I just read that a retired Chico State professor died last night of a gunshot wound. Clicking the E-R link, I held my breath in case I knew who the man was. I really didn't expect to know him; after all, how many retired CSUC professors must there be? I clicked.

And yelped.

It was Professor Richard Ek. I had taken one of my major's core classes from Dr. Ek in the spring of my freshman year. The survey course, "History of Communications," was taught in the largest classroom I had ever sat in -- Holt 170, if there are any Chico State readers out there. My regular spot was in the lowest third of the auditorium, right next to an aisle and a guy named Vince.

Vince and I used to keep track of Dr. Ek's diversions from the topic at hand, which were legendary, and often fascinating. We once counted five major "rabbit trails" during a single lecture. His really good stories were so engrossing that, when Dr. Ek reached the story's end and paused, we would collectively realize how far afield he had led us from our topic, and all of us would laugh.

"But I digress," he would say, and often.

One spring afternoon as I sat waiting for class to begin I heard a commotion in the back of the room. I didn't look up immediately, but heard the commotion roll like a wave toward the front of the room. I looked up just as Dr. Ek passed me in the aisle, his extremely tall and gangly frame bedecked in lemon yellow polyester slacks -- you know the kind with the "crease" down the front actually sewn in? -- and a hand-knitted sweater in a brilliant fuschia. (Go check your box of 64 crayons for that color reference; I'll wait.) It took a while for the room to quiet down, but he waited out our laughter. This was his spring outfit, he explained. He wore it once every spring semester to welcome -- or hurry along -- the warm weather. Then we got down to business, with a digression or two, of course.

(Photo stolen from The Orion)

I never got to know Dr. Ek, as I was in the graphic design program, not journalism. But I learned a lot from him. Dr. Ek seemed to love his vocations, both teaching and journalism, enough so that he kept writing, occasionally, for a local newspaper right up until his death. My alma mater and the community have suffered a loss. My thoughts are with his family.

(Posted at Foolery as well)

It got a little windy here last week.

Not exactly, "Dorothy, don't let go of Toto" windy, but rather windy.

The kind of windy for which the local weather guys often use the word breezy.

This chunk of barn roof nearly took out my dad's zebra finch house. The roof was a bit damaged, but no birds were harmed. Of course, two did get out, and then they remembered that they have no idea how to deal with out, and tried to get back in. The last I heard one of the two was living in a mobile, parked just outside the bird house door. He's now zebra trash.

Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas at all.

(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)

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.

Orland is famous for one thing.

(Photo by Cheryl McCoy)

No, not this, but good guess.

Um, nope . . . not yet, any way, but thanks fer thinkin' of me.

No, because of the Farm Sanctuary, Orland is famous for one thing these days: Our town is the west coast host of the "Celebration FOR the Turkeys," the weekend before Thanksgiving.

I know.

Banish all thoughts of smoked, roasted, barbecued, deep-fried, or even wokked turkeys. No, at the Farm Sanctuary, the turkey is KING!*

Over the last 20 years real live reporters from major networks have actually come TO ORLAND to file puff pieces about the Farm Sanctuary (one of only two Farm Sanctuary locations; the other is in upstate New York)! I'll let that sink in. Reporters. Orland. Televised news.

Part of the Farm Sanctuary's Adopt-A-Turkey project -- just $20 supports a turkey, and gets you a glossy photo of your bird (plus, one imagines, cards and letters and report cards and maybe even little turkey drawings from your turkey throughout the year) -- the Celebration FOR the Turkeys offers guests a real vegan farm experience. According to their web site, for $30 guests are treated to a catered vegan holiday dinner, a meet-and-greet with turkeys and other rescued animals, and the famous Feeding of the Turkeys ceremony, in which the fowl are given all of the non-flesh Thanksgiving foods that kids usually stuff into their napkins.

Do I sound sarcastic? I don't mean to. Well, maybe a little. I'm really not, though. Ask my dad -- I'm the world's biggest softie, and if I were to raise turkeys or chickens or pigs for meat, not ONE would be killed, and I'd go broke supporting them, even though I think they're incredibly tasty and buy lots at the grocery store. I don't like zoos because I don't like to see animals caged, and I will not own any animal that has to live in a cage, because I think it's unnatural and cruel. I was never in FFA (Future Farmers of America) even though we had the perfect set-up here on the dairy, and the reason I raised only ornamental chickens for 4-H projects was because I couldn't bear to raise an animal that I'd blithely send off to the butcher in May, for a tidy profit. I have no moral objection to someone ELSE killing animals for me to gobble up, however.

I know; I'm a mess.

So here's to the Farm Sanctuary people, and all of the B-list celebrities who lend their names to the cause. You are good, noble people (if a bit loopy). You're probably on the right path, and it's a moral cause (they do so much more for animal cruelty issues than I have mentioned; check out their web site). But I didn't pay $30 for a meatless meal this year, and I probably never will. I wish you a happy Thanksgiving, and a happy Thanksgiving to those brainless birds you shelter, as well.

*not turkey a la king

This, apparently, is Gideon the turkey, from the Orland Farm Sanctuary. I'll bet he's still full from Saturday's gut buster.

(Photo stolen from 4bananafish on Flickr)

I just closed the outside door to the office, and it's after 1:00 p.m. Usually our air conditioner has been on for hours by this time of day, doors and windows shut tight against the heat, but not today. Today the valley is somewhat cool, insulated from the punishing late summer sun by a thick white blanket. Not clouds -- smoke.

A large fire in Plumas County, which started on Labor Day, has pushed enough smoke into the air and down over the whole valley to block out the sun. Usually the first light of dawn through my northern window wakes me, but this morning the sun was thin. I was thankful for the dove hunters who woke me up at first light -- BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! -- otherwise, with the sun all but blocked out, I might still be asleep.

Driving into Chico was surreal. Most cars on Highway 32 had their headlights on, and the sun was a neon orange-y pink ball, casting a sinister one-eyed glare over the commuters. I listened to NPR on the drive in, as I always do, but, as often happens with breaking news, the local news report contradicted what I'd heard elsewhere about the fire. The Moonlight Fire, as it has been named, has charred anywhere from 3000 to 15,000 acres, depending upon which news you believe. The fierce north winds which kicked up last night fed the fire, turning it into a monster.

The air was orange. My shadow was brown against the concrete, with a sickly orange halo. The acrid smell of smoke, borne 50 miles or more by the relentless wind, wafted into my office.

This isn't L.A. -- is this L.A.?