience store, went in and tossed a couple six packs on the counter.  $1.29 each.  The checker, a recent transplant from New York, rang us up.  We paid and were on our way.  Sort of.

We walked out and jumped in his car.  Mind you, we were both decently buzzed with at least a six pack, if not more, each, under our belts.  As soon as we sat down in his car there came a knock knock knock on my passenger window.  Probably on his too.  I looked over and saw the cop's badge.  What the?  Where'd they come from?  There was one of them at each door and they ever so politely ushered us out of the car.

"What's in the bag, boys?" one of them asked, taking the bag out of my hands.

"Uh, beer?" I think maybe I might have said.

"Let's go back in the store and sort this out," one of them said.

So back in we went.  New York was dismayed.  Being a recent transplant he wasn't used to California law which forbade commercial alcohol sales from 2:00 to 6:00 AM every morning.  And that seemed to be the only thing on the cops docket that morning.

We laughed and joked with them as they ran New York through the ringer.  My friend Miguel asking at one point, "Hey, are those bullets real?"

The final upshot of the entire deal was that the store was in trouble for selling alcohol during the forbidden hours.  The cops NEVER looked at our IDs.  Otherwise they would have known we were both under 21.  New York even asked us that, off the cuff, during the procedure.  We lied and said of course we were of age.

The cops didn't give us a drunk test either.  We were, apparently, funny golden boys.  We weren't allowed to take our ill purchased beer with us, so we lost a couple bucks there.  But considering what could have transpired I think we were pretty damn lucky.  We certainly would have lost our place in line, that's for sure. Fortunately we still had a few beers left in the ice chest when we got back.  That allowed us a cool down period before we actually slept for a while.

The George Harrison concert at the Cow Palace in San Francisco in 1974 was excellent by the way.  In case you weren't there. 

One thing I have found as I get older is there seems to be more story reminiscing than story creating.  You know, like, I'm not going to spend the night in line for concert tickets anymore.  I don't care who's playing.   And I doubt I'll be going mistletoe hunting again either.

Life seems to be slowing down a little.  Invitations to weddings have dwindled, while obligations to funerals have been on the rise.  At this rate I'm going to know more people in hell than I will here on the planet.

By the way, I don't believe in hell as far as an after life is concerned.  That is of our own personal creation here on this planet, in this dimension.  Been there, done that.  Heaven, in case you're interested, is not a mythical paradise in the sky possibly accessible sometime in the future.  It's a real paradise in your heart.  Accessible now. 

I've discovered a few other things along my life's journey here.  Discovery seems to happen if you're open, honest, receptive and alive long enough so that enough repetitions of whatever it is smacking you upside the head sometimes allows for some semblance of understanding to sink into your soul.  That and buttermilk.  

As I previously mentioned, I have also recently discovered, with complete abandon, what it is that I am supposed to be doing with my life.  This, writing.  Being whimsically silly.  I've always written as a hobby and being silly has always been kind of a full time preoccupation.  They combine so naturally for me, just like my T-Shirt.  As long as I stay crazy and my fingers stay in shape, I should be able to doodle for a long time to come.  Another major benefit of my chosen golden age career, I don't have to climb any trees to do it.

Homestead Update 

Things are just rollicking along here on the hill.  Speaking of trees, Tarzan, our tree guy, was out just yesterday.  One of the things he did was to complete the view by slicing off a big branch from the last large oak in front.  That action also required the rope swing to be elevated another 10-12 feet, now making the overall fall about 40 feet.  It might be possible to go supersonic once I get the seat back on.

That cut should also allow us to view sunsets unobstructed all year long.

One thing I have noticed is every time I get that dang guy out here he leaves me an almost insurmountable mess.  I've probably got about 3-4 cords of wood on the ground right now, all over the place.  That means brushing, burning, bucking, hauling, splitting, and stacking, thousands of pounds overall.  Who needs a gym?

Besides all that wickedly fun stuff, I have also embarked on a number of major exterior improvement projects that must be completed by mid June.  Here's a pile of stuff I'm going to deploy over the next couple months.

Ambitious?  Hell yeah.  But, as I've been saying since we got here, I need to get all this heavy stuff done while I'm still young.

Small Town Ambiance

It doesn't matter what the insanity level or festivity is-and we have a lot of  looney and festivities in these here hills-it's the locals that make the place thrive and create a lovely, down home, small town country atmosphere.  From your basic conservative, retired, dope smoking golfer with a 401K to your pierced and tatted long haired dope smoking radical without a bank account, from Ma and Pa to your countrified urban professional, we got it going on.  And somehow, amazingly, everyone for the most part gets along.

Most folks that live around here want to be here.  It's not like they're living in the shade of a freeway.   Or in Kansas.  They're here for the same reasons we moved here in the late 1970's.  Small town.  Country living.  Fresh air.  Furry animals.  Fabulous outdoor recreation everywhere.  World class skiing and entertainment nearby.  So is a big city for any of that big city stuff.  Rural, but not off the grid.  Although you certainly can be off the grid in this county, and many are. 

Speaking of long haired radicals and retired golfers who smoke pot, since moving back here in 2009 we have discovered Western Nevada County has apparently become the Humboldt of the Sierra Nevada foothills.  A lot of folks around here apparently got to ailing as soon as the medical marijuana law was passed.  And, apparently, the climate hereabouts is quite conducive to its production.

We've even got a new brand of seasonal workers who flock to the area in October of each year.  They come in VW Buses, just like the days of old.  These days though they aren't called vagabond wastrel gypsies or hippies, they're called "trimmigrants".  You know, emigrants for hire that "trim" the county's bounty.  

Besides production, pot consumers loom relatively large in this area.  My lovely wife and I were at a Summer Nights street fair in Nevada City a couple years ago with some friends.  He dresses somewhat conservatively as do I and we've both been known to spark up a doobie from time to time.  As I gazed upon the packed streets-and they can get shoulder to shoulder sometimes at these events-I began to wonder how many of the folks in the crowd smoked weed.  Looking at my friend and I in our semi conservative wear, and then at crowd which included a large dose of long haired, nappily attired, free floating spirits in tie dye with beads and fringe, I figured at least 50 % of the crowd, probably more, got high from time to time. 


A lot of the crowd is a pretty easy tell.  You know, a bong in an over the shoulder saddle bag is one.  The aroma from a lit joint is another.  Another easy tell was the guy in the plaid skirt I saw last year at Summer Nights.  He also had a real big, bushy beard and long dread locks.  And bright red toenails.  What the hell?    He'd have to be have been high to choose that color.  Red???  A mauve or taupe would have gone much better with the hues of his dress.  Er, skirt.  OK, kilt. 

My lovely wife and I were listening to Lorraine Gervais, a local singer who puts on a number of high quality, local vocal shows throughout the year.  Our niece sings back-up with her from time to time so we always try to catch her when she's playing.  Especially when she's jamming at a street fair for free!

Anyway, we were all rollicking and rolling on a warm summer's eve when our Scottish Rastafarian boogaloo'd on in with a crowd that included some of those retired golfers, younger, free spirits, AARP hippies and an amazing human melange of all and everything in between.  There was so much rhythm and commotion going on I don't think anyone else noticed the fashion faux pas.  What's wrong with me? 

These two, small foothill communities do put on an amazing number of festival type feats throughout the year.  The fairgrounds, of course, hosts the annual county fair.  They also host the 4th of July festivities and a bounty of renowned music festivals, including the annual Father's Day Bluegrass Festival, the annual California Worldfest, the Strawberry Music Festival, Music in the Mountains as well as numerous other smaller events and venues.  

Most of these events draw tourists as do the towns themselves.  Both towns offer a rich history from the California gold rush and they both offer a quaint, charming, old town small town ambiance.  As a matter of fact, Nevada City has been ranked fairly high in a couple recent "Best Small Towns of America" articles.  Here's a quote from Bay Area travel writer Carole Terwilliger Meyers; 

“Nevada City is reputed to be the best privately preserved and restored small city in the state, this picturesque mining town is also said to contain residential and commercial buildings representative of all the major 19th-century architectural styles.  Scenically situated on seven hills, the town boasts a particularly fine assortment of lovely gingerbread-style Victorian homes, and the entire downtown district is on the National Register of Historic Places. In addition, it is home to more artists per capita than any other California county, and these talented people attract and present themselves in high quality theater and music. Events at the fairgrounds are doubly worth attending, because it is considered the most beautiful fairgrounds in California."

Both Nevada City's and Grass Valley's old town downtown's offers a number of cool, kitschy shops, art galleries, saloons, wine tasting stores and many great eateries.  From sandwich shops to fine restaurants to sweets, you can find it on the downtown streets.  One can easily spend a few hours and more exploring each town's offerings.  There's also a number of old mines and museums scattered throughout the area that offer insights into the historic mining industry of the area. 

Besides weed, a number of wineries have also sprouted up around here in the last decade or so.  Apparently our climate is also conducive for a variety of grapes.  Variety, as in more than one since many local wineries have won awards for both reds and whites. 

Unlike weed growers, grape growers kinda tend to want to be known.  Here's a link to Nevada County's finest wine.   There is no link to Nevada County's finest weed.  Sorry.  But I might know someone who is acquainted with someone else that may have a cousin who knows someone that may have a friend who might have an idea.  About what I don't know.  What were we talking about, anyway?

Folks can stay overnight at a few regular type motels or at one of the many Victorian B&B's in either town.  They can also stay at the Holbrooke Hotel in Grass Valley, which has boasted Bret Harte, Mark Twain, four US Presidents and me as guests.  Or, as many do at a music festival, folks can camp at the fairgrounds.  There's hot showers and looking at the trees is free.  That place fills up fast at the music festivals.  

I understand the biggest parties aren't in front of the stage, they're mostly in the camping area after the show.  I've been told the air rising through the trees is fog thick with an amazing psychoactive haze.  The kind of haze that would take a novice to the moon.  I also understand the fairgrounds boasts the happiest (and hungriest) squirrels in California.   

Both towns do their fair share of puttin' on the dawg throughout the year.  In December they both shut down their main streets one night a week for a street fair, Victorian Christmas in Nevada City and Cornish Christmas in Grass Valley.  Then they do a similar gig in summer.  But they call it something different.  And people are usually wearing shorts and sandals instead of wool coats and gloves.  Food, art, live music, and an incredibly diverse blend of relatively happy, mellow human beings.

The street fairs are pretty much confined to locals, but the county fair always draws tourists.  And why not?  Situated on the finest fairgrounds in the State, it's small town country fair magic all the way.  There's a Ferris wheel in the pines and everything.  While there are a number of commercial vendors scattered about, many of the buildings offer the blue ribbon for a number of wondrous creations.  From cakes and quilts to chickens and mares, it's all happening at the county fair.  Oh yeah, there's beer, rides and caramel corn too. 

The fair usually runs in August from a Wednesday through Sunday every year.  Weekends always draws the tourists, so most locals will be out Wednesday and Thursday.  You'll find us looking at quilts and flowers and enjoying a corn dog on Treat Street.  That's when I have an opportunity to catch up with multiple folks I haven't seen since the last corn dog.

These low tech, simple, community acts of celebration are a joy and wonder to behold and partake in.  It does not matter who you are, from our golfer to our hippie, from main stream conservative to main street liberal, these events all speak to the yearning for a simpler, small town life.  It's a real good Norman Rockwell feel.  Even better than waffles.

At the fair last year I noticed an old dude, even older than me.  I'd peg him at about 85.  He was wearing a white polo shirt, bright marine blue shorts and bright white tennis shoes.  With dark, navy blue socks up to his knees.  

He didn't care.  He probably thought it was OK.  A lot of old dudes do.  But to me, wearing long socks up to the knees defeats the purpose of wearing shorts.  So does wearing shorts that go beyond your knees.  Isn't that what pants do?   

Old dude was casually yet crisply dressed.  He was strolling slowly, sunshine beaming from a gleaming smile as he sipped an ice cold beer.  Yeah, he was getting his fair on and he was feeling right.  Just about as right as any four year old with a cotton candy ice cream cone would feel.  He was feeling that good.

It doesn't matter who you are or how old you happen to be.  It doesn't take much to get your fair on, just let it go.  It's really easy to do here in the hills. There's a pretty easy and accepting cast of characters up here.  Yeah, there's some rednecks.  There's some hillbillies.  There's some cluckers.  There's probably some redneck hillbilly cluckers too.  It's Broken Bad everywhere.  But all that aside, for the most part, this area is loaded with folks that live and let live and just want a little privacy.  They want to drink their wine and smoke their weed in relative peace and quiet.  And they want to be able to pee outside whenever they want without fear of getting busted for indecent exposure. 

OK, not everyone is out of their mind, like me, nor are they abhorrently prepossessed and obsessed with creating a functional homestead.  Or peeing outside.  I mean, some folks actually live in town.  One thing is certain, whether they live in town or in the country, most folks would prefer not to hear freeway traffic twenty four hours a day.  Or be anywhere near it.

Many enjoy sunshine, nature, and Captain Crunch cereal.  Some golf, some hike, some rolf, some bike.  Some hunt, some swim, some bowl, some drink gin.  I think there's even some Lutherans.  And Republicans.  All differences aside, the ultimate overwhelming common denominator of the local population is the desire to live in, share, experience and create that small town that's in all of us.   Living the dream for more than a weekend.  

It doesn't get much better than that.

The Great Wall of Innuendo and The RePurpose Whisperers

Before I get going with my regularly scheduled post, which, by the way, features TWO stories this time instead of just one because they're kinda photo essays, I have to share the following Yelp review I recently drafted to their site.  It pertains to a local business and I just wanna give all my local readers a heads up.  It'll probably leave everyone else scratching their heads and laughing at my misfortune.  Sigh.  It's hell to be me sometimes.

-Just got off the phone with the guy over at Sierra Plumbing Supply in Grass Valley who purportedly draws up irrigation plans.  I dropped off my diagram and measurements for a sprinkler system about a year or so ago.  I chatted with him at the time I dropped everything off and he said he would get back to me.  I never heard from him again.  Due to the drought, I was in no hurry to implement said system since I definitely was not going to be planting anything new at the time.  However, I may be implementing the system this spring and, as I mentioned, I just got off the phone with him to see what was up. 

He offhandedly informed me plans that old usually get thrown out if he never hears from anyone.   Huh?  I mean, what?  I mean, huh?

He was supposed to call me.  That's what he said.  And now all my measuring and figuring, several hours worth, is out the window.  His last remark to me after stating "we'd have to start all over" was to "have fun." 

I was polite, however, many expletives came to mind.  I just checked; they're still coming to mind.  A lot of 'em.  They’re right there, right at the tip of my tongue.

First of all, I think he was supposed to be the "Professional".  The one who stated he would call me when the plans were finished.  Yep, I just checked my memory again.  He was supposed to call me.  Usually, one does NOT have to baby sit a "professional" to find out how things are going, usually the "professional" gets back to the customer as soon as they can and tries to complete the sale.  Usually. 

At the very least a phone call to me might have been warranted to say they were about to throw away 3-4 hours of my work.  And then complete the sale.  

Maybe they are so busy over there they do not need my business.  I can take a hint.   I will have to get out and take umpteen measurements all over again and make a nice, purdy diagram.  And when I am finished, you can rest assured (after making copies) I will take them to anywhere other than Sierra Plumbing Supply-

And now, back to our regularly scheduled double blog post.

For 136 reasons, or at least maybe 2, this little project, The Great Wall of Innuendo, had to be completed. Besides making an overflow parking spot or two, this wall will offer support for the embankment and will now allow me to complete planting the lower embankment of the parking lot to prevent further erosion.  And hopefully prevent further cracks in the asphalt.  Here's an aerial photo of the driveway.  OK, a second story photo of the driveway.

You can kind of see the direction the wave is flowing.  It's like the San Andreas fault, which will sooner or later deliver California into the Pacific Ocean.  You know, like, in ten thousand years.  Or tomorrow.  Either one.  Take your pick.  Got a Ouija board handy?  What this flow will do here, if left unchecked for a decade or two, is sooner or later deliver all that recently laid asphalt down over yonder here.

See what I have to contend with around here?  Another previous homeowner solution.  Ol' Homeboy, the previous owner, just kept tossing dirt and dilapidated construction supplies over down yonder there.  Hillbilly style.  It kept slipping, he kept tossing.  Must have been a big malt liquor day to come up with that plan of action.  I want to get 'er done and forget about it.

Besides all the above, this is also the location where all my extra dirt goes.  I just moved a bunch of it to this location so I could put up Bernadette. my new water tank.  Future work will manufacture more dirt.  This is where it is all ordained to go. 

So I took me some measurements and did me some math.  Bought a little lumber and concrete.  Then it was time to dig some holes and plant a couple treated posts with the hopes they might attract others.

Dig it.

Let me tell you, digging holes on that slope was challenging.  Besides the slope, I'm still not quite 100% physically.  I think I'm in the mid 90's after my relationship with my appendix, Uncle Wiggley, ended last October.  The Doc said it would be a three to six month recovery, it looks like I'll be in the three to four month range. 

As with many of my creations, I had no concise plan or design.  I basically made it up as I went, tagging along with the contour of the ground.  I planted both the above posts first and let them and myself sit a couple days.  BTW, you always want to let your concrete cure a couple days, especially with a post, before bumping it around.  Surest way to crack your feat is to start banging it around as soon as it appears to be dry. 

In the meantime, I was treating my finally getting put to use cedar planks with Flexx-Guard, a rubberized asphalt paint which should help them last until long after I'm gone. 

 

Once the original two posts had set, I leveled and lag bolted one plank near the bottom.  Then I dug a hole somewhere in between and set a middle post.

 

I continued on with the same process between planks and posts and posts and planks and before I knew it they were all sitting in harmony like so many ducks in a row.

I cut the posts off thirty inches above the top plank and will eventually string some manzanita along the top of the posts just like the Deep Side Trail Rail.

The facing wall has been painted with our standard blend in color, Old Vine.

I currently have around twenty Rosemary clippings in water that should be rooted by planting time this spring.  Those plants will dot that slope and should eventually take over.  Their root systems are expansive, they are drought tolerant and their little blossoms attract butterflies and bees.  What could be better?

The RePurpose Whisperers

Here's a big secret I have learned over the years: Most anybody can take most anything apart.  Even if you have to resort to a sledge hammer and a pry bar, you can get it apart, especially electronics.  As a matter of fact, I intimately know a pry bar and TV mesh really well.  The BIG secret is putting it all back together again.

I'm pretty good at fixing things.  I have a general rule of thumb, which usually equates to me earning at least $25 an hour.  So, you know, if a thing is only worth $5 I'm not going to spend much more than 5 minutes to fix it.  I'm certainly not going to spend all day.  It it's worth $25, and I can fix it within an hour, I usually do it.  If it's worth more than $25 and I can fix it in an hour that's even better.  Simple.  Some larger things, like this house for instance, require a little more time than an hour.  Like a lifetime, for instance.

Besides the beneficial financial aspect of fixing many things, there's the "footprint" aspect as well.  We're giving new life to an article that might otherwise end up dying a dismal death in a land fill somewhere.  It's a double woot.

My lovely wife has a penchant for finding wonderful, artsy creations everywhere.  Garage sales, thrift stores, Ebay, you name it.  She's out there, knows her stuff and usually gets great deals.  Sometimes the items are ready for use, many times they land in my lap.

My lovely wife is a Repurpose Whisperer, she has the eye for everything wonderful, whimsical and creative.  I'm an Underbelly Repurpose Whisperer.  I work behind the scenes.  I make many of the things  become functional and look nice nice.  

Here's an example of how we whisper together.

My lovely wife, in her meandering collecting travels, came home a few days ago with a couple of these:

They were bought to replace a couple of these:

It's called a "jelly jar outdoor down light", and you can get one on Amazon today for about $8.50.  Both jelly jars framed our garage door and that side of the house greets all our unsuspecting guests.  Unsuspecting because, well, you never know.

So, you know, they've been on the list.  You know, that list that's about as long as my life.  That list.

"Upgrade the cheap disgusting jelly jars."  I think they were number 482. 

So my lovely wife, while looking for other exciting and whimsical things, came across two of those lantern lights.  They were at our local ReStore.  ReStore is kinda like a home remodel thrift store and profits go to benefit Habitat for Humanity.  Besides getting killer deals, it's all a worthy cause.  She paid $6.50 each.

Once she brought them home it was time for me to whisper.  The lights were pretty darn dirty, just like my mind most of the time, so I started to clean them.  Which I never do to my mind by the way.  Then my lovely wife suggested that ideally they be painted black to match the shutters.  So be it.  I can dance.  And I can  whisper too. 

I only took one apart at a time so that I'd have a return to template.  Just in case.  I'm not much of a written direction kinda guy, I do much better with a diagram or picture.  I just wanted to make sure I could get Humpty together again. 

I was a little dismayed to discover during the dismantling phase Humpty's "globe" was a five piece sectional of glass, but what the hey.  If I can't whisper then I might as well dance.  Or yodel.

Once apart I painted the white parts semi-gloss black and cleaned the glass.

Once the paint dried, it was time to put Humpty back together again.  Remember, the "secret" part.  The glass sections were a little tricky.  Humpty was trial and error.  He was in surgery about forty-five minutes.  But by the time I got to Dumpty I was a certified lantern light pro.  He only took about fifteen minutes to be put back together. 

During mid-surgery of Humpty, I had to develop a cradle of sorts so that he could freely sit upside-down and vertical.  There were too many complications trying to put him back together on a flat, horizontal surface.  I used a five gallon paint bucket filled with a sweatshirt.  I also laid towels down on the concrete garage floor.  Just in case one of the glass panels decided to go for a walk I wanted them walking on something soft.

Once in the cradle everything flowed infinitely mo better.  Ever so gently I whispered along until the panels were more or less aligned within the frames.  Then I slid the top piece over the frame's top screws, massaging each panel and frame until they were all snug within their respective realms.

Total time top to bottom, dismantling, cleaning, painting, putting back together and planting on the wall was just under two hours.  For both.  Installed.

Side by side

And on the wall

Repurpose whisperers do it all.


Fowl Update

Since we've had this uptick in temperature this January we've had an uptick in eggs.  We've gone from 0-1 per day in December to 5-6 per day this January.  There's no doubt about it, we've got fair weather layers.  Not too hot, not too cold.  Rain or snow?  Hell no.  It's gotta be just right.

They seem to enjoy sunny 60's and 70's weather.  I enjoyed the 60's and 70's too.

I think. 

Come on rain.