Reasonably Educated Bumpkins

(Photo stolen from hyperjet on Flickr)

Greetings from Middle of the Puddle, California, USA! If you've been watching the Weather Channel lately -- and, let's face it, who HASN'T been glued to that network? -- you know that Mother Nature has been kicking our collective butts up and down the state of California for all of calendar year 2008.

First The Great Storm of Ought Eight blew in from the south. Lots of almond trees uprooted. Huge swaths of Northern California without electricity and Peanut M&Ms. Barns tumbling down and fences sagging. Trees wanting to come inside homes in the worst way.

(Photo stolen from Smitty)

Then, after a week, pretty much everybody had lights again -- and the north wind showed up. Wind gusts up to 75 mph around here, and higher in the mountains. Trees which were LEANING to the north were now shoved over to the south. Whole barn roofs were torn off and dumped in pastures. It was way, way too windy to venture out for cat food or Peanut M&Ms.

As the wind died away and we all caught our breath, the fog crept in on big fat cat paws, curled up on our laps, and had a nice nap for a couple of days.

And then the rain started.

Noah, please call the office.

I typed a note to my friend in Australia last night, telling her about the rain. But first, a weather check.

ME: "Chas, how many hours in a row did it rain?"

CHAS: "Well, it started at about . . . blah blah blah . . . thirty-four."

ME: "Thanks, I knew you'd know."

CHAS: "But it rained for 50 out of 53 hours here, you should mention that."

ME: "It did? Huh, I wasn't paying attention." (As usual)

So I was unprepared when taking our little country road north on Saturday -- headed for the Red Bluff Bull Sale, which is another story for later -- when we had to ford a small river across the road. The slough that runs along the north edge of the property couldn't keep up with the water, and the water spilled over the road, a couple of inches deep. It was not dangerous to drive through, however, so don't worry.

Snow hit the valley floor in Redding last week, at least twice. Mudslides threaten southern California after the torrential rains they've had, on top of hills burned bare by October fires. A tornado hit somewhere along California's central coast the other day. And today the sunshine is so brilliant and the glare is so strong that I'm thinking of wearing my sunglasses when I walk past the front windows of our office.

I feel a musical ending coming up . . .

Seems it never rains in southern California
Seems I've often heard that kind of talk before
It never rains in California
But girl don't they warn ya
It pours, man it pours*

*From Albert Hammond's "It Never Rains in Southern California"

(Photo stolen from this person)

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 02:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

(Photo stolen from tusptangar on Flickr)

We bumpkins have been accused of seeking entertainment in the growth of grass, in the drying of paint. Well, that last one's true, but I'm here to tell you that most of what you hear about the denizens of rural America is false. Made up. Hooey. Hokum. Malarkey. Balderdash.*

We amuse ourselves in all sorts of ways that don't involve the p a i n f u l l y s l o w passage of time. The photo above, for instance. Do you know what that cow is doing? She's ruminating, of course. Also, wondering just what in heck these crazy people are up to now. But most of all, she's processing her dinner, and any minute now she's going to lift her tail out of the way and . . . and that's where the checkerboard comes into play. It's called Cow Pie Bingo. Whichever square is anointed by this cow -- ain't she a beauty, by the way? -- wins big, big money for whichever lucky bum(s) bet on the pooped-on square. After it's all over the spectators all go home to finish watching the paint dry.

Out here in the country, an impressive panoply of activities is available: there are tractor pulls, destruction derbies, rodeo events, quilting bees, livestock auctions, barn dances, harvest festivals, and even mutton busting. (The photo below shows mutton busting for what it really is: a child's death-defying ride on a domestic sheep, a vicious animal known for wild and unpredictable ways. Good heavens, that boy may get wool rug burns!)

(Photo stolen from this guy)

There is one activity, however, that eludes us. I'm talking about, of course, cow tipping.

(Photo stolen from these folks)

Whole web sites have been dedicated to debunking the idea that such an activity is actually possible. I'm not going to bore you with the physics, even if I knew them. I will tell you my personal beliefs about cow tipping, in no particular order.

~ Cows sleep on PosturePedic mattresses, just like the rest of us. Good luck finding a cow that actually sleeps standing up.

~ Trying to sneak up on a cow is about as easy as herding a cat.

~ Once you have successfully sneaked up upon and startled a static cow, you will discover that she is as big as Grandpa's Buick, and almost as maneuverable. But not quite.

~ The catch bull assigned to any given pasture with dozing cows will not find your cow tipping attempts NEARLY as funny as you do.

~ Cow tipping was invented for frat boys, by (and for the amusement of) the people who brought you snipe hunting. How would you like your snipe cooked, Bluto?

So let's recap. Lots and lots of activities out here in the sticks. Have I been to any of the above-mentioned laugh riots? Nope. Well, two. But I was dragged there against my will. Okay, I lied -- I've been to a few of them. But even bumpkins can get our tractor pulls on ESPN 2.

Back to what I was doing.

*We are nothing if not colorful, however.

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 11:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

Put aside what you may think you know about California weather; if you live in the California's Great Central Valley, including where I live in the northern part, you know that late fall through winter is Fog Season.

This is how I imagine London fog:

(Photo stolen from Homemade on Flickr)

This is the romantic version of fog, in a Bronte sisters sort of world:

(Photo stolen from vp_bsu on Flickr)

This is what fog looks like around here, and we call it tule (TOO-lee) fog:

(Photo stolen from Tony Dunn Photography -- a very talented local photographer who is SO worth checking out)

Honestly, though, when the tule fog is at its worst, it looks more like this:

and few people are apt to get their cameras out on such days, since it's pretty much pointless. Out in the country there are no streetlights, few houses to guide you as you creep down the dark roads, and even fewer passing cars. And there could be animals on the road -- dogs, cats, skunks, possums, heaven forbid cows. Satellite imagery shows you what we're dealing with, and it's no fun to drive in, especially on the freeways down near Fresno:

(Image stolen from these guys)

But I'm here to talk about splat fog. What? You say you've never heard of splat fog? Well, that's because my best friend Cheryl and I named it. It looks a little like this:

(Photo stolen from these guys)

. . . or this:

(Photo stolen from VillaRhapsody on Flickr)

. . . and it rides the earth's surface at about eye level. Cheryl and I call it splat fog.

When we were newly-legal drivers, Cheryl (who lived a couple of miles north of me) gave me a ride home one winter evening. As we turned down my road (known to those of us who live there as ground zero for fog) we could see bands of fog hanging above the road ahead of us. As we drove through it, the fog seemed to splat on the windshield, then slide unctuously up and over the roof of the car. It was like driving under a thick wool blanket, and we grimaced each time a band of the stuff "hit" the window, so solid did it look. We were giggling like kindergarteners, until we got halfway down the road and the splat fog mysteriously ended. "One more time!" one of us hollered, and Cheryl threw the car into reverse and backed up the road to do it again. We did it several more times, actually, backing up each time. I have no idea why backing up was the thing to do -- it was a very long way in reverse with only back-up lights to guide her -- but when you're 16 anything is possible, and all things are sensible.

While I have seen splat fog many times since that time, it's never been as spectacular as it was that night, and I have never again experienced it quite that way. I guess that's part of the magic of youth, and of charging through the world with your best friend.

(Photo stolen from Sarathine on Flickr)

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 04:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

It was a dark and stormy night.

But I, in my north-facing bedroom, couldn't hear the wind beginning to howl. The girls could, though. They heard the old calf barn cave in some time before dawn.

Not that the barn hadn't been trying to commit suicide for years, mind you. But it succeeded early Friday morning, as the storm -- the storm that will probably be called The Great Storm of Ought Eight or something when we're old and crabby -- descended upon northern California and most of the west coast.



Anybody want some old barn wood? It's original, it's wood, and it's crappy!

My three volunteer trees are in danger. I think the littlest one, an oak tree, is a goner.

Whatever you do, don't breathe on this wall.

I woke up early Friday morning and hit the shower first thing, in case the power went out. I couldn't imagine going to work without benefit of a shower; it never occurred to me that I certainly shouldn't entertain the idea of driving that morning at all. After my shower I turned on the kitchen TV -- nothing. Two of the Chico stations were out. The Redding station came in, but not well. The news? BIG STORM. Well, I sort of guessed that much.

I ate some cereal, then did what any smart person facing a weather emergency would do: I trimmed my bangs.

And then the electricity went out. Once, twice, and the third time was for keeps, at just before 7:00 a.m. When your water comes from a well, as opposed to a city water system, you lose water immediately in a power outage, and that includes the ability to flush the toilet more than once. The reality of the situation was settling on me, so I did what any smart person facing a weather emergency would do: I drove down the road to my parents' house.

Mom and Dad didn't have power either, of course, but they have a gas fireplace -- HEAT! -- and a gas stove -- EAT! So, after a cup of hot coffee and a phone call to my office to tell them I wasn't coming in, I drove back home and gathered the troops. Chas stayed behind to finish working out -- yeah, I know, he's one of those people who make me look bad EVERY DAY -- and I put the girls and a lot of books, crayons and toys into the car, and drove back to become a burden to my parents.

By mid-day the storm had slackened. The winds were downgraded to merely "strong," after having gusted at 60 or more miles per hour -- as high as 70 somewhere in the valley. Three of our neighbor's willow trees were flattened by the wind, and pieces of our garage siding were wrenched free. Half of our oranges blew off the trees, but that's not a big problem. Most of Glenn County was left without power, including Willows, which suffered near 100% power outage, and which will likely be dark for a few days. Power poles along I-5 from Orland to Willows were snapped off at the bases. We count ourselves lucky to have had our electricity restored late last night.

We were sitting pretty compared to some people, and as night fell, other than having the obvious problem of darkness, we were actually able to enjoy ourselves. Mom and I pooled our water and food resources, and we had everything we needed. I made chicken spaghetti and Mom made a big green salad, cooking by candlelight (which is challenging), and we dined by candlelight as well, joined by our friend Marge, who was in the same boat.

Bedtime came early since there was no point in sitting in the dark quietly freezing, and, other than one round of Smedley barfing due to an upset stomach, and one protracted Sparky coughing attack, all was well. We woke up to electricity, but no heat -- our propane tank is empty, unfortunately, so until the truck shows up -- Monday? I hope -- we are driving each other crazy in one room with a space heater.

And that was The Great Storm of Ought Eight, dadgummit.

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 04:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I'm back, more or less, after a very busy Christmas season. Here are a few snippets of holiday conversation from around our house to start the year off right.

* * * * *

Smedley, singing while she flossed:

"Deck the halls with ugly snowmen
Fa la la la la, la-la la la!"

* * * * *

After Mommy cleaned and rearranged the living room . . .

Sparky: "I bet, if somebody camed to our house, they wouldn't necorize it."

Smedley: "Not 'necorize,' 'RECKINIZE!'"

Never mind her diction -- it doesn't say much for my housekeeping, does it?

* * * * *

Mommy, explaining "salud" or "kampai" or some other foreign thing I'd said while clinking glasses: "It's a toast, it's a cheer, it's a --

Smedley: "A female cheer."

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 11:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)