The Candid Cow Blog

‘Tis the Season–for Baking

2011-11-07T13:48:00.001-08:00

I promised a loaf of pumpkin bread for Halloween, but Halloween came and went and still I had not cut the pumpkins. So finally the day came. I had to slice and dice those pumpkins because the bottom of one of them was starting to look a little squeamish. Now it’s been a long time since I have baked from scratch. There was a period in my life when I gave serious consideration to becoming a pastry chef. Baking was fun. The only bad part was I ate my endeavors and after escalating in weight, I thought better of this career choice and went on to become a photographer and writer. I wouldn’t have ventured back into this realm now except for the fact that two lovely sugar pumpkins came into my hands and I just couldn’t bring myself to use them for decorations. Thus begins my saga of creating pumpkin bread.

WHY YOU SHOULD PAY ATTENTION IN 5TH GRADE MATH CLASS

First of all, find a recipe that works for you. Do not contact your niece in Florida for the recipe she wrote about on Facebook because it may tax your mathematical abilities. That was my first mistake because, while the recipe in itself is just fine, it calls for ingredients to make three loaves of pumpkin bread. I only wanted to make one loaf. I actually was fairly sure that I would not have enough pumpkin for more than one loaf. I was wrong on that point but more about that later.

I surveyed the recipe and tried to figure out how to do the math that would result in ingredient amounts for one loaf. HA! It called for expertise in fractions and maybe even Algebra. Now I flunked fractions in the 5th grade. That was year that Dad died and I had to change schools three times. No matter how many pies my mother cut up trying to teach me fractions, it was to no avail. And as to Algebra, well, heck., come on, I didn’t even pass fractions! And to this day I am not much of a pie lover.

So my decision was final. I would make three loaves.

ABSOLUTELY HOW NOT TO CUT A PUMPKIN

I guess the pumpkin gods wanted to make sure their progeny had long lives because they certainly supplied them with thick skin. I approached my pumpkins with my finest large knife. I pressed the point down on the top of the pumpkin near the stem. Don’t do this. Especially if you suffer at all from a bad back as the instant jarring from the fact that the knife goes nowhere is not good for thoracic levels 6 and 7, not to mention Lumbar 4 and 5. You will not want to explain to your orthopedic doctor when he asks, “How did you injure your back?”

“Ah, trying to cut open a pumpkin.”

My next approach was to grasp the knife as if I were intending to kill someone and stab at the pumpkin midway down from the stem. This was somewhat more successful. The knife did go into the pumpkin. But that was all. I could not make it cut down at all. I couldn’t move it at all. And it was impossible to get it out of the pumpkin. What should you do in this case? Get a hammer.

Firmly grasping the pumpkin I swung the hammer down on the part of the knife sticking out of the pumpkin. It moved. It was actually cutting. I swung the hammer again and each successive swack moved the knife through the pumpkin. Eventually I was able to cut all the way around the beast and pry it open. Now I had to get rid of the seeds and strings.

MAKE SURE YOU HAVE THE CORRECT TOOLS

The healthy pumpkin, not the one that was going a bit squeamish, was not too bad for getting the seeds out and scraping judiciously at the stringy stuff with a tablespoon eventually got most of that removed. Squeamish pumpkin on the other hand did not go as well. The seeds were not the problem. But no amount of scraping with the tablespoon would totally remove the strings. The spoon just slid over them without pulling them out. What to do? I took the large kitchen shears and began to cut at the strings. Kind of like giving a haircut on the inside of someone’s skull. I got as much out as I could and then decided that what was left would most certainly get broken up in the blender. Yeah.

By now I had quite a bit of pumpkin pulp in a bowl. Actually it was almost overflowing with pumpkin pulp. I looked at my recipe. It called for 15 ounces of pumpkin puree. Hmmm. Short of piling the mush onto my old Weight Watchers scale, I had no idea how much pulp I had. But I was now pretty sure I had more than enough for three loaves. A short note on the recipe said something about putting it into zip-lock baggies and freezing it. I made a mental note of that.

(By the way, I cut out the squeamish part of pumpkin number two and only used the healthy part. Now, you didn’t really think I would serve up a molding pumpkin bread, did you?)

In retrospect I now think that the best way to cut a pumpkin is with a hatchet. Furthermore there must be some special seed-and-stringy removal tool on the market and if not, someone really should invent one. Short of these tools, my recommendation is to buy pumpkin puree in a can and let the food processing plant handle the cutting and gutting.

BLENDERS DON’T CUT IT

I took my overflowing bowl of pumpkin pulp to the blender and spooned in a bunch that reached halfway up the glass holder. I secured the top and hit the puree button. Nothing moved. It was noisy. I turned it off and took off the top and felt around with the spoon. Nothing felt pureed. I tried again and this time I could see a bit of movement at the base of the blender container. There was too much pumpkin in the container. I opened it again and took out half the amount, plopping it back into the overflowing bowl. I hit puree again. A little more action, but still, it wasn’t looking like anything pureed. I repeated the action several times and finally got about half a cup of pureed pumpkin. At this rate it would take a couple of hours to puree all the pumpkin that was in the bowl. I abandoned the blender.

It was time for the mixer. I got my portable mixer out of the back of the drawer it has been stored in since I gave up baking from scratch. It still worked so I was set. Except now I had to transfer the pumpkin pulp to a larger bowl since inserting the mixer in the bowl the pulp was in would make the mash fly all over the room. Now I had two bowls to clean up not to mention the pile of seeds and strings.

But using the mixer was the solution. At least I hoped so. I’m not sure the pulp actually turned out as pureed, but in my estimation it was close enough.

Note to the cooking public. Get a food processor not a blender.

WHY DIDN’T I JUST BUY PUMPKIN BREAD

Now it was time to put together all the ingredients. Two more bowls were necessary. I combined my wet ingredients in one bowl – pumpkin puree, four eggs, oil, water – the bowl was filling up. In the second bowl I put three and one half cups of flour – hmmm, the bowl was three-quarters full – baking soda, nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, and what the heck, I added pumpkin spice. Now both bowls were pretty much full. I could tell that inserting the mixer would cause a disaster with gloppy pumpkin bread ingredients oozing all over the table. It was time to dig out a bigger bowl. This meant transferring the gooey wet ingredients from the first bowl as well as the dry ingredients from the second bowl. Try this. You tell me if you can do it without getting wet and dry ingredients all over the place. So now I had the original bowls to clean, the seeds and strings to dispose of, and glop all over the table. Sigh.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN FLOUR THE PANS?

Next step – grease the pans. Messy. What can I say? Messy. Wash your hands with Dawn dishwashing liquid. It really does cut grease.

Flour the pans. Hmmmm. I never used to do this step when I baked. Perhaps it is a good idea, I thought. No. It was a BAD idea! I’ve seen floured baking pans that other people have done – you know, on the cooking channel. They looked nicely, evenly floured. I scooped out a teaspoon of flour and tossed it into one of the pans. It did not spread nicely and evenly. It fell into the pan in lumps and no amount of tossing the pan around would spread it because it stuck to the grease. I added more flour and tried again. (Don’t do this) Same result. All three pans turned out the same with lumps of flour. Sigh.

Since I now couldn’t remove the flour I decided it would have to do and I poured the mixed ingredients into the overly floured pans and popped them into the heated oven. Fifty minutes later I pulled one out and inserted a toothpick into the middle. Still gooey. Back into the oven for 10 more minutes.

HOORAY! THEY’RE DONE.

What do you know? They turned out pretty good. After they cooled I popped them out of the pans onto a large plate. “Uh oh, what is that white stuff on the bottom?” Yes, it was that flour. So I had to scrape that off of all three loaves, but no harm was done. After all, it only looked bad, it was flour, not mold.

AFTER EFFECTS

Five bowls, spoons, measuring cups, the mixer, et al – to be washed. The table – to be scrubbed. No, I don’t have a dishwasher. Sigh.

But gee, that pumpkin bread sure tasted good. In two days I polished off one. I guess I had better deliver the other two to the people I promised them to. Not to worry, I have enough pumpkin pulp left over to make three more loaves!
SIGH.

When You Gotta Go, You Gotta Go

2011-10-03T16:03:00.001-07:00

It was a hard decision, but today I let Tom-Boy go. You can only domesticate a cat so far and this kitty just wasn't going to ever be good at being a house cat. A bad case of the whiz-bangs did him in. Well actually it did my furniture in! It seems some creatures never lose their wild and maybe that's a good thing.

So here I sit outside on my porch in the lovely October sunshine searching the terrain for a glimpse of orange and white, but he is nowhere to be found. What did I think? I hoped he would sniff around in the garden and settle down in the dust at the base of the bushes, here on his own territory. But he has fully disappeared. Off on an adventure that has been denied him for more than a year.

At 14, I wonder how he will do now, back with the younger neighborhood cats, and the dogs cooped up in yards, just waiting for a tasty morsel of cat. And will he reign terror on the yard birds, snagging them from their perches on neighborhood feeders? No, no that was not my intent!

Veterinarians tell you that it is far better to keep cats indoors. They frown at you when you tell them, "Puss is an indoor/outdoor cat." Oh, they smile widely when the answer is, "He's an indoor cat." But even vets won't tolerate a whiz-bang kitty. The resident cat at the clinic used to dwell indoors at the vet's home, but was sent to confinement at the clinic for his whiz-bang ways. Even there, he has to endure a daily dose of kitty Prozac so he won't anoint that pristine environment.

I tried the kitty Prozac. It's liquid and it's flavored. You can choose chicken, beef or tuna flavor. That must not do much for it because Tom-Boy made definitely sure that I understood that it was terrible and there was no way he was going to have that stuff shot down his gullet. Out of eight tries he only got one and a half doses actually into him. Most of it flew all over the furniture, the floor, and me. At nearly $50 a clip for a month's supply, it was clearly not going to be cost effective!

So Tom-Boy is back in the wild. Free to roam, free to explore, free to find available kitty bowls wherever he may wander. And should he show up back at the front door, I'll be happy to see him again. He can enjoy a nice bowl on the porch and snuggle into the bed in the plastic storage container there, protected from the wind, and the elements that are now, once again, to be part of his life. Happy trails, Tom-Boy. When you gotta go, you gotta go!

Colorful Flyers

2011-10-03T13:28:00.001-07:00

The first of October and there they are, right on schedule. They flitter and flutter, lighting here and there, searching for something. One thing can be said for them, they are stunning. Their colors stand out against a rather bland world that has had the life and moisture sucked out of it all summer. Even the coastal fog wasn't enough to keep the grass green. The bushes endure, the flowers survive, but none sport the intensity of hue that these welcome visitors bring to us.
The Monarchs have returned.

You wonder as you look at them if their base color is black and the brilliant orange is laid on top of it? Or is it the orange that covers the flitting wings and the black lines are painted over it in different patterns? And are these lines the same on each or do they sport their own unique markings? We know the color is important, sending a definite signal to any who would have the audacity to try and gobble them up. "I taste BAD!" it says. Somehow most birds know this. The ones who don't, soon find out.

Today they fly from plant to plant and tree to tree with vigor. They glow and shine and whirl around each other. Courtship? Yes, I think so. What will this lead to? Sometime in months to come, somewhere else far away, eggs will be laid, and eventually a chubby, squiggly, wormy, many-legged critter with a voracious appetite will emerge. It too is colorful, bright yellow and black. It too carries the same message that its parents did. "Don't eat me! I am NOT tasty."

And then the day comes and everything changes for the youngsters. They crawl away into their own spin and sleep. Time passes. On a bright sunny day they wriggle free, flex their orange and black wings, and take off on their epic journey.

On a crisp October morning, we glance out the kitchen window and an orange flash is spotted and there they are, right on time. The Monarchs have returned.

Where Are The Blackbirds?

2011-10-01T14:27:00.001-07:00

They're overdue. The blackbirds. Usually by this time the telephone wires are full of them. Perhaps it's the weather that has them delayed. It certainly hasn't been normal. Always foggy, actually dripping with fog. And maybe the birds don't realize what season it is. It's fall, you're supposed to be flocking together.

Spring finds red-wing blackbirds nesting in the tules near fresh or brackish water. They screech and scream at each other, trying for the best spots to build their temporary homes and raise their brood. Brewer's blackbirds are busy with the same endeavor and spend some time dancing over the farm fields, picking up tasty morsels of bugs and beetles to stuff into the gaping mouths of their fluffy offspring. Finally the days start getting shorter and all the baby birds have fledged. All those territorial squabbles are over. It's time to gather together to swing and sway through small towns and neighborhoods, gathering by the hundreds on the telephone and electric wires. Their dense, black bodies stand out starkly against the slate sky.

A murder of crows descend upon the neighborhood.

Today the crows came noisily winging up the road. Fifteen to twenty of them in a solid group, they settle for a time in the cypress tree at the foot of the road. Then two by two and one by one they drop to the ground and begin pecking away. In a flash ten of them flap from the tree to wires above. Caw, caw, they call and call. Some take to wing and head up the road. The crowd follows swiftly calling as they go. Again most settle on the wires while six or eight drop to the neighbor's lawn where bits of old bread are spread out. Zippo! And the bread is gone. Caw,Caw! They're on the wing again still advancing up the road until they are out of sight and all is quiet

Were the crows the advance troops? Are the blackbirds close behind? Maybe tomorrow.

Olives, Alpacas, and Fine Art

2011-09-28T14:47:00.001-07:00

It wasn’t enough for Art Kishiyama to just grow olive trees and make olive oil, he had to raise Alpacas too. This retired Air Force Colonel, who also had a post-military career with Disney, settled in the eastern area of Paso Robles with his artist wife, Lynne and became a gentleman farmer.

Kishiyama’s 3,700 olive trees span out across a sloping terrain adjacent to a large pond that sits behind the house where Lynne has her art studio. It is a lovely, serene setting.

The olive oil, under the label Olio Nuevo, is sold at specialty stores, markets, and wineries throughout the county. Each bottle is delicately hand crafted at his small production center. The oil is Extra Virgin and is certified by the California Olive Oil Council.

Two distinctive types of oil are produced, Olio Nuevo Estate Arbequina and Olio Nuevo Reserve Blend. Kishiyama uses predominantly green, early harvested Arbequina fruit for the first as he feels it presents a fresh, grassy taste. This oil is a good complement to fish, poultry, cooked vegetables, and meats.

The Reserve Blend contrasts the Estate Arbequina in that it is harvested late using much riper Arbequina fruit. Estate grown Manzinillo and Mission fruit are blended in and all three produce a fine, smooth, less bitter tasting oil.

Kishiyama also offers Balsamic of Modena, an aged balsamic made specifically to pair with the olive oils. This balsamic is imported from Modena, Italy.

But olives aren’t all that is growing at the Kishiyama’s place. Art also raises Alpacas. That part of the property is known as the Alpacas of Cripple Creek.

Nearby are the holding pens and barn for the Alpacas. These easy to raise animals have grown in popularity in recent years and most are bred for their coats that yield exceptional fiber.

But alpacas have another quality that makes them special, they sing or rather they hum. Spanish conquistadors referred to them as “humming sheep.” They also make other kinds of sounds like a high pitched whining along with noisy inhalations. These help to warn both the herd and other domestic farm animals of danger. This makes sales of the animals for guard duties popular.

Alpacas are originally from the Andes in South America, primarily from Peru, Bolivia, and Chile. Their nearest relatives are vicuna and they share territory with them as well as llamas and guanacos, all of which are camelids. Alpacas are no longer wild and have been domesticated for more than 5000 years.

Kishiyama raises and breeds for specific colors whereas many people prefer white animals in order to dye the fleece. In the United States it is becoming more popular to obtain fiber from a natural colored animal. Kishiyama’s alpacas come in fawn, beige, gray, white, brown, black, and black-brown. There are 22 natural colors of alpacas but Kishiyama prefers the blacks and grays.

Because alpacas are herd animals Kishiyama never sells only one to a customer and although he maintains a small male herd, he prefers to select males from other breeders based on the amount of curl in their coat. A bit of curl in the coat aids in spinning the yarn.

There is no specific time for females to come into heat. Ovulation only occurs after mating and usually a pregnancy will occur with one mating, but to be sure, Kishiyama continues a mating pair until a pregnancy is confirmed. Females give birth in 11 months and usually produce one offspring called a cria.

Many people worry about behavior issues, such as the notion that alpacas and llamas will spit. While they can bring up some nasty greenish stomach contents that they will project at times, this is usually aimed at other members of their herd.

The nice thing about these animals are their bathroom behaviors. They tend to use a communal dung pile in a specific location rather than spreading it around randomly. This helps to keep enclosures neat and tidy and makes clean-up an easier chore.

Alpacas don’t necessarily enjoy physical contact. They will tolerate some petting on their bodies, but do not like their abdomen, lower legs and feet being touched.

All in all alpacas are relatively easy to raise, enjoyable to watch, and produce an excellent fiber that can be spun and made into a yarn for producing soft, silky garments. Since it is not prickly and contains no lanolin, it is good for people with allergies.

Art keeps busy with olive oil production and tending to the alpacas, while Lynne works away in her spacious studio producing beautiful and delicate paintings, collages, and abstracts done with hand-made papers and an oriental flair. These two have got it made with olives, alpacas, and fine art.

As the Cook Turns–a Sequel to Confessions of a Cooking Novice

2011-04-22T14:04:00.001-07:00

You laughed at my cooking confession but imagine my surprise the day after I posted that, when I received an invitation from the Cooking Club of America to test cooking products. I had to wonder, did they have a new type microwave available? No, my cooking prowess has been discovered! “It’s no secret among your friends and family that you are an outstanding cook!” There it was in black and white on the page, my friends and family feel that I am an outstanding cook. What a surprise! So why haven’t they ever mentioned it to me???

Well, out-standing where I don’t know, but if I accept this invitation I get to test a variety of cooking products and answer questionnaires regarding the performance of the products (not the performance of the cook). Then I get to keep the products. Hmmm. Where will I put them? The kitchen countertop is already taken up with the humungous microwave and Black and Decker toaster oven that Neil Farrell said would burn my house down (it hasn’t) and the kitchen table holds the wine rack with bottles of wine, the rice and vegetable steamer, and the Cuisinart grill. Hmmm. Maybe I can clean off the top of the refrigerator!

And wasn’t I delighted to read that they would be interested to receive my best tips and techniques and would publish them in Cooking Club magazine. Gee, should I really let the world know my best tip? When warming up the muffins that you brought home in a doggy bag from Bob’s Big Boy, do not put them in the microwave for three minutes on high unless you have a special need for hockey pucks. Surely someone already has discovered my best cooking technique – boiling water and pouring it on dehydrated potato flakes. Do be sure to fluff the results with a fork. I am sure this is a skill every good cook should know.

Man, they even want my best recipe, one that has been tested and approved by my family and friends. What do you say to that friends and family?!!? This is my chance to spread the word about my new culinary sensation and have my name and recipe in a national magazine! Let’s see, recipe, recipe, hmmmm. Say, why don’t my friends and family write in and tell me what that recipe is?

Okay, in this invitation I got a nice little recipe pad to record my culinary inventions, and a magnetized chart of measurements like 2/3 of a cup equals 158 milliliters. Boy am I glad I don’t have to do that math figuring anymore. Then there is this plastic white thing with different sized holes in it. The holes have numbers 1 through 4 under them. I’m not sure what to use this for but after studying it for a minute I think it would make a great template for drawing a cat’s paw! What that has to do with cooking, I don’t know, but I think they must have used Gordo’s paw for this design. Gordo is a BIG kitty!

Recently I journeyed out from slaving in my kitchen and visited Ostrichland down near Pea Soup Andersen Buellton and found out that they sell ostrich and emu eggs. They sell ostrich meat too but I can’t quite get myself to go that far. But the egg intrigues me. It would make one heck of an omelet. My only problem will be trying to figure out how to crack the thing. Probably have to use a hammer.

Well, thanks to a crummy colon section that has to be removed I’ve been on a low residue diet for weeks and weeks. I have to tell you there is nothing gourmet about soft chicken and fish over white rice. I really can’t understand why Asians are crazy about this rice. It has no taste and and if you don’t eat it right away it turns into a gummy, lumpy mess that would probably be better used to plugs cracks in the bathroom grouting.

So will I accept the invitation from the Cooking Club?

Get real!

COOKING TERMS GLOSSARY ALA RUTH ANN
Poaching – Stealing and it’s a sin.
Medallions – Awards of valor for cooks
Methylcellulose – Not something you want to eat!
Mouse – A small dark rodent
Blanching – Please don’t do this at the table – go to the bathroom!

Confessions of a Cooking Novice

2011-04-10T15:12:00.001-07:00

Upon reaching tender old age I realized that it was overdue for me to learn how to cook. However, a person who needs to drop 30-plus pounds probably shouldn’t start their lessons making chocolate Christmas cookies. A person should though, take lessons from a pro. Learning to cook from Mom may not be a good idea, at least not the way my Mom cooked.

Growing up, my siblings and I didn’t know any better. We thought everyone had meals like ours. It wasn’t until I made friends with some Italian girls at school and had the good fortune to be invited for dinner at their homes that I realized my Mom was not a good cook.

I think her attitude about cooking came from a deep seated conviction that there should be more to life for a female than cooking and cleaning house. Whatever the reason, our meals were bland and tasteless, so developing an educated palate required me to either learn to cook myself or eat out at good restaurants. I chose the restaurants.

I have for years been expert at turning out wonderful Marie Callender, Banquet, and Swanson TV dinners. I’ve even developed a distinguished palate regarding them voting the Marie Callender meals the best. But none of them turn out a wonderful rare and juicy steak or a sumptuous lamb chop. It was time for me to learn how to turn out a good meal.

What good fortune it was that I met a great chef just arrived on the Central Coast from New York City. And better good fortune that she wanted to learn photography, my area of expertise. A pact was formed. I would teach her how to take good photos and she would teach me how to cook. I am sure I had the easier job!

My first lesson was just before Christmas and took place at my teacher’s kitchen where all the necessary tools were available. Cookies were our goal, primarily chocolate cookies. I decked out in an appropriate Christmas red apron and began to sift the flour, crack the eggs, melt the delicious chocolate. Our goal was for cookies and chocolate truffles.

Okay, sift the flour, stir the melting chocolate, whip the eggs. Fortunately the recipes did not call for separating the egg yolk from the whites. Perhaps that will come later in my tutelage.

Oh my, it’s necessary to have three hands in the kitchen! One is stirring, one is turning down the heat on the stove, and then there is one needed for running the mixer.

I could see right away that I would need to purchase a number of tools for my kitchen. There was the Hamilton Beach Mix-Master – where do you get one of those? I haven’t seen one since growing up in the 50s. Oh yes, and sharp knives are a necessity. I have since gone out and bought new knives only to nearly slice off the top of my thumb while carving some meat. Bleeding onto your food is not a good thing. There must be a technique to using these knives.

I did get a small grill. How did I live without a grill before? This thing is a God-send. Spice up your meat, slap it on the grill, and presto, in two minutes it’s done. It beats the microwave, which before the grill was my ultimate cooking tool.

And why did I ever prepare rice in pot on the stove? Good grief there is such a thing as a rice cooker! Fill it with water, throw in the rice, set the timer, and voila, perfect rice. And for that matter perfectly steamed veggies. No more mush vegetables boiled in a pot or microwaved to death.

Yes, having the right tools definitely aids in learning how to cook. Now if I only knew what one uses turmeric for I would be rolling along.

So I watch the food channel and see all the fine chefs whipping meals together with a dash of this and a pinch of that. Oh my, well, I can take a pinch or two myself!

Ah! I needed that! Bon Appetit!

Educational Fun at Salisbury Winery

2011-02-09T16:02:00.001-08:00

It was billed as an educational day courtesy of the Central Coast Wine Growers Association and was going to be held at Salisbury Vineyards in Avila Valley and it sounded too interesting to pass up.

Traveling back and forth on Highway 101 from San Luis Obispo to places in South County I’ve often passed that distinctive building on the right side of the road that looked like an old schoolhouse. I remember seeing it years ago in a very run down dilapidated condition and would think as I whizzed by on the freeway that it would be a shame if no one did anything to save it. Well, someone did and they have turned it into an unusual combination of businesses.

The Salisbury family are farmers. John Salisbury hails from the Sacramento Delta and is a 6th generation farmer with family farming dating back to1850. He’s been growing crops there and in the San Joaquin and Imperial Valleys all his life. He often came to the Central Coast to visit his wife’s grandparents who lived in the Avila Valley. So it wasn’t too much of a leap for him to pull up stakes, purchase some prime hillside land, and plant grape vines. Thus began Salisbury Vineyards and Winery.

Salisbury, his wife Maridel, daughter Jennifer and son-in-law Kevin all got into the act and they decided to purchase the old schoolhouse, renovate it, and turn it into a tasting room and art gallery. The marriage of the two businesses worked as well as John and Maridel’s marriage. He did the vineyard, she did the art gallery.

On the day of our tour we arrived at 11 A.M. and boarded the trolley for a short ride up into the hills of the vineyard. Once there John spoke to us about his method of growing grapes. We stood amongst dormant Pinot Noir vines that had grasses and wild mustard growing beneath between the rows. John gave us a demonstration on how he prunes the vines, a laborious process done with clippers by hand. I can imagine that it takes many days to finish this task.

John told us about clones and weather and irrigation and sustainability and bottling and aging until my head hurt, but all of it was a good lesson for a neophyte learning about the special wine industry here on the Central Coast.

I learned what it means when someone says “fruit forward” and I realized that I like that style of wine. I found myself signing up for Club Avila: the After-School Wine Club and went home with three bottles of my favorites after tasting. I especially liked the Pinot Naturale, a sparkling wine without the sparkle!

So the next time you are flying down the freeway toward Pismo Beach and glance over and see the old schoolhouse, now sparkling in the sun, veer off at San Luis Bay Drive and stop in and take a seat at the bar and enjoy some of the selections at Salisbury Vineyards. You won’t regret it.

Salisbury Vineyards and the Schoolhouse Tasting Room are located at 6985 Ontario Road, San Luis Obispo (Avila Valley). Open Mon – Thurs from noon to 5 P.M.; Fri – Sun from 11 A.M. to 6 P.M.

It’s Not Wine and Roses, It’s Wine and FOOD!

2010-10-28T16:53:00.000-07:00

The days drift into fall and we anticipate enjoying the fruits of the vines that have been ripening for months in the sun. The weather that was fickle all summer sent contradictory messages to the budding grapes. Growers and winemakers cast dubious eyes at them, questioning in their minds as to what the final outcome would be.But finally the day dawns and it is harvest. Picking starts early right at sunrise. The workers can’t resist taking a taste as they snip away freeing the clusters from their prison of vines. And it tastes good!

Soon it is time for the harvest parties, some great noisy affairs, others more genteel. We join the group at Per Cazo Cellars on a balmy Sunday afternoon to sit with friends by the pool and sample the fine wine.

Per Cazo, means “by chance” and many of us share the same story having stumbled upon the place during the summer, by chance. A pleasant discovery to find this small family winery run by Lynne and Dave Teckman that sits adjacent to a bubbling creek amidst the oak trees.

Today we sample five new releases starting with a blend of three white Rhone varietals, Grenache Blanc, Roussanne, and Viognier called Tres Blanc. We pair this with an interesting cheese that has bits of apricot in it.

Then we go on to the Reds, ZinG, a blend of Zinfandel and Grenache, Epi Telos, that blends Grenache, Mourvedre, and Syrah, and Confluent, blending Cabernet Sauvignon, Petit Verdot, and Cabernet Franc. We enjoy this with outstanding cuisine created by Master Chef, Nanette Smalley of Simply Delicious.

Nanette serves us pork tenderloin with plum sauce, a salad of quinoa (a grain), lentils, celery root in white wine vinegar with bleu cheese, a boysenberry/cheese tart, and a piece of heavenly chocolate.

We top off our repast with Per Cazo’s Late Harvest selection that is 100% Zinfandel. Actually not only the chocolate is heavenly, the whole spread is!

Time slips by and we are enjoying the company, sharing our choices of our favorite wines and wineries, and finding out little bits about the lives of these new friends that we have met today. Even Matti the Teckman’s dog gets into the groove.

We wish we could stay longer. One day we will because the Teckman’s don’t just have a wine business. There is a cozy bed and breakfast here too. Next time we’ll plan an overnight or a weekend at Creekside B&B – along with wine tasting, of course! You should try it too!

Fall, Season of Color

2010-10-24T15:00:00.001-07:00

It slips in quietly one night in the wee hours of September, barely noticed, on an unusually warm breeze. No one realizes at first, but then slowly it becomes obvious that something has changed. The long languid days of summer are gone. It’s Fall.

Charged up now with the days becoming shorter, the temperature finally gives in and comes down a notch or two. Driving on the back country roads bring glimpses of color here and there. But Fall is subtle on the Central Coast of California and it takes some doing to search for its splendor.

Birds have no trouble finding the season’s gifts. They gorge themselves on berries until they dance in the sky with drunkenness. Beware blackberries, ollaliberries, boysenberries, and raspberries, you will be plucked until your vines are bare. People love them too and welcome these luscious fruits for pies and tarts.

The fields have all turned brown and gold, some alive with bright orange pumpkins. Farmstands do a brisk business selling this fruit that will grace the walkways, steps, and windows as jack-o-lanterns on Halloween. And there is corn and gourds and squashes galore.

The grape harvest is mostly done and vineyards begin to show the seasonal change too as wineries hold festivals and parties to celebrate.

It’s Fall, the season of color!

Jottings 7-4-10

2010-07-04T15:17:00.000-07:00

Already it has happened. The hills that were Ireland green have gone a golden blond. Fields lie trimmed down with grasses drawn into rectangular building blocks and huge jelly rolls of hay dot the landscape. Soon the bundles will be drawn into barns to be parceled out to cattle and horses as the dry season draws out. The garden plants await a weekly drink and vegetable fields enjoy their daily drenching flowing from snakes of irrigation lines.

In North County the heat shimmers off the land by midday. Cows search for shade under the gnarled oak trees. People lounge in the pool while others zoom by on the freeway, blissful in refrigeration. Now the grapes are visible on the vines, the beans are sprouting, and soon even pumpkins will start to color the fields.

Roses do well in the heat. Massive bushes of them line the rows of grape vines. Not so by the coast where those that have been planted by immigrants from areas with warm summers struggle to survive in the cool, moist air. Roses, after all, are from the cactus family and more suited to desert-like climates.

Down on the coast the dense, impenetrable fog drifts up the coastal mountains painting everything in gray. Tourists decked out in shorts and tank tops run shivering into shops to buy sweatshirts. And everyone worries that fireworks will fade into the gloom.

The brief season of green is over.

Two distinct regions within 25 miles of each other, but two widely different climates. Even directly on the coast, pockets of balmy weather allow avocados and citrus to flourish.

This year the green came early to the fields thanks to the life giving rains that each year start later and later. And so we relished romping through fields of storkbill filaree, tiny yellow dandelions, and splashy orange poppies for a time. It was even delightful to see the dreaded oxalis sprouting in the lawns in town. Miles and miles of tall, yellow mustard plants grew by the roadsides. Now the stalks sway in the warm breezes, bleached of color, awaiting the blades of the mowing machines to knock them down to make the countryside safe from wildfire.

The small birds that were so busy just weeks ago nesting and raising young have already pushed their offspring out of the house and are settling back into small flocks that spend the early hours of the day searching for insects in the roadside scrub. The cats are eager to go out and join them, not for insect searching, but to sneak around and stalk trying for a catch. One must keep a watch at the window to yell at them should they get too close. "No birds!" There are unsuspecting gophers that need routing, but are not as enticing as the sparrow and the finches.

Four fat pigeons sit up on the wires and mourning doves join them, but not too close. All of them assess the birdfeeder on the balcony below. Is it filled with seed today? The doves are welcome, but one could do without the pigeons. Why don't they try New York?

Down on the waterfront the bay is calm in the morning and might stay that way all day now that the winds of spring have gone to rest for another year. But without the wind the marine layer hangs down and fog drifts back and forth across the water.

The sea and sky blend together into one great mass of grayness. The only splash of color comes from the red and green buoys in the channel. Boats head out for a day of fishing or whale watching. Tourists wake, and begin strolling the waterfront in search of breakfast. Shopkeepers open their doors.

It is finally summer on the coast of California.

The Day the Music Died - Reprise

2010-05-31T16:12:00.000-07:00

I’ll never think of Cinco de Mayo in the same way. This is a celebration I wasn’t familiar with growing up in the northeastern part of the country, but after moving to California in the 60s I became acquainted with it and have enjoyed it every year since. But no more.

I thought the day the music died was the day Phil Ochs hung himself over the bathroom door in his sister’s house.

I thought the day the music died was when that damn idiot shot John Lennon for no reason at all.
I often thought the music had died every time someone I knew from the 60s music scene in Greenwich Village passed on way too early in their lives.

For me, the music died on Cinco de Mayo this year when my wonderful friend Steven Richard See succumbed to melanoma.

I moved west with the Ochs and others from the folk music world in 1968 when the recording industry gave up on Manhattan and relocated to Los Angeles. Oddly enough Los Angeles didn’t offer me the musical world I was accustomed to. I searched for it but it seemed to have disappeared. Eventually I gave up looking. Until I came to Morro Bay. Lo and behold, here was the folk music/singer-songwriter world I was missing. Predominant among the offerings were the intimate little concerts held at Coalesce Book Store and put on by some guy who billed them as The Cambria Hoot.

I was one of the predominant writers for a pulp called San Luis Obispo County Magazine. I wrote about nature, agriculture, art, and music. One day Steve called me, came over to the house, and we talked folk music for hours. Then we talked about our cats. He told me how he fed the strays no matter where he lived. A cat man is definitely someone special.

A friendship was forged and I wrote articles about the concerts he was promoting.

In 2007 I was stricken with breast cancer. It was a blow and I wasn’t sure I would survive, but most of all, I had no idea how I was going to manage to continue to work. Since I am a freelance writer, I have no employer supplied benefits and have no independent disability insurance. My choices were to do nothing about the cancer and continue to work or treat the cancer, disabling myself, and starve to death with no money. I needed help.

Two friends in particular came through for me and Steve was one of them. As a cancer survivor himself, he knew what I was going through. He put on a fantastic fundraiser for me. He asked Dave Stamey to perform and donate the proceeds to me. Dave, the best Western music performer ever, agreed. The money raised by that concert kept me going for more than a year.

To say I was grateful is an immense understatement.Since that time, Steve kept in touch with me, calling every few months if he didn’t see me at a concert or at the post office, checking up on me to make sure I was okay. He told me to come to any concert, free of charge. I never took him up on that. And of course, we would talk about our cats.

Ultimately I ran out of money. He called one day and I said, “I think I have to file bankruptcy.” He replied, “do it!” Then proceeded to tell me of his own adventure down that road.

A couple months ago he called me. I was glad because I hadn’t seen him around or at the post office and I wondered why. When he told me the reason, I was just dismayed. How could that cancer come back after so long. We talked about his options and I didn’t want to think that there weren’t any. His concern was twofold – for his mother and he said, for two friends who needed money help. I was one of the two. He still wanted to do some kind of fundraiser again. I remember telling him that his concern had to be himself and what could be done to combat this awful cancer. Then we talked about our cats, like we always had before.

I received one more call from him. His opening comment when he called was “How are you doing? Are things better?” Not a comment about himself. I had to ask how he was and things did not sound good. Again he reiterated how awful he felt for his mother, who it appeared would have to endure losing a son. I didn’t want to believe it. I wouldn’t accept it. And what about the cats?

On April 21^st I suffered a stubborn irregular heartbeat that gave me a ride in the ambulance and a stay at French Hospital. When finally released, but unstable still, I came home and dialed Steve’s number. Fortunate for me, he answered. He asked how I was and I told him of my latest episode. “But I want to know about you,” I said. I could tell from the sound of his voice, it wasn’t good news.I knew he was surrounded by friends and everyone was helping. I wished I was in better shape myself so I could spend some time with him, but it wasn’t to be.

I got the e-mail announcing the “final” hoot concert. How could there be a final Hoot? The e-mail said Steve wouldn’t be there. I couldn’t imagine never attending another Hoot concert. Who will carry on the music?

Cinco de Mayo dawned. Sometime during that day, Steve made his transition from this planet.

I didn’t cry immediately. I just couldn’t believe I would never talk to him again. I wandered around my house with my skippy-beating heart trying to comprehend. I thought about all he did for people. How he made sure the music kept coming and never made much money on the enterprise. I called up in my mind what his voice sounded like. I remembered every one of our conversations.

About the music.

About politics.

About money.

About the cats.

Oh the cats!

Who will feed the cats? Who will feed the cats? Who will feed the cats?

Wildflower Season

2010-05-29T14:53:00.000-07:00

The last really good year for wildflowers on the Central Coast of California was 2005. Photographers waited these long five years for another spectacular display and this year the rains did their job and we have been blessed by blooms everywhere. People suffering from allergies were miserable but couldn't help exclaiming that it was worth it.

This was the first year since my spinal fusion surgery that I ventured out to take shots of the blooms. Back in '05 I was still able to get down on the ground to get those intimate and close-up views, but no more. So it meant I had to get creative in order to take the shots I wanted.

First of all, I didn't have to go too far to try a new method. A short trot down the street I found wildflowers in abundance at the Presbyterian Church. I decided to just stick the camera in amongst the blooms and take the shot and see what would happen. The results were interesting. So I ventured a little farther down that road to the State Park.

Here I found some nice flowers but getting to them required a bit of ingenuity and prayer on my part, hoping not to stick my foot in a gopher hole and break my ankle or pick up a tick. The results here were not too bad either.

Now you have to have a liking for ANY wildflower in this area and that includes Oxalis. Most serious gardeners and people with lovely green lawns hate the stuff, but you have to agree it makes a showy display when it is at it's height. I suppose I can be smug since my gardener got it out of my garden, but don't ask me how he did it. At any rate, since it was abundantly growing everywhere, I included it in my photographic efforts.

Well, the time came for me to take my photo students out to shoot wildflowers, so one fine Spring day we drove out Route 58 to Shell Creek Road and joined the throngs of people cavorting among miles and miles of yellow, purple, and blue wildflowers.

My students set right to it throwing themselves down flat and focusing closely on Tidy Tips, Owl's clover, Baby Blue Eyes, and tiny white flowers for which I have no name. I took lots of overall shots and then set up my camp stool and my tiny low-to-the ground tripod. Mounted the camera on the tripod, leaned over, and pushed the button. Views of the blooms from insect's perspective registered on my data card.

Now I have to tell you this is not the same as doing serious macro photography, but the one thing it did for me was allow me to break out of a mold and take some photos that I might never have thought to try. Sometimes one's disabilities open up all kinds of possibilities.So here is my wildflower season of 2010. Enjoy!

It's next to impossible to get these images in on this miserable Blogger where I want them so bear with me.

Sometimes its best to type some text and then place the photos -- sometimes, but not always, this works! It isn't working this time, sorry!

The Wind and the Waves

2010-05-29T13:44:00.000-07:00

Montana de Oro is a park with over 8000 acres of rugged cliffs, secluded sandy beaches, streams, canyons, coastal plains, and hills. “Mountain of Gold” is the English translation for this naturalist and backpacker heaven

The name came from Irene McAlister a former property owner who fancied finding black gold in the hills. Her ranch and prospective oil field went bankrupt in the 60’s and the state purchased the lands. But even the State Parks offer the flower explanation for the name, officially stating that “Mountain of Gold comes from the golden wildflowers that bloom in spring.”

Hiking is probably the most popular activity at the park and there are numerous trails to try. One of the easiest is the Bluffs Trail. Here there are great views of the park’s eroded marine terraces and its offshore sea stack, Grotto Rock. The flat trail winds along the top of Montana de Oro’s shale and sediment bluffs that are constantly being formed and reformed by the pounding ocean.

At low tide Corallina Cove has tidepools with ochre sea stars, urchins, anemones, and sea snails. Harbor seals lounge on the rocks and sea otters bob around in the surf.

Valencia Peak is the tallest spot in the park. It is two miles to the top of the peak at an elevation of 1,347 feet. On a clear day the view extends from Point Sal in the South to Piedras Blancas in the north.

Other trails are the Coon Creek that follows the creek and has coastal sage scrub alongside, with oak and pine woodlands on the steep side slopes. Another popular walk is to Hazard Reef where through coastal scrub and sand dunes to the beach.

At Spooner’s Cove, located right across from the Visitor Center, enjoy the ocean and watch as waves surge through the colorful rock outcroppings. Here you can practice photographing the waves trying both stop action and motion. Enjoy!

The Problem with Plastic

2010-02-04T15:04:00.000-08:00

When I first came to California I took a job doing public relations for the plastics industry. Plastic was touted as the most significant invention of the modern era. It literally changed our lives, replacing glass, paper, fabric, and metal in many cases. Take a look around your house and see how much plastic is there.

While plastic has in many cases made our lives easier, it has turned out to be a death sentence for many species of wildlife. That fact came home to me recently while working on a project about plastic trash. I needed to find, or take, photos of birds and mammals affected by plastic and trash in our waterways. I am happy to say that this turned out to be a very difficult assignment, at least in the Morro Bay, California area.

Searching the internet I turned up those awful photos of the albatross that had died and decomposed showing the bits and pieces of plastic that they had ingested. In some of the shots you can see whole cigarette lighters were in their stomachs. Where on earth could they have gotten them and why did they eat them?

Maybe you’ve heard of it. The great North Pacific Gyre. It’s located out in the middle of the northern Pacific Ocean and it is about the size of the state of Texas and growing every day. It is an enormous revolving mass of trash. A gyre is a swirl, an eddy, a spin, a whirlpool that revolves around and around in the same spot. Where does all this trash, most of it plastic, come from? US!

Every item washed down the drains, down the rivers and creeks, or thrown upon the beaches, or accumulating in our landfills inevitably travels out to sea, and with the currents, ends up in this whirlpool of garbage.

Now we recycle plastic objects all the time, or at least I hope we do. But some types of plastic are not recyclable, get thrown in the trash, and either never biodegrade, or take so long to decompose that they might as well be considered indestructible. This is the problem with plastic.

You’ve all seen pictures of sea lions with some kind of line wrapped around their necks. Most of the time that line is plastic fishing line. If it is not removed it will eventually cut into the flesh of the animal causing infection that can kill. Cast away pieces of fishing gear are a problem in our waterways.

While taking a group of participants at the Morro Bay Winter Bird Festival on a cruise of the bay this fact became all too evident when we turned our binoculars on a double-crested cormorant perched on a floating dock. Look carefully at the photo at the top of this article. It is of that cormorant. You will see protruding from its left wing some whitish line entangled around the bird’s wing. It’s fishing line. I asked the captain of our vessel if he sees a lot of problems with plastic in the bay and he said only birds with hooks and fishing line attached. He sees that all the time.

Fishing line isn’t the only plastic problem here. Those plastic six-pack holders also end up encircling birds’ necks. And now we’ve heard that the styrene food containers that you get at restaurants for your leftovers or at the take-out food establishments are really a menace. Styrene eventually breaks up into little tiny bits of plastic that look just like fish food. I think you can see where this is going. Even plankton, the most minute of organisms, ingest plastic. Plankton is the base of the food chain in the ocean and is the one food that feeds a majority of sea creatures from the smallest fish on up to the largest whale. Imagine what these bits of plastic are doing to all these creatures.

This is a global problem. The garbage in the North Pacific Gyre will never go away. It only grows larger. And there are four more gyres in other sections of the Pacific. There are 11 other gyres spread in oceans around the world. All full of man’s garbage.

We refer to our planet as the water world. Will we one day be better known as the trash world. It is beyond reversing the problem that already exists, but it certainly is not beyond keeping it from growing. Each individual must take the responsibility for stopping this problem. What can you do? Here are just a few suggestions. Try to think of more.

Ask the restaurants you frequent to switch to biodegradable take-out containers.
Stop using plastic grocery bags.
Make sure your fishing gear stays out of the water.
And recycle, recycle, recycle!
We do not have to become a garbage planet.

Here's another photo showing just one of the waterfront problems with plastic and garbage. This industrious gull worked hard to capture this plastic bag full of our trash!

And then there was this pelican dumpster diving . . .

Reflections

2010-01-04T15:23:00.001-08:00

Good riddance to 2009! Sure there were some good things during the year but on the whole it was a really punk 12 months and not just for me, but for tons of folks who lost their jobs, lost their homes, and in some ways lost their faith.

2009 found me to be truly ranked among the poor for the first time in my life. Were it not for friends who literally floated funds to me, I expect I could be bedding down with Gordo in my PT Cruiser by now. So the ending of this miserable decade got me to reflecting, as many of us do at this time of year, of the Christmases past.

Working back I tried to remember Christmases and suddenly I realized that although I recall Christmas 2008, I cannot drag up any pictures of what Christmas 2007 was like. Now at that time I was in the full throttle of chemotherapy for breast cancer so perhaps the memory lapse is not unusual. Still, I pondered, not being able to bring up any visions of that year's Christmas was troubling. What else have I forgotten?

They say that it's not uncommon for chemo to affect memory. But I don't think I can blame my lapse on lethal chemistry. For the most part, except for doing what I can to help others going through that horror, I consciously try to forget that entire hellish year. In so doing I realized that I have done an injustice to many people who were there for me while battling cancer and now at my year-end reflections it is time to set things straight.

Thank you to everyone who helped with encouraging words, and to those who cooked, washed, cleaned, and fed the cat while I lay about in misery. Certainly thank you to those who put money in my account so I could pay my bills. And on that note I have to talk about some individuals who went above and beyond to raise money for me.

When I was first diagnosed, I wasn't so much worried that I would die, but I worried that I would be homeless because I was unable to work and had no recourse to funds from state disability since I was self employed. This fact is what drove me to swallow my pride and do something that is alien to me, ask for help.

I didn't have to say much to my good friend Michael Williams who immediately organized a fundraising barbecue at his place of business. Friends, staff from San Luis Sports Therapy, and the Morro Bay Rotary all attended and pitched in.

I really swallowed my pride a bit later on when I asked my special friend Steve See if he could stage a benefit concert for me. Steve is our local music promoter extraordinaire. I knew if anyone could manage to bring in the dollars, it was Steve, and I knew also that he wouldn't think to say no, because that's the kind of guy he is.

Steve is a cancer survivor himself so he knows the fear associated with that kind of diagnosis. And as I recalled the event he put on for me at the San Luis Obispo Odd Fellows Hall, I realized that it had taken place just after the holiday season of 2007. I remember everything about that night.

Steve had asked Western singer/songwriter Dave Stamey to perform for the benefit. Dave is also a friend of mine ever since I first met him to interview him for an article I wrote for San Luis Obispo Magazine. When I found out Dave had volunteered to perform for free so that all the money for the concert would go to me, I was overwhelmed. That night the people who follow the performances of Dave Stamey came out for the concert and Steve managed to raise enough money for me to live on for the next year.

Am I grateful? There are no words to express it. I sing out to my heroes, the unsung folks who helped put on the concert, ran the silent auction, and all those people I don't know who came and contributed. But most of all to Michael, Dave, and Steve.

Where does this bring me now? Well, I'm less afraid to ask for help if I need it. But I worry about those who are suffering and are afraid and are paralyzed, not knowing where to turn. But I know there are many in this community who would help, if they asked.

2010 has GOT to be better! Oh yes, we say that every year, but really, how much lower could we go? I think 2010 is the year for us to pull together and truly help our neighbor. Be aware of the invisible poor. Those people who appear on the surface to be okay, but who may be dealing with hunger, can't pay their bills, or are facing the loss of their homes. Take a good look around. There is someone YOU KNOW who needs your help, but isn't letting on. Start asking your neighbors and friends how they are doing. You may be surprised as to what you will find out. Help make 2010 a truly happy NEW year!

Gordo's Marvelous New Year's Adventure

2010-01-04T15:19:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve is nothing special at our house. We eat a nice dinner; mine was roast beef, macaroni and cheese and peas, and Gordo and Thomas had salmon pate. Then it's lounging on the sofa, watching the idiots in Times Square, suffering through the awful entertainment, and watching the ball go down while holding a quarter in our hand. The idea is that this is to assure that you will have money throughout the coming year. Well, truth be told I held a dollar bill. I figured a dollar might work better than a quarter. At 12:03 it's off to bed, me in my room and Thomas on the sofa and Gordo on the top of the love seat. Ah bliss! The New Year! It's got to be better than any of those awful "ohs" – 00 to 09.

At 4:45 A.M. Thomas and Gordo started their New Year's celebration. I couldn't help but notice since they played it out on either side of me on the bed. I arose and trotted to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out the remains of the salmon pate and plopped a portion in each of their bowls. They inhaled it in two minutes while I took a bathroom break.

Now Thomas is not my cat. He just likes to eat and sleep here. He also goes outside while Gordo is strictly an indoor kitty. Gordo is fine with that. He's never shown any interest in going out nor has he ever tried. So it was more than a shock to feel him whiz by my legs as I let Thomas out the back door.

I yelled, "No Gordo!" as I followed him down the back steps and up the back path. Now mind you, I was in my nightie. No robe. It was 5 A.M. and dark and I didn't have my glasses on. Thank goodness I had slippers on or I would have been hopping over the pebbles in my bare feet.

I kept calling, "Gordo, come here Gordo," as he kept moving on, stopping to sniff at all the other kitty calling cards on the bushes. Each time he did that I lunged for him hoping to grab him. But Gordo weighs close to 18 pounds and it's just not that easy for me to snag him, lift him up, and keep hold of him. And remember, I was in my scant nightie, and it was cold.

It occurred to me that someone in the houses nearby might hear me but I had to keep calling, "Gordo, Gordo." I figured there was a good chance that the police might arrive to find out what the crazy lady is doing running around the neighborhood in the wee hours of the morning in her nightie.

Without my glasses I could barely see Gordo, but thankfully there was a full moon shining, lighting up the surroundings. By now Thomas was egging Gordo on and as I trotted after him, Gordo took a turn to the left and started running down the driveway of the house next door. "Oh no," I cried, and ran after him with Thomas on my heels

"Gordo, come here Gordo," I called and called hoping against hope that he wouldn't find the holes in the back fence and go through them into the yard beyond where I couldn't follow. But Gordo is not outdoor savvy so the fence just appeared as a barrier to him. He turned left again and began to dash back up the driveway closer to the neighbors' house. Once again he stopped to sniff the calling cards on the flowers. I grabbed hard, but he pulled away from me and now Thomas joined him and side by side they ran, jumping and leaping, into the neighbors' front yard heading for the low wall. If they scaled that it would bring them into the yard of the next house down the street without me being close behind. Then who knows where they would head.

What would happen to Gordo if he ventured too far and couldn't find his way back? He has a microchip in him, but no collar and no tag. Would anyone finding him be smart enough to turn him in to the Shelter where the chip would be discovered? All these thoughts were racing through my mind.

So I ran fast to get between the cats and the wall to divert them. They took off back towards the street and up by my yard. Almost out of breath now, still calling, "Gordo, Gordo," I sprinted behind them. It looked like he and Thomas were going to continue their mad moonlit race up the street so fast that I wouldn't be able to keep up. Just as I thought all was lost, I saw Thomas running up the street, and he was alone. Where was Gordo?

He had abruptly veered off, turned right and scooted down my back path, up the stairs, and back into the house. Hooray! Thank God I had left the back door ajar! I raced down the path and into the house and slammed the door shut. "Good boy, Gordo!" I cried, although I would have liked to kill him! He just stared at me with a look that said, "What's the big deal, how about a bowl?"

Well, Happy New Year after all. But now Gordo knows the outside and how do I keep him down on the farm after he's seen Paree!!

Gee, if this was the start of MY new year, what will the rest of it hold for me?

Days At Sea Part 2

2009-11-21T14:48:00.000-08:00

(Because Blogger doesn't let me move postings around, this second article is showing up first. If you haven't read Days At Sea Part 1, scroll down and do that first.)

Wednesday and we are all day on the ocean waters without going ashore. I sleep in because lying prone I am not dizzy and when sleeping I can't tell if the ship is moving or not. This is my cure for Malaise del Mar and seemed better than taking pills – but I took those too!

So aside from sleeping, what is there to do while trapped on board sailing? Well, on this ship you can gamble. No thank you. You can play bingo. No thank you. Shop. Too expensive. Go to the Spa. Really too expensive. Attend the Battle of the Sexes Game Show. Good grief. Oh yes, and drink. Are you serious? While rolling and pitching? There are special events like the guy hawking diamonds and emeralds in the Grand Atrium who got on at the last port and gets off at the next. Or you can listen to the intense little fellow hawking the benefits of acupuncture in the Pearl Martini Lounge or learn about anti-aging solutions in the "Look Younger in Just Minutes" presentation in the Gatsby's Lounge or better yet, make a fool of yourself and do Karaoke. Oh, God help me!

Our group had two nice lectures by Jim Covel from the Monterey Aquarium, "Life on the Edge" in the morning and "Our Oceans" in the afternoon and that night I did another digital photography workshop. In between I read the real life adventures of some fool who took a job on a cruise ship. Why would anyone who isn't trying to escape from a communist nation do that?

We did enjoy lunch and dinner as usual but not with the captain. Usually on cruise ships there is a dinner with the captain. Not on the Norwegian Star. If you wanted to dine with the captain you had to go below into the hold and eat with the crew. I don't know, maybe the captain was shy. But the absence of the captain's dinner did irk some members of our group. They did finally assuage their desire for some kind of audience with the guy driving the ship by signing up to have a formal picture taken with the captain. I'll bet he just loved that!

Day four and before sunrise we slide under the Golden Gate Bridge in the fog entering into San Francisco Bay. I peek out the messy porthole window to film us passing under some bridge in the misty dark that turns out to be the Oakland Bay Bridge and we dock next to it. Then right after breakfast we are on our bus and off to Marin County for a tour of the Marine Mammal Center.

The Center is the ultimate ending-up place for critters that need rehabilitation due to illness or injury. This year, like so many years past, there are many sick California sea lions suffering from domoic acid poisoning. The Center has nice new facilities for their patients and a wonderful staff and volunteers who care for the ailing sea mammals. We get to watch as the volunteers and the vets do a first time check-up on a new sea lion patient.

This facility has come a long way since my last visit of about six years ago when the pens were a bit primitive and there were no labs or kitchens as there are now. At that time the staff did necropsies on dead marine mammals in the back of a shed. It was really great to see how they have advanced and how this certainly contributes to giving better care to these unfortunate animals.

Our next stop was back in the city at Golden Gate Park for our afternoon the California Academy of Sciences. Now, I could spend days in this place and know that surely a return visit will have to happen. The museum has a planetarium, a rainforest, a two and one-half acre rooftop covered in native grasses and plants, and many interactive exhibits. They have a Philippine coral reef, an African Hall with live penguins, a swamp, Islands of Evolution, an aquarium with 38,000 animals, and more.

We knew we had to see the planetarium and take a ride to the edge of the universe, and then it was on to the Rainforest, a four story exhibit that is seen by traversing the walkway starting in the treetops of Costa Rica and wending down to the flooded Amazon floor. On the way there are tropical plants, free-flying equatorial birds and butterflies, chameleons from Madagascar, a bat cave from Borneo, and on the bottom an underwater tunnel where you gaze up at piranha and catfish. This was a photographic heaven and I could have spent hours taking pictures of the vibrantly colored butterflies and birds. But I had to see it all, so next it was up to the rooftop.

Here there are seven grass and flower covered hummocks with weird looking porthole windows that let light into the area below. This living roof provides insulation, absorbs rainwater preventing runoff, and is a habitat for area birds, butterflies and insects. It qualifies the museum as a truly green building.

Our afternoon ended too soon and we were due back on board ship to sail once again. That night we learned more about our night sky from a presentation by Rouvaishyana, our state park ranger, entitled "International Year of Astronomy 2009." After that we all felt like going up on the top deck to look at stars and w probably would have if we weren't too pooped and if it hadn't been overcast.

Our next day was another day at sea with two lectures by Jim called "Oceans of Inspiration" and "Our California Heritage." It was that or attend the towel animal folding demonstration or buy Colombian emeralds at 50% off. Oh no!

We did have a truly fun time way up top above the bridge looking for whales before going in for an hour long private reception in the Star Bar where we found out that some state park rangers could moonlight as piano bar entertainers. After munching hors d'ouevres and downing Caribbean drinks, we still had room for a last dinner in the dining room and then another night sleeping on the rolling ocean.

I will spare you all the agony of our last day's departure at the port of Los Angeles except to say that if the port does not have elevator facilities working then they shouldn't allow people off ships dragging their stuffed 75 pound luggage behind them. I don't know. Others managed not to kill themselves bumping their suitcases down two flight of stairs or perching precariously with them on a swift moving escalator, but I knew better than to even try that. And it didn't matter. I could have waited and gotten off later when the elevator was running because the bus we were supposed to get promptly at 9 AM didn't go to the Los Angeles port. It was waiting for us at the Queen Mary in Long Beach. Didn't someone tell the bus driver, the Queen Mary no longer sails. It's a hotel.

Did I enjoy the trip? Absolutely! Would I do it again? Not a chance.

Our Stateroom on the 4th Deck just above Crew Quarters

Norwegian Star Pool Deck

Towel Animal

Marine Mammal Center - Treating a sea lion

Marine Mammal Center Treatment Board

Marine Mammal Center Scientists at work

Violaceous euphonia - tropical bird in Rainforest exhibit at California Academy of Science

Tropical Butterflies at California Academy of Science

Days At Sea

2009-10-28T11:03:00.000-07:00

Go on a cruise? Paid for by someone else? Well, SURE! That's what I said when I was offered a free trip on the Natural History Association's nature cruise aboard the Norwegian Star. Eight days traveling from Vancouver, B.C. to Los Angeles on this ship line's repositioning cruise. Stops were planned at Victoria, B.C., Astoria, Oregon, and San Francisco where in each location our group would tour some interesting nature spots as well as natural history museums. Days at sea would offer not just leisure, but lectures by professional environmental people, and I would do two digital photography workshops.

This was my first time at sea. Probably it will be my last time too. Now, don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the trip and especially the company I traveled with. But I am just not a sailor. Maybe it's just my middle ear problem or maybe it's my inexact sense of balance, but the continual bobbing motion of even as large a vessel as the Norwegian Star knocked me off my pins. Oh, I didn't get sick. Naturally I took my little seasick pills, even though I don't really think I needed them. I just never could get my sea legs. And I found it frustrating to try and take photos with the floor rising and falling, rising and falling. Still, I managed

to take over 300 pictures.

Our first day began with a bus trip from Morro Bay to the San Francisco Airport. This in itself was an adventure since we had to board the bus at 5 A.M. in the pitch dark of night, and help guide the bus driver, who only spoke Spanish, out of the State Park without having him kill the numerous mule deer that mingle on lower state park road in the we hours. Except for the fact that we had no rest stop break, the rest of that ride was uneventful and most of us slept our way north.

We went through the usual harangue getting through security and customs to board our Air Canada flight to Vancouver. The plane was very comfortable and the flight smooth. Finding our bus that would take us to our hotel was another challenge, but finally we arrived at the Delta Vancouver Airport Hotel in Richmond.

Not having had much of a chance for food all day, my roommate and I decided on an early dinner at the hotel's restaurant, The Elephant Pub, where we found the food and ambiance to be exceptionally good. I skipped a reception for our group to join up with a friend of mine who lives in Point Roberts, Washington, just across the border. Point Roberts is located right on the Puget Sound and is truly a picturesque spot set amidst a tall northern pine and fir forest.

We stopped at a store on the Canadian side for me to buy some tapes for my video camera and I discovered that American currency isn't worth much. The exchange rate was perfectly even. I remember times when traveling to Canada meant getting more for my money, but not anymore.

Our first day of touring brought us to Stanley Park, the largest park in Canada, and the Vancouver Aquarium. While this place won't rival our Monterey Aquarium, it outdid itself with its dolphins and beluga whales. We also enjoyed our experience in their theater presentation with the new 4th dimension that included tingling sensations on our legs and light little bursts of water splashing us that matched the ocean spray in the film. It was fun.

The rest of the large park located at the water's edge has trails through tall trees, playing fields, a display of brightly painted totem poles, and more.We learned that the Vancouver area has the largest Chinese population in North America beating out San Francisco. Many Chinese left Hong Kong when the communists took over and they brought their money with them, buying large houses selling for upwards of half a million dollars, with cash.

We drove through Chinatown in downtown Vancouver, but our bus driver told us that the majority of Chinese people live in the adjacent town of Richmond.

Soon it was time to board our ship. By some clever twist of fate, we were the last group to arrive at the dock and had virtually no need to wait in any long lines. We just made a mad dash up the runway and went immediately to our staterooms to grab our life jackets and race back to deck seven for lifeboat drill, always a sobering activity.

After unpacking we made our way to deck 12, the open deck where the pool is located, for the Sail Away Party and Barbecue. Tall bon voyage drinks were pressed into our hands and we filled up on munchies as the ship left port.

The Norwegian Star offers freestyle cruising. What this means is you can do whatever you want, there is no schedule. Well, in actuality that wasn't exactly true because there was a schedule of daily activities, which involved various musical events, raffles, games, liquor tasting, gambling, and more. Dining was about the only thing that was really freestyle since there was no assigned seating in either of the dining rooms and there was always the option of eating in the Market Café that served food cafeteria style. This suited pretty much everyone and the food was good no matter what dining area was chosen.

Most of the activities that the ship offered involved spending extra money or were so inane they didn't interest us. So it was nice that we had our own meeting room on the 12th deck to enjoy the nature lectures that were planned.

We cruised all night through calm waters to Victoria and after breakfast disembarked to find our transportation to the Royal British Columbia Museum where a special exhibit called Treasures featured special items from the British Museum. The Treasures spanned from 12,000 BC to 2006 AD from all areas in the world.

The rest of the museum featured their special natural history displays that told the stories of the animals and humans inhabiting British Columbia throughout history.

The museum was great but I hadn't been in Victoria in over 20 years and wanted to at least walk the waterfront and photograph the scenes including the Capitol, the waterfront, and the famous Empress Hotel before we had to board our bus.

Then we enjoyed a drive to the other side of the island where we hiked in lovely Goldstream Provincial Park. I loved walking beside the flowing stream and viewing the forest. I think I was treating a case of tree withdrawal by walking slowly and wallowing in the grandeur of leaves and limbs with the dappled light shining through them.

We were back on the ship at 4:30 PM, enjoyed our dinner and then we started to sail. Now we were leaving the protected inner waters of Puget Sound and went rounding the tip of the Olympic Peninsula into the open ocean. Oh my! This was not the time to be up on the 12th deck! I was determined to get photos as we sailed around the bend, but finally had to give up and get below where the heaving and ho-ing was a lot less. Everyone else enjoyed an evening nature lecture which was held in our special meeting room on the 12 deck. I decided not to go and took meclazine and stayed below in our cabin on the 4th deck.

The next day dawned and if I wanted to eat I had to go above. I wobbled and weaved my way to the Market Café where I enjoyed having breakfast with an older couple from Toronto, Canada whose final destination would be Las Vegas. It was my guess that they enjoyed the casino onboard. We had a lengthy discussion about health care reform and how much they appreciated their system in Canada.

The group was heading off the ship in Astoria to tour the Lewis and Clark Historical Park and Fort Clatsop. I decided to skip this tour and stay on board in port. But first all of us had to go through US Customs. What a trial, standing in line waiting and waiting to finally reach a grim-faced official who looked over our passports for a few seconds and then stamped the official seal on a ticket to use when leaving the ship. This process took hours and hours before all 2000+ people got through the line.

I wasn't upset about skipping the tour. My legs were tired from the previous day's hiking and from trying to keep my balance while we sailed. My day wasn't dull though as I got to film the crew's lifeboat drill where they actually launched all the lifeboats on one side of the ship. Fascinating!

I sat on a lounge chair on deck seven and watched and filmed ships and pilot boats coming and going, sailing under the long Astoria-Megler Bridge. The Columbia River mouth, which is where the port is located, is miles wide, not like the dinky rivers and streams in Southern California. This river, despite the fact that it has some awesome dams on it (one of them being the Grand Coulee) manages to have quite a flow of water streaming out into the Pacific. Crossing the Columbia Bar has always been hazardous and we certainly felt the pitch and roll on our way into port, so I knew it was going to be a challenge to once again perch myself against the railing on the 12th deck to photograph our departure later that afternoon. Still it was a lovely relaxing day for me.

Sail we did promptly at 5 PM with our own pilot boat speeding up to us and directing our way. We heaved and weaved, at least I did. But I got some wonderful photos of all the activity and of Cape Disappointment Lighthouse across the mouth of the river in Washington. Then it was down below for me and room service dinner in the cabin and an evening of reading "Permanent Passenger," a book about life working on a cruise ship.

What's next in our adventure? Stay tuned for "Days at Sea" Part 2!

A Cluck By Any Other Name

2009-08-22T13:37:00.000-07:00

One of my duties for the Morro Bay Winter Bird Festival is to go along on field trips to photograph birdwatchers and the birds they are watching. A couple of the outings went to working vineyards where we sipped wine and kept our eyes searching for birds.

Up at Halter Ranch in Adelaida we got to bird the area near the old Mac Gillivray Victorian house and the winery tasting room. We had our binoculars handy to catch sight of acorn woodpeckers in the oaks, goldfinches and juncos flitting around, and white-breasted nuthatches strolling upside down on a tree limb. So it was a great spot for me to get lots of photos that really fit for my bird festival portfolio.

On our walk up through the area where the grape vines grow, we encountered a species relative to our wild friends. I noticed them first at the side of the dirt road near one of the winery sheds. They stood there trying to decide, should they cross the road or not? It's a big decision for a bird that has existed for decades with the unanswered question, why does the chicken cross the road? I can tell you. To get to the vineyard of course!

After hesitating a few minutes they made the dash right in front of me, scattering pell-mell into the grassy lanes between the vines, pecking away as they went. I raised my camera and began shooting. Why not? They are birds, after all, and this was a bird festival.

Raising chickens is fun, relatively easy, and gives you the dividend of fresh eggs. Not all communities allow livestock raising, but in many of our county areas, keeping a small flock of chickens is okay.

So how do you start? You can begin with day old chicks and have the hens ready in 22 weeks to begin laying. This method requires an outlay for feed with no substantial return until you start getting eggs. Another method is to purchase ready-to-lay pullets or get mature hens that are already laying.

You'll have to build a chicken coop for their protection at night and in bad weather. The coop will contain the nests in which the hens will lay and most coops also have feeding stations in them. Many people are reverting to free-range birds combined with supplemental feeding. But chickens will still need a place of refuge even if they are allowed to roam your property.

A chicken's bones, like all birds, are hollow and they are connected to the respiratory system. Chickens cannot sweat and have to control their body temperatures in other ways. Evaporation of water from the respiratory tract is one way they do this and a lot of heat loss occurs from the head.

A chicken's skin is fairly thin and can vary in color depending on their diet. Feathers, of course, keep the birds warm and are essential for flight. They molt and renew their feathers yearly.

It's the digestive system that is interesting and it starts with the beak and the mouth where food then passes to the esophagus and into the crop. The crop acts as a temporary storage department. Food then moves along to the stomach and meets up with the gizzard, an organ that is capable of grinding and crushing food. The gizzard is assisted in this job with gravel and grit that the chickens eat while foraging. It's the gizzard that enables the chicken to adequately digest whole grains.

Chickens are pretty well known for being somewhat dim witted and this is due to the fact that they have a rather small cerebral cortex, the part of the brain that signifies intelligence. Hens may not be too smart but they do have a special social structure called the pecking order. In this system the top bird can peck any other bird, but lower birds can only peck birds that are below them. The poor lowest bird can be pecked by everyone and cannot peck back! Somehow this system keeps order in the chicken coop.

As a hen matures, so does her reproductive system. Hormones stimulate the development of the ovary (only one, by the way) and it matures to produce everything needed for that all too important element, the egg. Yolks are produced first followed by albumen (egg white) that is deposited around the yolk. An outer and inner membrane forms and eventually the process is completed by the formation of the shell. The whole process takes about 27 hours.

Some chickens lay white eggs; some chickens lay brown eggs. In South America the Araucana chicken lays blue eggs. No matter the color, egg laying activity will take place without the aid or presence of a rooster. Roosters are actually a deterrent to good egg production as their presence encourages the hens to get broody.

So what makes a hen get busy laying if it's not the rooster? The answer is light. When pullets reach sexual maturity the increasing length of day releases the factors that initiate egg laying. In some commercial hen houses, the lights are turned on all the time to keep production going.

Small farms and hobby farmers are returning to raising many historic breeds that have all but disappeared from commercial production. Javas, Delawares, Buckeyes, Hollands, Chanticlers, are just some of these breeds now being raised and shown at county fairs across the country. Some of these breeds are dual purpose birds supplying both eggs and meat.

There is a lot more to know about raising chickens and information is available from your county extension office and the American Poultry Association, www.amerpoultryassn.com; My Pet Chicken Guide to Chicken Care, www.mypetchicken.com, or from books such as Raising Your Own Livestock by Claudia

The Light Station at Point Piedras Blancas

2009-07-18T11:26:00.000-07:00

Lighthouses have always evoked a romantic feeling with people. Travelers go out of their way to visit a lighthouse. Your visit to the Central Coast can include just such a tour.

Head to Highway 1 on the coast and go towards San Simeon, the town that Hearst Castle put on the map. The castle, as fantastic as it is, is not the edifice you are seeking. Travel past the entrance, and past the turn-off to the elephant seal viewing. Already you are seeing your destination, the lighthouse named for Point Piedras Blancas.

To tour this light station, time your visit for a Tuesday, Thursday, or Saturday morning. Tours start one and a half miles north of the entrance to the light station at the old Piedras Blancas Motel. Be there at 9:45 A.M. No reservations are necessary and tour guides will be waiting for you there. Tours cost $10.00 for adults, $5.00 for ages six to 17, and free for children five and under.

Next you will car caravan with your guide to the lighthouse. Tours are led by docents from the Piedras Blancas Light Station Association, a non-profit organization involved in restoring the site.

Construction of the Piedras Blancas Lighthouse began in 1874 and was finished in 1875 when the first order Fresnel lens was installed. You will notice that the top of the lighthouse is missing this lens. Originally the lighthouse stood more than 100 feet high. It is now 74 feet high. In 1949 the lens and the upper section of the structure were removed due to earthquake damage. The beautiful Fresnel lens has survived however, and you can see it close up in an enclosure in downtown Cambria.

In the early days lighthouses were recognized by ships at sea during daylight hours by their special colors. Each lighthouse was assigned a specific set of colors and was painted accordingly. A ship passing by could tell where they were based on those colors. Whatever the colors, the ship's captain could spy them through his looking glass and say, "aha, white with red, we must be at Point Piedras Blancas."

This identification would not work under two other circumstances of course; if it was foggy or if it was nighttime. Then both light and sound came into play. The timing of the flashes of light was also assigned and the light station couldbe recognized in this manner. Light flashes could be two quick flashes followed by three long ones. Whatever the configuration was, this timing gave away the location of the lighthouse. The light from the first order Fresnel lens could be seen 18 miles out to sea.

In 1906 a fog signal building was built. Inside was the latest equipment to make sound loud enough to carry out to sea. The first sounds used were similar to a train whistle, and then a siren was used. Finally the traditional fog horn blast came to be and the light station was recognized by the length of the blasts. These first blasts used were loud enough to break eardrums.

Piedras Blancas means white rocks in Spanish and the large rocks just offshore are just that. Over the years many birds have roosted or nested here and their droppings, called guano, are the source of the color. At times in the 1800s guano was harvested from these rocks by passing schooners. After a harvesting like this, when the sea breezes blew, an odor wafted across the light station making the lives of the lighthouse keeper and his family a bit miserable.

As you tour the lighthouse grounds with the docent all these interesting facts will be related

and as you walk the paths you will pass by fields full of native vegetation. Up until a few years ago this was not the case. For many years these grounds consisted of overgrown iceplant called capobrotus, the type seen along California freeways. Volunteers worked long and hard pulling this invasive plant out and miraculously the native vegetation began to return on its own. Docents have placed interpretive signs near the plants to benefit recognition.

Just offshore you will see California sea lions lounging on the rocks and smaller harbor seals swimming in the sea. Brown pelicans, cormorants and gulls will be perched on the rocks. Docents will show you skeletons of some of the marine mammals that frequent the area, such as the colony of elephant seals that took up habitation on the beach below the lighthouse in

1990. From an original group of about 19 seals, the colony has grown to 10,000 each breeding season. Just south of the lighthouse is the main seal beach where there is a boardwalk and viewing platform.

The tour will also take you inside the lighthouse where there are displays explaining the early equipment used in operating the beacon. Visitors are not yet allowed to climb to the top of the lighthouse, but after future restorations, this too will be available. In the middle of the interior hangs a weighted pendulum that extends into an eight-foot hole in the floor. The pendulum swung and was part of the apparatus that made the beacon up top turn.

Different fuels were used over the years to burn and produce the light. Oil and kerosene were two of them and these were kept in a small bunker just below the lighthouse and in front of the fog signal building. This bunker was constructed of concrete and is the first concrete building built in San Luis Obispo County. Light keepers and their assistants had to haul the oil or kerosene from the bunker up to the lighthouse and then ascend the winding staircase to the lens housing area.

Every year from March through May, biologists from the Southwest Fisheries Science Center come to the light station to count the number of California Gray whale mothers and calves heading north. They also take note of migrating birds and count sea otters that frequent the waters offshore.

Piedras Blancas Light Station which was once administered by the U.S. Lighthouse Service, and then the U.S. Coast Guard, is now managed by the Department of the Interior's Bureau of Land Management. The BLM and the Piedras Blancas Light Station Association are slowly restoring this wonderful historical edifice to its former glory. A tour of the light station will be a highlight of your visit to the Central Coast.

The Other Heron

2009-06-28T10:20:00.000-07:00

At the Morro Bay Winter Bird Festival in January many of the participants had the desire to see particular birds to round out their life lists. These can be birds that are often present in San Luis Obispo County but are rarely found.

Of the large wading birds, great blue herons, great egrets, snowy egrets, and black crowned night herons are easily spotted in the waters of Morro Bay and in fields and ponds inland. But try and find a Least Bittern or a tricolored heron and you have taken on a difficult, if not, impossible task.

There is another heron that lives here and should be able to be seen year round. So why is it we don't see more of the green heron?

The green heron, sometimes referred to as the little green heron or the green-backed heron is a solitary bird. It is the runt of the heron family at approximately 16 to 18 inches long and has the tendency to hunch up its neck making it appear even shorter. Adult birds have a glossy dark green crown, gray-green back, chestnut colored neck, white chin, and orange-yellow legs.

Green herons are one of the few birds that use tools. It stands stock still over water and drops bait onto the surface. When fish rise to the bait, it strikes. The bird uses a variety of lures including insects, worms, twigs, and feathers.

Herons in general are masters of stoicism, standing motionless like statues, neck stretched out and bills pointed downward, waiting to strike their prey, which they do with lightening speed.

When disturbed the green heron will erect its short crest, lengthen its neck, and flick its tail. People don't notice them until they do these motions or they see the bird fly off unexpectedly. Often the only way these small herons are noticed at all is by the movement of their eyes as they search the waters. Green herons in particular can meld into their backgrounds and appear like logs thanks to their distinctive coloring.

Green herons breed along creeks and streams, in marshy and swampy locations, and on the edges of lakes. The nest is placed somewhere above ground, often in a tree, and is a platform of sticks. The female lays three to six pale blue to greenish eggs that hatch in 21 to 25 days. Both parents incubate the eggs. Juvenile birds resemble bitterns with streaky brown colorations.

When breeding season ends green herons like other herons wander far and wide seeking favorable foraging locations. You might spot green herons at Laguna Lake, Lopez Lake, Atascadero, Nacimiento and San Antonio lakes, and in the estuary area of Morro Bay. Keep an eye out for them. They are a treat to see and you can add them to your life list.

Photo of Green Heron at The Living Desert, Palm Desert, California
Sometimes birds in captivity suffer from diseases and deformities that they might not get if they were still in the wild. This bird has a deformed bill and while it can still feed, it cannot be released into the wild. It is uncertain whether the bird developed this problem before being brought to the Living Desert wildlife organization.

Rare Birds Rarely Seen

2009-05-14T14:21:00.000-07:00

The very nature of the Central Coast of California gives us the ability to see a variety of water birds. Whether one lives at the shore or inland, chances are they have seen some kind of wading bird in your territory. The most commonly recognized ones are herons and egrets, but lately there have been sightings of birds that are not regularly seen here. One of those is the white-faced ibis.

Residents of the central valley may be more familiar with this sickle-billed bird if they have visited the wetland refuges located there, but this is an unusual visitor to our coastal area.

There are three kinds of ibis in North America, the white ibis that inhabits the southeast section of the country, the glossy ibis, also an eastern coast species, and the white-faced ibis seen primarily in the west.

Worldwide there are numerous ibis and there are interesting facts about them. The scared ibis was venerated in ancient Egypt and many mummified bodies of these birds have been found by archeologists. In Florida, during hurricane season, ibis are the last species to seek cover and the first to reappear afterward.

White-faced ibis are the size of a small goose and have dark purplish to purplish green glossy feathers with a green or bronze sheen on the wings. Their legs are a reddish maroon color as well as the face, which has a border of white feathers during breeding season. White-faced ibis also have red eyes.

At first glance these birds look almost identical to their cousins, the glossy ibis, however, glossies have brown eyes and slaty face skin with a pale blue border. In the Gulf Coast area the species do overlap.

White-faced ibis feed in freshwater and saltwater marshes, lakes, tidal mudflats, and irrigated fields using their long curved bill to probe in the mud for crustaceans, worms and burrowing insects. They feed in irregular groups and gather into long straggling lines in flight with their legs extended beyond their bodies.

During the 1960s and 70s breeding of white-faced ibis took a plunge due to both habitat loss and chemical pesticides. Similar to the plight of brown pelicans, ibis eggs became very thin from DDT and were easily crushed during nesting. While DDT was banned here in 1972, it is still used in other countries where the birds winter so it still presents a problem.

White-faced ibis are migratory birds and range from the western states in North America to Mexico and South America. In recent years small groups of these birds have shown up on the Central Coast sometimes stopping at the estuary in Morro Bay, or showing up at Laguna Lake in San Luis Obispo.

In May a flock of approximately 30 birds flew north over the ocean near Piedras Blancas Lighthouse and settled down to feed in a small wet marshy area just north of there along with a herd of cows. It was a first for that location. Sightings like these bring hope that the birds are recovering and increasing in numbers.

There is an opportunity to see rare birds like white-faced ibis at the Morro Bay Winter Bird Festival held every year over the Martin Luther King Junior weekend in January.

A George By Any Other Name

2009-05-03T12:31:00.000-07:00

Well, what do you know George Washington got a new home! You remember George, the kitten that showed up on my doorstep a few weeks ago, starving and meowing.

George had taken up with Thomas Jefferson across the street. Who knows what Thomas had in mind, but recent developments have us all wondering. When Thomas' family decided they could provide a home for little George, he had name change to James Madison with the intent to call him Madison. We all also knew a vet visit was in the offing since George was full of fleas and had a big bare spot of worn off fur on his rump. So the very next day off he went for his examination. Aha! The vet took one look and said, "A better name for George Washington would be Martha!"

Now we have to wonder what exactly was Thomas Jefferson interested in when he befriended little George, er, uh, Martha?

George now has not only a new home, but a new collar, and a new name (they stuck with Madison). She gets a nice extra bowl of food at my house every now and then and is pretty cocky about displacing Thomas if he comes trotting up to the food bowl. Thomas' nose is out of joint now that she lives inside his house, but we're hoping he'll get over that. Just to make him feel better I sneak a bowl to him too.

As to the name change, she really ought to be called Dolly, but I'll always think of her as George.

Why Can't Kitties Live Forever?

2009-04-27T16:23:00.000-07:00

He flopped around on the rug, suddenly howling and screaming and hissing. He bared his fangs and his tail puffed up three times its size. He seemed to be looking at something that apparently raised his hackles and had him fighting one of his greatest cat fights. What was it? A spectre of doom? A spirit he did not recognize? A glimpse at the end of the tunnel? With one great scream and hiss he gave over and this last of the best cat fights of his life was over. So ended the nine lives of "Caramel" better known as Mel-Guy, the kitty-boy of Anchor Street in Morro Bay, California.

Mel-Guy was well known on the Central Coast having achieved fame in a front page newspaper photo with me during my struggle with breast cancer in 2007 and 2008. He was a loyal and staunch companion, bonded only to me and no one else. While the story of his first few years remains unknown, it was always apparent that his beginnings had not been ideal and throughout his life he trusted no one except me and I had to win that trust.

It's not easy getting a neurotic cat to attain some semblance of normality and it took about three years of diligent reinforcement to get Mel-Guy to realize that, I at least, was not going to harm or abandon him.

I worried during my cancer spell that I might die and was not upset that my life might end, but was terribly concerned as to what would happen to Mel-Guy. I had friends who offered to take him should such a thing occur, but in my heart and soul I knew that this would never suffice for him. I never asked God to spare me for myself, but to please do so because I had to take care of Mel-Guy. Still it never occurred to me that he might up and die before me.

With animals it's always hard to know when they are sick. They mask it so well that often the bad signs only show up towards the very end. This was certainly the story with Mel-Guy. He showed discomfort and was ill for only two days prior to passing and even after I brought him to the vet that morning, it was not at all evident that within ten minutes of returning home he would be dead. Nothing in my experience prepared me for the kind of death he had. I'd put a previous cat to sleep and found the experience, while sad, enormously peaceful and certainly nothing like what I witnessed with Mel-Guy.

But I got to thinking about his life with me. Mel-Guy was a fighter. If a cat fight was going to happen in his territory you can bet that it was one that he instigated. In all other respects, he was a gentle, loving animal, if somewhat of a scaredy cat. He had his kitty friends, Duke-Boy, Satchmo, Pippy, and Molly-Molly, but let Max or Buddy or some wandering stray trot through the front yard and boy, it was time to rumble.

So it has not been a shock to find out that a cat fight was what did finally bring Mel-Guy to his last day. The fight occurred in late October and it was bad. The wound on the top of his head, which he wouldn't let me touch for days, became infected. I drained it and drained it and then hauled him off to the vet for antibiotics. The treatment appeared to help for a while but within a month the infection came back. So another vet visit and more antibiotics. Another month went by and shortly after the Christmas holidays, the infection was back again. So back to the vet we go and this time the vet operates and finds a portion of a tooth stuck deeply in his skull.

I hoped that would be the end of it and end is what it was. We now think that Mel-Guy succumbed to blood poisoning from that cat bite. To be sure I would have had to pay about $150 in blood tests. I opted out. The vet however really wanted to know what might have happened and asked me if he could do a limited autopsy, no charge. That revealed not only involvement of his liver, but pretty nasty cancer in his small intestine. The cancer would have killed him eventually too. We think he had that cancer all the while that I had mine. I wish I had known, I would have hooked him up to my chemo!

There's a new kitty at my house now. Gordo came to Woods on February 27th, the same day Mel-Guy died. When I heard that I knew he was the cat to go home with me. He's nine years old, a senior cat. His canine teeth hang down over his lower lip which is black in color. He looks like a little vampire, but is really a love.

Gordo will not be enjoying the thrills of the "wild." He is an indoor cat. I know most cats like to roam around outdoors, but never again will I have an animal die just because I allowed him to experience the "wild." I thought I might find a way to fence off my small front porch for him, but in the last few weeks I've been adopted by a tiny stray kitten who now eats out there. Afterward he goes across the street to hide out under something in the yard where the cat Thomas Jefferson lives. I've named the kitten George Washington and I'm hoping to find a home for him where he could STAY INDOORS because kitties should live forever!

This is George. He now accepts sleeping in a bed I made for him on the porch. We tried having him in the house last night in his little bed in the back room with the door closed and he did well until 6 AM when he knocked a lamp onto the floor. Then he met Gordo and freaked out when he saw that BIG kitty. After jumping on the stove and raking his claws into my loveseat, I put him back outside. George needs a home so if you know anyone who would take him, please let me know. I estimate that he is about 8 or 9 months old. Very sweet but needs to be trained. My e-mail is candidcow@charter.net.

And Mel-Guy says his last farewell to life on this planet in this realm in his own special fashion!

Rare Alaskan Visitor

2009-02-21T11:52:00.000-08:00

Some folks attending the Morro Bay Winter Bird Festival this year were treated to a possible once in a lifetime view of a bird that is not often seen on the California Coast.

The pelagic field trip ventures out into the open ocean to find albatross, shearwaters, alcids, kittiwakes, jaegers, and sometimes a gray whale. This year the group was searching the waves when someone shouted out "auklet." Expecting probably one of the two auklets that visit the waters off the Central Coast, namely Rhinoceros auklet or Cassin's auklet, the guides were amazed to see that the bird in question was a parakeet auklet and not only was there one, but two. Cameras came out swiftly and thanks to the talent and skill of leader, Brad Schram, we have some great shots of these very rare visitors from Alaska.

Most people want to know about this bird's name. Why is it called parakeet? It doesn't look like a parakeet, does it? The beak is apparently the clue. It is orange-red and slightly upturned and those special people that give scientific names to birds thought it resembled a small parrot's bill. Thus they dubbed it Aethia psittacula, from the Latin, psittacus, meaning, little parrot. Now I've looked at parrots large and small and studied parakeets, known as budgies, and I sure can't see any similarity in their beaks to this little auklet's, but what does it matter. It's great bird!

Parakeet auklets live in Alaska most of the year extending over to the coasts of Siberia. They are small birds with a somewhat long neck and are black above with white below. During breeding season they sport a thin white plume from their eyes to behind the head.

Auklets are sea birds, feeding out on the open ocean. Parakeet auklets nest in small colonies in crevices high up on the rocky cliffs from June to August in Alaska and Siberia. They winter from the Bering Sea to Japan, and sometimes reach the shores of Central California. Local Audubon members who have lived here a long time tell me the last time parakeet auklets were definitely sighted off our coast was back in 1955, so this year's finding is really special.

Since the festival's pelagic trip in January two other ocean ventures have been held and the birds were seen again. Who knows how long they will stay in our area, but for the folks on these seagoing birding trips it has been a real treat and for many,a sighting of a life bird for their birding lists.

Maybe next year's pelagic trip will serve up even better rarities, so be sure to sign up for the 2010 Morro Bay Winter Bird Festival to be held January 15 through the 18th.

Parakeet auklets
(c) 2009 Brad Schram

The Amazing Aquarium

2009-02-20T14:46:00.000-08:00

The Monterey Bay Aquarium never ceases to amaze me. As a member, I can go any time but admit I don't get there often enough. But each time I do I am awed by what this conservation organization is doing.

One of the things that draws me to visit the aquarium is its aviary. Yes, I go there to look at birds. Depending on the time of year, I can view, up close and personally, shorebirds and other waterfowl in a variety of plumages. Many of the birds at Monterey are the same species that visit Morro Bay during fall and winter months when they are in drab or duller plumages. The seasonal turn takes them off on migration with no chance for a view of their true colors. At the aquarium, in spring, these same birds exhibit their dazzling nesting feathers. Black-bellied plovers, that are shades of gray in winter, show their distinctive black-feathered breasts. Wintering gray and white avocets acquire brilliant rust color heads and necks.

At the aviary you enter through the swinging doors and come into the sandy shoreline exhibit with a wetland pond on one side and a wavy shoreline on the other. The newest addition to the aviary is a deeper pond located to the right beyond the entrance and here waterfowl such as buffleheads paddle around and pop underwater to forage. The aviary is a wonderful place for photographers to take shots of these birds. The challenge is to do this without getting the disturbing background of the aquarium windows in the photos.

Obviously a visit to this special place is to see, learn, and appreciate the diversity and abundance of our planet's water worlds, both ocean and fresh water.

Because the aquarium is located on the Central Coast of California it takes advantage of the proximity to this section of the sea and its natural flora and fauna. Its first exhibit, the kelp forest, is still one of the most popular and it is a mesmerizing experience to sit and watch the flowing fronds of kelp and the circling fish. Giant kelp is indigenous to the ocean off the Central Coast and it supports a vast array of marine life.

Sea otters are one of the species that benefit from kelp using it to wrap up in and sleep. The aquarium has been instrumental in the rehabilitation of sea otters and performs ongoing research of this species. They are the only facility doing this. The sea otter exhibit houses five sea otters brought to the aquarium for rehabilitation and it is one of the most popular exhibits. Crowds linger at the windows watching the comical antics of these cute little creatures. While the exhibit's five otters cannot be returned to the wild, the aquarium regularly rehabilitates otters and returns them to the sea.

There are new otters at the aquarium now, but they don't come from the sea. River otters are cousins to the sea otter and are found in many places in the world. Now Monterey Bay Aquarium is showing Asian and African river otters in a new exhibit section. If you thought watching the sea otters was infectious you'll find it almost impossible to stop watching these energetic guys. River otters are fresh water creatures and the exhibits reflect their environment. The staff places large chunks of ice in their habitats from which the otters chew off pieces, knock them into the water, and bat them around. They spend hours zipping around doing this.

The huge outer bay exhibit is like an enormous living IMAX screening. Square-headed dolphin fish, large chunky tuna, and slinky tiger sharks swim around with huge schools of sardines and more in this exhibit. Be patient, sit and wait and you will be rewarded with a showing of one of the oddest looking fish in the sea, the sunfish. With its fins placed on top and bottom of its large rounded body it appears as an alien even in this strange deep water world.

The best exhibits for me are still the jellies. Beautiful translucent creatures with long flowing tentacles drift in sapphire blue waters. It is so calming to observe them. Moon jellies are some of the largest while others are so tiny they are exhibited in special enclosures that magnify them.

I look forward to the upcoming exhibit of many of the world's seahorses that will open in April and I hope everyone who can, will at some time visit the Monterey Bay Aquarium.

American Avocet - Recurvirostra americana -- in breeding plumage

Buffleheads, male and female - Bucephala albeola

Moon Jellies

River Otter - Asian

A Christmas Bird

2008-12-17T11:40:00.001-08:00

How many Christmas cards have you received showing bright red cardinals standing out against a snowy background or black-capped chickadees perched on a snow covered pine branch? It seems these two species of birds have cornered the market as the epitome of Christmas birds. But we don't have cardinals and black-capped chickadees on the Central Coast. So what bird can qualify to take prominence on our Christmas cards? I nominate the white-breasted nuthatch.

All nuthatches have something in common with spiders and flies – they can walk upside down and they are popularly known as the "upside-down" bird.

On the Central Coast more than one kind of nuthatch resides. Along with the white-breasted is the red-breasted and pygmy nuthatch. Each of them can be found in wooded areas where oaks and conifers grow. Parks and urban woodlands are also good places to look for them.

Of the three only the white-breasted is a true year-round resident. The red-breasted are often abundant in winter months but can be totally absent in some years. Pygmy nuthatches, as indicated by their name, the smallest of the three, are common only in the Cambria woodlands and are rare anywhere else in the county.

So how do these birds defy gravity on the trunks and branches of the trees? They have strong toes and use their claws to grip the bark and venture up and down tree trunks and large limbs, often even hanging upside down on the underside of a branch. Birds such as woodpeckers use their tails to help balance and prop them up on the sides of trees but the nuthatch has a short tail which doesn't come into play in their foraging techniques.

The white-breasted and other nuthatches feed mostly on insects that are hidden in the crevices of tree bark. This ability to walk down a tree makes it easy for the birds to spot their prey.

During winter months when insects are not available the birds change their diet and consume mostly seeds. Their habit of stuffing a seed or nut into a crevice in tree bark and then hacking or "hatching" away at it is what gained them the name nuthatch.

White-breasted nuthatches may mate for life. Their courtship display consists of the male spreading his tail, drooping his wings and swaying back and forth, bowing deeply. The female builds the nest in a tree cavity sometimes utilizing old woodpecker holes. They often use a crushed insect to sweep the inside and outside of the nest site. It's thought that the chemical secretions in the insect might deter predators.

Five to nine eggs are laid and while the female incubates them, the male brings food to her and feeds her. The nestlings are fed by both parents and generally fledge no later than 26 days from hatching.

While there are subtle differences in the plumage of the three western nuthatches, their most distinguishing feature may be their different vocalizations. Calls can vary regionally even among the same species. Pacific white-breasted nuthatches call with soft, slow nasal notes that sound like "whi-whi" or "wahwahwah" and can end on a high but descending note. Interior birds also have a nasal tone but call in a rapid series of notes "yidi-yidi-yidi."

So this Christmas season if you take a walk on a chilly morning through our local wooded areas keep an eye out for our very own Christmas bird, the white-breasted nuthatch.

A Christmas Goose

2008-12-16T16:00:00.000-08:00

In merry olde England the Christmas table contained many delicious platters like plum pudding, roasts, codfish cakes, peas porridge and fruit pies. But the epitome of the holiday dinner had to be the main course, the Christmas goose. I suspect, although I don't know for sure, that this bird was the domestic variety, grown solely for the purpose of consumption. In North America there is a bird that migrates southward for the winter and is often depicted on our holiday cards and wrappings -- our Christmas goose, the Canada goose.

This bird is probably the most widely distributed and best known wild goose. There are 11 races or subspecies listed in the Audubon Society's Encylcopedia of North American Birds. Several of these spend time in California every year. All of the races look alike except for size, with a long black neck and head, white cheek and chin patches, brown-gray body and wings, pale underparts and white undertail coverts.

The largest of these birds, weighing up to 24 pounds, is known as a "Honker" thanks to its characteristic "ah-honk" call. This bird is the giant Canada goose measuring up to 48 unches long with a wingspan of 75 inches. The "Lesser" is a bird about the size of a snow goose, 26 to 31 inches long, weighing approximately six pounds. "Cacklers" are the smallest and darkest of all the Canada geese, weighing about three to four pounds and just a bit larger than a mallard. These three varieties inhabit our ponds, lakes, grasslands and fields from the coast to the central valleys.

Geese mate for life so within any large flock are family groups of pairs and their young of the year. These groups can be distinguished by careful watching of their habits for the families stay together while feeding or resting. In the spring, the young return with the parents to their breeding grounds where they are finally driven off by the gander. Yearling groups are formed that move several hundred miles from their breeding parents.

There is a pecking order amongst geese that keeps mated pairs without families separate from those with young. this behavior extends downward from mated pairs to single adults and then yearlings, each segregated from the other.

Conversations take place among the birds with their own special language. Scientific study finds that the geese use up to ten different vocalizations responding to certain situations. While the large honkers call is the "ah-honk" or "ahnk" sound, lesser Canada geese give a higher pitched honk that is less resonant. The small cackling geese make an "ank" or "lek-luk" sound.

Canada geese breed throughout Canada and Alaska and in spots throughout the lower 48 states. In recent years these geese have become something of a public nuisance in cities and towns. The problem is not so much the geese as it is the habitat. In planning and designing open spaces and parks, cities have inadvertently constructed environments that are geese friendly. The birds are drawn to the large, open areas of turf grass located near water. In many areas officials are using lethal means to correct the problem when changes to the landscape would more naturally control the numbers of birds. Modifying the habitat by reducing landscape features that geese find attractive and putting in features that make the area unsafe or inconvenient for them will either reduce or completely eliminate the birds.

Another factor contributing to the overabundance of these birds is that people like to feed them. The public needs to be educated that giving handouts to these wild birds can affect their well being and increase conflicts with humans.

Nature affords us many thrilling events and one is beholding flocks of Canada geese flying in v-formations, honking greetings to each other.

Author's Note: Since writing this the gods of bird identification have made changes regarding the species and sub-species of Canada geese, particularly in reference to the cackling goose. For the best information on this change see www.sibleyguides.com and remember, there are no Canadian geese -- they are Canada geese!

Turkey Trot

2008-11-22T16:19:00.000-08:00

Wow, it’s not a good time to be a turkey!

Of course you know there is a vast difference between the turkey that hits your table on Thanksgiving Day and the wild turkey. What you might not be aware of is that turkeys are not native to the western states. Back in the days of the pilgrims these birds were abundant in the eastern forests. A truly American bird, they were found only on this continent until the 1600’s when the Spanish explorers took a few birds back to Spain where they bred and expanded. In fact this bird was so American that good old Ben Franklin proposed it be chosen as the national bird and symbol of our country instead of the eagle. Time and extensive hunting practically wiped out the species until massive conservation efforts were put in place. Thanks to transplantation, wild turkeys are now in all the states except Alaska.

These are the largest game birds in North America. They stand about four feet tall and can reach up to 24 pounds. There are gobblers or Toms, hens, Jakes (first year males) and Jennys (first year females). Gobblers are adult males that have bronzy, iridescent body plumage with black tipped breast feathers. Another characteristic of males is the “beard” that protrudes from the breast. They also have an upward curving spur on the lower legs. Gobblers have less head feathers than hens. Hens are smaller birds with light-brown breast feather tips. Hens sometimes develop beards too but they are always smaller and thinner than a gobbler’s.

There are five races or sub-species of wild turkeys in the United States. Eastern, Osceola, Rio Grande, Gould’s, and Merriam’s. Merriam’s turkeys are the ones you will see in California. They are distinguished from the others by the nearly white feathers on the lower back and tail margin.

Adult males have a distinctive mating call – “gobble, gobble.” The head of the aroused gobbler becomes a combination of red, white and blue – pretty patriotic when you think about it.

Male turkeys have other interesting characteristics such as the Snood or Dewbill, a drooping apparatus that hangs down over the beak, and the wattle, a bright red loose bunch of skin hanging from under the beak to just above the beard. Apparently the only function of these items is to cause hens to swoon. A male turkey can change his head from red to blue in minutes and the climax of his performance is when he fans out his tail and puffs up his body feathers to appear huge and round. This just about clinches it for the lady turkeys. Lovemaking is bound to ensue!

Eight to 12 eggs are laid and begin hatching in 28 days. The young are capable of leaving the nest soon after hatching.

Wild turkeys form into flocks based on sex and age. The brood (hen and her poults) forms into hen-brood flocks. Adult males form flocks that rarely associate with hens until breeding season. Young males separate from the brood and form Jake flocks.

Domestic turkeys couldn’t be more different from their wild cousins. They are larger (can weigh up to 75 lbs.) and gain weight quickly. This is not due to hormones or drugs but is a factor of breeding. Domestics are white in color and cannot change their head color. Their snoods are always red. And poor beasts, they are unable to breed, a consequence of having developed over-sized barrel chests that don’t allow the birds to get close enough to mate. Artificial insemination produces all the domestic turkey flocks. Did you know there are two types of domestic turkey – the female line consists of males and females, whose job it is to produce eggs, and the male line, also made up of males and females that are bred to produce meat.

Dumbness is equated with being a turkey but this is only true for the domestic variety. Wild birds are very wily and wary. Ask any hunter. The domestics are so passive they don’t even know enough to come in out of the rain and there are documented cases of turkeys drowning in a downpour.

The biggest difference between domestic and wild birds is that only the wild ones can fly. They don’t much like to but they can, quite well. They can clear a 60-foot tree within 100 feet of takeoff and travel several miles at 50 miles per hour.

The turkey is a successful bird in every sense both in the wild and in the supermarket. Nowadays most of the products on the store shelves are made of turkey – turkey ham, turkey bacon, and turkey pastrami.

So on Thanksgiving Day while you are enjoying that turkey leg or breast, remember the great contribution this very American bird brings to us -- food for our table and a pleasure to watch in the wild.

PHOTOS

Turkeys have made a big comeback in California and are seen far and wide on farms and ranches and sometimes even in town!

Mosquito Hell

2008-11-15T16:12:00.000-08:00

If the issue of global warming was ever in question in my mind it was answered on my recent bird photography trip to the national wildlife refuges of the Central Valley of California. It is for certain upon us with all its accompanied plagues.

How do I know this? Never before in the 40 years I have wandered the wilds of this state during the autumn months has the weather been this warm. By now there should have been rainstorms to replenish the waterways that drain into the reclaimed wetlands. By now the nighttime temperatures should have dipped into the teens in the interior valleys and the daytime highs should be reaching no more than the mid-50 degrees or low 60 degrees Fahrenheit. But that is not the case this year and it hasn't been so for several years past.

So it was that a friend and I traveled north and east the first week of November in trepidation for we had been warned already, there were mosquitoes at the refuges.

"It can't be," I told my friend, "I've never seen mosquitoes there. Gnats sometimes, but not mosquitoes." I would later eat those words along with a few mosquito morsels.

We arrived late in the afternoon after a long drive and checked into our motel, reconfigured our gear and outer wear, and piled back into the car to dash off to the nearest wetland area.

This section is marked by large ponds of varying depths that are part of the Grasslands Ecological Area just north of Los Banos, California. An odd assortment of structures line the dirt road on either side through the area where duck hunting club members stake out during the waterfowl hunting season. I have no objection to the hunters, who I find for the most part to be cordial and friendly and have on occasion supplied me with leads as to the whereabouts of abundant flocks of ducks and geese. It's these guys who pay the fees that enable the state to continue to replenish wetlands that have been almost 90% destroyed in California.

The light was fading fast as we drove slowly down the lane. Ponds on both sides showed forms of ducks, shorebirds, and the ever-present ubiquitous coots. Too late for photos, we were using this foray as a reconnaissance for the next morning. We kept scanning the ponds with our binoculars as we inched along. In trying to identify one small bird we stupidly opened the windows. Immediately we were hit with the blast of hundreds of little buzzing insects flying about inside the car. "Mosquitoes!" we both screamed and dove for the button to close the windows.

What is it about being swarmed by little flying bugs? You instantly begin to itch. In between scratching we swatted at the aerobatic dive bombers until the dashboard was littered with carcasses. By this time the sun was really gone and we couldn't make out the figures on the ponds so we headed back to the motel to find some food. We ate quietly at the local Denny's both thinking the same thing. What would tomorrow morning bring? More mosquitoes?

Birding and bird photography requires an early rising. The alarm went off at 5 A.M. and we tumbled out of bed, brewed the in-room coffee and consumed some oatmeal gruel while we pulled on our clothes and gathered up our gear.

Out on the road huge blankets of fog reached across the fields to swallow us on the tiny country road. Suddenly a huge orange globe appeared on the horizon through the mists. We pulled off to the side of the road for a good photo opportunity. As we exited the car to photograph the sunrise, we stared at each other. There were no bugs!

We got to the refuge as geese were taking to the skies to fan out over the countryside in search of lucrative grain fields. We were encouraged that there still was no sight of anything else flying about except birds.

Merced National Wildlife Refuge is one of three national refuges in the area and while it is the smallest it always offers the best assortment of bird life with huge flocks of snow geese and large rafters of sandhill cranes that often number over 10,000 birds. A six-mile auto tour route offers the best opportunity to obtain good photographs while using the car as a blind. In the three hours we spent at the refuge we found ponds full of northern shovelers, pintails, gadwalls, and mallards as well as greater white-fronted geese, white pelicans, snow geese, sandhill cranes, white-faced ibis, great blue herons, and of course, coots. Killdeer raced up and down the side of the dirt road and American pipits flitted by us. A red-tail hawk played cat and mouse along the way and in the distance we watched two northern harriers cruising.

About three-quarters of the way around the route there is a trail and an overlook. Here black phoebes perched in the trees and other small birds eluded us. A large flock of greater white-fronted geese were milling in the water and suddenly took flight giving us good shots of them flying overhead.

The sandhill cranes were not abundant. The usual group that mills about on the open grassland at the end of the auto route was not present. But it was early in the season and not yet cold enough anywhere for them to make their way more to the south. We made note to return for our usual trip here in February when the large concentrations of cranes should be present.

By now it was mid-morning but we decided to stop at San Luis National Wildlife Refuge anyway to see what we might see. The temperature had risen. It was already too warm. As we made our way around this larger refuge on the auto tour route we started to hear the buzzing once again and soon the car had too many flitting insects inside. We closed the windows and turned on the air conditioning. There would be no photo taking here.

"I feel like I'm back in New Jersey," I said. "I can't remember a time when I've ever seen this many mosquitoes in California."

Global warming? Well, today I am sitting in Morro Bay. It is mid-November. The temperature is hovering around 80 degrees. Do I think this is global warming? Yes. There certainly is something very, very wrong with our climate. Morro Bay rarely gets this warm even at the height of summer and by this time of year we should be enjoying those crisp fall days that invigorate the soul. We're in trouble folks. It's mosquito hell!

Photos

Greater white-fronted geese

Killdeer

American Coots

American Pipit

White-Faced Ibis

Sandhill Cranes

Fall Color in California?

2008-11-14T14:53:00.000-08:00

We yearned for color – those of us who originally hailed from the shores of the Atlantic missed the yearly autumn display. We wanted to see trees of lemon yellow and crimson red. But we live in Central California and what leaf changes we have here never live up to those memories we hold of the splashy show of the northeast trees. What to do? Take a bus trip north to Plumas County.

We were on the road early on a bright sunny morning in early October with plans to tour and have lunch at the Stewart & Jasper Almond Ranch in Newman, California.
The ranch is a third generation family business that farms more than 3000 acres of nuts and fruits. We watched as assembly line people quickly plucked reject almonds from a moving belt loaded with nuts. After our tour we enjoyed a tasty lunch and spent some time shopping in the gift store.

Overnight was in Oroville and early the next morning we set off up Highway 70, a spectacular scenic drive along the Feather River. The section between Oroville and Quincy is known as the Feather River National Scenic Byway and words to describe the route cannot do it justice. The river, which tumbles over huge boulders, is thousands of feet straight down from the road for most of the drive. People suffering from height phobias may have trouble on this route, but no one can deny its beauty. Waterfalls tumble down the cliff sides and as the elevation climbs we began to see some change of color in the foliage.

The railroad makes it way up this canyon too and was cause for some interesting engineering feats in the building of the line and placement of bridge overpasses. The historic Pulga and Tobin bridges are an example. One is a highway bridge that crosses over a Western Pacific Railroad bridge. Its said to be one of the most photographed sites, but on narrow Highway 70 there is no place for a 40 foot bus to pull over for those of us with cameras to get a shot.

We did get a chance to photograph the river and another Tobin bridge after we descended from the heights and could park in a large open space adjacent to the river. Here a small waterfall cascaded down the hillside into the boulder-strewn water. There was just a hint of color change in the trees but a large scar of previously burned area also was evident. This past fire season a large brush and forest fire consumed many acres in this northern California section.

Logging is still an active industry up here and we saw many large trucks loaded with huge logs barreling up and down the highway. Most of the small towns in the area support the logging industry.

Lunch was in one of these small towns, Mill Creek, at St. Bernard's Lodge. Lunch was great but the best thing was looking at all the artifacts in this old fashioned bed and breakfast. The property contains a small pond and a larger body of water adjacent to it where mallards and domestic ducks paddle back and forth. The pond is stocked with huge rainbow trout. This stop was one place where some nice fall foliage was evident but the dog that the place was named after never showed.

Our tour continued around Lake Almanor, the largest lake in Plumas County. We stopped to admire a nice flock of white pelicans that were floating on the water. Lake Almanor has 52 miles of shoreline and is a popular recreation spot.

Railroads have played a big part of this area's history and part of our trip was railroad oriented. At Greenville, while searching for a restroom break spot, we stumbled upon and old depot building next to a line of tracks. And all up and down Highway 70 we encountered long lines of freight trains snaking their way along the canyon ledges and through the massive tunnels that railway workers had blasted out of the mountainsides. In some places the track loops over itself in order for the trains to gain in elevation along the canyon walls.

The Western Pacific Railroad finished building their line across the Sierra Nevada Mountains in 1909 and was the last transcontinental railway built. Their history and a grand assortment of rolling stock are available to the public at the Western Pacific Railroad Museum at Portola and this was a must-see stop for our tour. Here members of the Feather River Rail Society preserve rail history in a large building housing many artifacts, photos, and equipment. Outside in the yard is 12,000 feet of track and every kind of engine and rolling stock that you can imagine. Visitors can even drive a locomotive through the Museum's Run-a-Locomotive program. Our group got to participate in a train ride in a variety of old cabooses.

From Portola we headed for an overnight stay at Chalet View Lodge outside of Graeagle. This is a very nice upscale resort on large picturesque grounds. There are rooms in the lodge section and individual cabins available. Dining is on site and you can enjoy the pool or the Jacuzzi. A spa, fitness room, Bocce and volleyball courts, 6-hole golf course, a ponds stocked with trout are all on this property. They have wine bar and soon will have a brewery and also offer Starbucks coffee.

After a great night's sleep we drove down a rural byway for a stop at Gold Lake. This small lake is set in a dip in the mountains and a more serene place would be hard to find. We snapped photos and watched as Canada geese flew overhead, squawking on their way.

Then we were back on the road until the majestic Sierra Buttes came into view and our kindly bus driver allowed for me to jump off for a photo opportunity. Here there was a bit more fall color evident in the trees but we had already come to realize that this either was not a spectacular year or we were in the area a bit too early.

The tiny gold rush town of Downieville on a fork of the Yuba River proved to be a great rest stop break and we all visited the Downieville Museum that is housed in a building from 1852 that has thick walls of stone and an iron door. Here docents showed us tools and implements used by miners of old. A stuffed mountain lion resides in the back room and a docent demonstrated a hand cranked washing machine. Then we wandered the plank sidewalks and browsed in and out of some of the shops. Mining for gold in the heydays of that activity was what made the towns in the Mother Lode great. Now they are quiet little hamlets that tourists love to explore.

Gold mining took up the last part of our fall color trip with a tour of the Empire Mine where we enjoyed a miner's lunch consisting of something called "pasties." These are meat-filled doughy pastries that apparently were concocted by gold rush miners in desperation for sustenance. While interesting to see what those times of old brought forth, "pasties" are something I could live without. I did, however, enjoy the ice cream dessert.

The Empire Mine is now a state historic park and encompasses the elegant homes of some of the mine's owners as well as the original mine shaft. This mine produced six million ounces of gold valued at $100 million and was the deepest hard rock mine in California. I don't venture down mine shafts or into caves anymore mostly because of the terrain not being the best and I actually find them kind of creepy, so I enjoyed touring William Bourne's stately residence and clubhouse. Bourne was the last owner of the mine and was an influential person in California history. Adjacent to the gift shop was a great museum display showing how the mine worked and numerous photos of actual miners at work. The Empire Mine State Historical Park is located just outside of Grass Valley.

The last stop on our tour was Nevada City with a knowledgeable historical guide. Beautiful Victorian homes still grace this gold mining town with picturesque white church spires punctuating the hillsides. One can't help but feel the essence of times past and the great amount of history towns like this have given to California and the nation.

We headed home – fall color tour over and not much color to speak of. It is November now and as far as fall color is concerned, the best display locally lies in the salicornia-pickleweed estuary in Morro Bay that has just now turned a lovely shade of crimson and rust. New England has nothing to worry about. We won't be taking over the title of best fall color in the United States!

Fall Color in California!

War Lords, Poppies, Mercenaries and More - Life in Afghanistan Since the Fall of theTaliban

2008-09-21T12:25:00.000-07:00

What would it be like for you to drive your car to the grocery and come out after shopping and find your tires slashed? You would automatically suspect gangs or young people doing pranks. Pretty frustrating, right? Well, this happens continuously to Rosemary Stasek, an American who lives in Kabul, Afghanistan and runs an organization called, "A Little Help".

"It's not gangs, like in the U.S., that are doing this," Stasek said, "it's the police."

Life for people in this country that is best described as the forgotten land is difficult and restrictive even since the fall of the extremist Taliban group.

"The Taliban are not the worst threat to life in Afghanistan," Stasek said at a recent Rotary Club of Morro Bay presentation, "I rank them about 4th."

Far more serious and life-upsetting are conflicts between area war lords, the drug trade, and finally the all-pervading corruption that exists at all levels of commerce and government.

War lords from the many tribal groups that live in this country constantly fight each other and these conflicts add to the already crumbling infrastructure.

The growing of poppies that supply the illegal drug trade enlarges daily since this is a ripe source of income for farmers who can get little to nothing for other crops.

But corruption is by far the most insidious and detrimental aspect of life in present day Afghanistan.

"Corruption is present from the lowest levels all the way up to Karzai's administration," Stasek said.

You can't blame them. For people who have nothing, any means to gain money becomes acceptable.

Life is at its poorest in this land that has been ravaged by one conflict after another for generations. The invasion by Russia lasted 10 years. Many of the fiercest freedom fighters during that era solidified into the rigid Islamic group known as the Taliban after an equally bloody and disruptive civil war that occurred after the Russians withdrew.

"When the Taliban first came into power, Stasek said, "They were welcomed because the standard of living arose and they provided security." At that time people could walk the streets unhampered. They had places to live and jobs. Food and water was plentiful. Now, all of that is gone. "Granted that life quickly became more restrictive under their rule and particularly so for women," she continued, "but it was safer. It is the security they provided that the people miss."

Kabul is the capital of Afghanistan and is slowly crumbling. At one time it was a city that could rival the capitals of Europe. Now life is at a standstill. Electricity is only available for three hours a day. This alone has to be crippling both government and commerce. People cannot use even the basic modern conveniences that we here in the West take for granted, such as refrigeration, television, computers, even the electric light bulb. Schools are often outdoor affairs and lack even pads and pencils for the children to write with. Medical care is scarce and in some areas non-existent.

Stasek's organization has concentrated on helping women and girls with the hope that bringing them into the 21st century may begin to alleviate the ills long brought about by a traditional male dominated society. In some areas she has been able to provide tents to be used in place of standard buildings for schools. "It's far easier to replace a tent," she said, "than it is to replace a building that is bombed."

Through her organization, "A Little Help," she has started income small income projects for women to participate in. She has gotten math, English language, and Dari textbooks, lab equipment, and mats for students to sit on at the tent schools. She has obtained medicines and surgical supplies for maternity wards, and construction materials and labor for a hospital.

The organization, in conjunction with other organizations, has supplied funds for piping and plumbing for running water to an orphanage, partial purchase of land for an orphans' farming project, and funds for a pharmacy and women's center in a rural province. Help has been given to women to train at the Kabul Beauty School so they can find lucrative, although non-traditional jobs. A knitting project was begun for blind women with a supply of knitting needles and yarn.

Stasek, who is also an accomplished food preserver, taught a class for Afghan women to make preserves that ultimately became an income-generating project.

Humanitarian work is also done at women's prisons in the country where not only are the women incarcerated, but their children are brought with them to prison.

The list goes on and on. Stasek said that much of what her group does is accomplished with small amounts of funds thereby giving rise to the name of the organization. "Every little bit helps," she said, "even $20 is a sum that can be utilized for a project."

While Stasek and her husband, Morne du Preez, originally from South Africa, now employed with security firms in the country, will continue to work to aid the people of Afghanistan, she is not sure how much longer they will be able to live there. "Things are definitely getting worse, particularly in Kabul," she said. "The major problem is coming from Pakistan." Stasek feels that the United States is going to have to come to grips with this situation and soon. When asked about Al-Qaida, she answered that this infiltration is from Pakistan, not necessarily from the Taliban in Afghanistan.

That the region is becoming more and more unstable daily is obvious even to us here in the States, although we are given only snippets of information from the media mostly concentrating on the Taliban. Very little is reported concerning the devastation wrought by the tribal war lords and the corruption growing like a cancer in civic and governmental sections.

Still, "a little help" can go a long way to make a difference in Afghanistan and hopefully help to bring them from the 7th century into a modern world.

For more information please go to www.stasek.com/alittlehelp.

Morro Bay is for the Birds!

2008-09-06T13:08:00.001-07:00

It happens every year. Summer ends, the days become crisp and clear and the birds return to Morro Bay.

The National Audubon Society lists Morro Bay as a Globally Important Bird Area and it is also a part of the National Estuary Program. Fall and winter seasons bring thousands of migratory birds that make Morro Bay their winter home.

Shorebirds such as marbled godwits, willets, curlews with their long curved bill, and tiny sandpipers find a bountiful feast in the mudflats of the bay. Black brant geese migrate from spots on the Alaskan shore to feed on the rich eelgrass beds of the estuary. Fluttering terns, brown pelicans, graceful egrets and herons are also part of the seasonal mix.

One of the best ways to see the birds of Morro Bay is from the water. Outfitters located on the Embarcadero rent kayaks, canoes and electric boats.

For those who don't want to take to the water there are trails and viewing places surrounding the bay. An easy trail is located beginning at the rear of the Morro Bay State Park Marina parking lot and winding out along the estuary.

Morro Coast Audubon Society maintains two special birding locations. The Audubon Overlook is located in Los Osos on the south side of the estuary. From the small roofed deck you can sit comfortably and view the variety of waterfowl foraging in the waters of the back bay.

An excellent area for bird watching is the Sweet Springs Preserve. It is a 24-acre natural site on the southern edge of the bay consisting of one acre of freshwater ponds and marsh, 14 acres

of saltwater ponds, marsh and mudflats and nine acres of upland scrub. Wintering Brant geese and scores of ducks take up winter residence along its shores. There are trails, bridges and benches along the way and many locals make this area their daily stroll.

Another great viewing spot is at Morro Rock where peregrine falcons nest every year. Ospreys are often seen perching on top of boat masts in the harbor area.

A great way to see and learn about the 200 plus species that visit Morro Bay is to attend the annual Morro Bay Winter Bird Festival held over the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday weekend. The festival offers guided field trips throughout the county, workshops on bird identification, photography, how to select binoculars and scopes and more. Special keynote speakers present entertaining and educational evening programs.

Morro Bay State Park Marina is located south of Morro Bay on State Park Road near the entrance to the Central Coast Natural History Museum.

The Natural History Museum is a great place to visit on your birding trip. The museum has a variety of interactive displays and exhibits and docent led walks.

The Audubon Overlook can be reached from South Bay Blvd. by turning west on Santa Ysabel at the traffic light and proceeding to Third Street. A right turn at the end of the street takes you to a small dirt road that leads to the parking area.

Sweet Springs Reserve is located in the 600 block of Ramona Avenue in Los Osos.

Morro Rock can't be missed from anywhere in the town and is accessible from the waterfront by Coleman Drive.

Morro Bay Winter Bird Festival information and registration can be done by logging onto www.morrobaybirdfestival.org or calling the Morro Bay Chamber of Commerce at 805-772-4467 or 800-231-0592.

Bees If You Please

2008-07-22T14:44:00.000-07:00

WILD THINGS by Ruth Ann Angus
You've probably heard of it; it's been in the news. Bees are in trouble.

I watch the busy bees every day in my garden and I find it hard to tell what might be going on with them. First of all, there is more than one kind of bee. My big succulent is flowering and large black and yellow bumblebees are all over it. The rest of the garden, with a variety of colorful flowers, is visited by smaller black and yellow bees that I identify as honey bees. There appear to be a lot of them, so what's the problem?

Honey bees have been declining in 35 states and in Europe and South America. As many as 200,000 colonies may have already disappeared. The disaster is a mystery because no one knows what is causing the decline. One day a hive may be full and active and the next barren, with the bees literally disappearing overnight.

"The bees just take off from the hive and never return," one beekeeper said. "We don't even find any carcasses."

So far one-third of honey bees in the United States have disappeared. This phenomenon first came to light in 2006 and has grown worse every year since.

Honey bees are critical to agriculture. You may have seen the white beehive boxes set out in local fields. Commercial beekeepers transport the hives to farmers at their request to pollinate their crops.

One-third of all the food produced in the United States is pollinated by bees. Corn, wheat and rice are not affected but would provide us with monotonous and unsatisfactory nutrition if they were the only crops available.

Because of the needs of agriculture we rely on bees for more than what nature needs. As agriculture calls for bigger and bigger harvests, it bears the question, are we overworking our honey bees and other pollinators, possibly to death?

The life of some of the honey bees in a hive is limited. Worker bees live only 30 days. Some of them become foragers when three weeks old. At this time they communicate with other bees in the hive by performing a special dance using movement and sounds to relay specific sites where nectar may be found. In some cases new foragers are setting out but never return to perform the dance.

If a bee falls ill it leaves the hive to die in order to prevent the rest of the population from getting sick.

There is a name for the mysterious decline now, colony collapse disorder (CCD), and scientists are frantically trying to find out its cause. Everything from malnutrition to AIDS has been suggested.

Bees are adversely affected by toxic pesticides and the Varoa Destructor mite also kills them. But in this case the dead bodies are found. With colony collapse they just disappear. It might be that pesticides, parasites and poor nutrition could all be the cause.

Certain viruses are being explored and one type called IAPV (Israeli acute paralysis virus) has been found in the Israel, the United States, China, and Australia. But whether this is the culprit is not known.

The more hardy Africanized bees appear to be resistant to CCD and beekeepers are now encouraging them to interbreed with honey bees. In the meantime many keepers are using Australian bees to build up their depleted hives.

A new four-year research project will start soon with multiple universities taking part. If the cause of colony collapse disorder is not found soon, it is estimated there could be no honey bees in the United States by 2035.

Busy as a bee freelance writer and nature
photographer Ruth Ann Angus makes her hive
in Morro Bay. Wild Things is a regular
feature of The Bay News.

High School Reunion

2008-07-07T14:42:00.000-07:00

Forgotten But Not Lost

Ruth Ann Angus

Reunion. The letter said I would be interested in finding out the details of my 45^th high school reunion. I wasn’t.

But something nagged at my mind.

Five of my former classmates were listed along with their e-mail addresses. I kept going back to the letter to stare at those five names. “Who are they?” I asked. “I don’t recall any of them.”

I put the letter aside. I didn’t throw it out. Days passed and I kept shuffling the letter around on my desk. “I really should throw this thing out,” I thought, “I’m not going!”

The reunion is in New Joisey. The Garden State that is not really a garden spot. The class of ’58 graduated from Clifford John Scott High School in East Orange, a town that has definitely seen better times. I know this because I returned there in 2001, forty years after moving away. The street where I lived and the house I grew up in are relatively unchanged and it seemed as if I had stepped back in time. Kind of eerie in comparison to the rest of the town that is barely recognizable in its decay.

More than a year previous, a phone solicitation from Texas came in from someone trying to obtain interesting factual information about moi. Why? To sell me a book listing all my former classmates, where they are and what they are doing. I declined. Why would I want to know?

But now I did.

“My God!” I wrote in my e-mail, “It’s been 45 years since we graced the halls of good old Clifford J. Scott. Amazing! Some of us would just as soon forget those days. But I’ve looked at the names of the committee and, duh, I don’t know any of you! Who are you?”

The three women never replied. The two guys did. It seems I was not forgotten.

“I was in a few of your classes as a quiet underclassman who sat in the back and kept my mouth shut,” one of them replied. He signed it Dave “what’s his name” and attached a photo of himself and another classmate nicknamed “Chops.”

Oh yes, I remembered them! Especially Chops.

Carmine De Gennaro, alias Chops, my nemesis, a sex-crazed adolescent. His obsession centered on the budding protuberances most girls between the ages 14 and 17 develop on their chests. I can still hear the nickname he had for me, which he often loudly called out in the corridors. “Hey, triple A!”

In high school I was five feet tall and weighed 98 pounds “soaking wet” as they say. Nowadays I would be considered anorexic. I wasn’t, but I also wasn’t developed.

It did my heart good to see what he looked like now. “Chops” indeed.

I couldn’t resist a reply. “Tell Carmine I’m a double C now. It just took me a little longer to blossom.”

The e-mail from the other guy was even more interesting.

“We were in Andre Townsley’s French class together as well as several other classes,” he wrote. “I always remember that you had a pretty wicked sense of humor and a great laugh. I went through CJS with one name before one name was fashionable – Archie.”

How could I forget? Of course, Archie, from the comic books. But what did he mean about my “wicked sense of humor?” I thought I was demure and shy in high school! Guess not.

Down memory lane he took me, telling me who lived where and what they were doing and who was no longer with us. Sal Battiato, a Fonzie character, who along with the aforementioned Chops, terrorized me not only all through high school but previously through three years of Catholic grammar school – I think I smacked him a time or two – is now a hair dresser living in North Carolina! Huh! Thought for sure he’d end up in the penitentiary!

Jay O'Neil, who has passed on. Yes, I certainly remember him. We had a good friendship back then. His Mom knew my Mom. Yes, I remember. He became a father before graduating high school. Too much, too soon.

Archie mentioned a few gals who also live in California and yes, indeed I do remember them, Mary Reese, Cathy Dwyer, and Joan Attalla.

Well, now it was all coming back to me and I was getting a bit nostalgic. Was I going to change my mind and go to the 45th reunion? No.

Instead I had Archie send me a copy of the 40th Reunion Program and loved looking at the photos and trying to match names with faces.

Now here it is, 50 years since graduation and another reunion is upon us. Am I going? No. But my reasons aren't quite the same. This past year I battled with breast cancer and am just not in the position to be able to do a trip east. Besides I've developed a "thing" about flying what with the screwy stuff going on with the airlines.

I was saddened to see the names listed for classmates who have passed away. As I read their names I see their faces. Since cancer, I daily check the obituaries to make sure my name is not there. Seems to me we all should have been able to reach the time of our 50th reunion.

Good greetings to you Class of 1958! May you enjoy reminiscing those grand old days. Kiss the New Jersey ground from which we sprang and salute our teachers, long gone now, who tried their level best to make us what we are today. I will be with you in spirit!

Adding Insult to Injury

2008-06-23T14:48:00.000-07:00

Life is definitely not fair.

It's not bad enough that I was recovering from massive spinal surgery after battling back problems for years; I had to get breast cancer too.

It's not bad enough that I got breast cancer. Everyone I spoke with said they were only sick a couple of days on chemo. I was sick continuously. Everyone else said they lost weight on chemo. I gained 20 pounds. Everyone else's hair grew back curly. Mine is coming back in straight as a poker.

So I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when I fished out my bathing suit from storage.

Now, in Morro Bay it is a rare day that one puts on a bathing suit for any reason. We only have them at all in case we go on a trip to a warm climate where the hotel has a pool. Generally the temperature in Morro Bay during the summer months is about 68 to 70 degrees with gobs of fog. For those of us who literally loathe the heat and think it is overwhelmingly hot when the thermometer hits 75, this is the ideal place to live.

Every now and then we do get a heat wave and we sit around in front of the fan moaning while the temperature goes up to 85 degrees. Fortunately it only lasts for a few days, so while we hate this, we put up with these aberrant occasions.

But on June 20th the world turned on us. We shared the plight of the arctic polar bear and the Antarctic penguin. Global warming came to Morro Bay with a blast.

It had been hot inland the day before, but it is always hotter several miles east of us every summer. In what we call North County, some of the hottest temperatures in the state often occur. It would be unthinkable to pose a scenario where the coastal towns would beat out the north county town of Paso Robles, or for that matter, the valley city of Fresno, as far as high temperatures go. Morro Bay's population increases by about ten thousand every summer with people escaping the heat of those places. So to say that we were unprepared for the events of the summer solstice would be an understatement. It came upon its full bloom of the longest day of sunlight with a hoary heat blast never before recorded in this town by the Rock.

At 11:30 A. M. a friend from San Luis Obispo arrived at my house for lunch trying to escape from the excessive heat of that city where it had been over 100 degrees the day before.

"My car's thermometer must be broken," she said, "It says it's 108 degrees here in Morro Bay."

Well, I knew it was hot that's for sure. At 3 A.M. that day I awoke in a sweat, leaped out of bed and raced around to close all the windows and vents because blasts of hot air were pouring in. By 8 A.M. I knew we were in for a horrible day.

Turns out my friend's car thermometer was not broken. It did reach 108 degrees in Morro Bay. It is undoubtedly a record but since no data has been kept for a 30 year period for comparison, we can only assume so. But those of us who have lived here for a long time know that we have never experienced anything like the first day of summer of 2008.

The evening news weatherman gave a dire prediction. We would have to endure at least one more day of just about the same before any cooling down would start to occur. I nearly fainted hearing that. I could not endure another day like this. I made note to find my bathing suit.

Now, I wasn't thinking about dousing myself in the ocean, which of course is what you might think since it is right here practically at my doorstep. No, not with a water temperature of 58 degrees. Around here one wears a three millimeter wet suit to go into that. My plan was to use my wonderful new water nozzle and my 50-foot anaconda hose just purchased this week for my garden. Since every time I use it I get a good soaking anyway, I couldn't think of a better solution other than to go out and buy a kiddy pool for the backyard. That was my plan. At least until I fished out the bathing suit and started to put it on.

HA! Remember those 20 chemo pounds? Well, they stood between me and relief from impending heat stroke. I pulled and tugged and forced the suit onto my pudgy body but there was no way it would zip up. It was 11 A.M. and already near 90 degrees in the house. I finally said the heck with it and with it half-zipped and stretched tightly over all my protuberances, I raced out the back door, grabbed the anaconda hose and let the soothing spray of Gentle-Shower splash over me. I could see my neighbors peering at me out of their windows. I didn't care. What a relief! Why hadn't I done that the day before?

All I can say is the entire episode is certainly adding insult to injury. Because now I am sitting on the front porch in a dripping wet bathing suit and a stiff breeze has come up and, you know what? It's cold! The weatherman was wrong. Looks like we're heading back to 68 degrees. Global warming be damned!

Wrestling an Anaconda

2008-06-19T14:54:00.000-07:00

I heard the phone ringing through the window but there was no way I was going to get to it. The answering machine picked up and I could hear that it was my friend Barb calling. As soon as I could, I got back in the house and dialed her number.

"Sorry," I said when she answered, "I was wrestling with an anaconda when you called."

It's heartening for me that science and technology have made life easier for us here in our modern society. I take advantage of new inventions that are made to help me with my day to day upkeep of my home. Naturally I like a bargain when I can get one, but I've come to realize after many years of living that the old saying, "you get what you pay for" is true.

I've lived in my house for 20 years now and all that time I never did anything with the narrow strips of dirt outside of my back door. When I first moved here an assortment of lilies would sprout every spring and brighten the barren area for a month or so before dying back and ultimately lie in heap of yellow leaves and brown decaying blossoms. I let nature take its course and after many months the unsightly mess dissolved into the soil.

At one point in a moment of insanity I dumped a litter box full of used Tidy Cat into the brown dust thinking it would meld into the dirt. While the animal matter may or may not have enriched the soil, the Tidy Cat definitely did not. After the first rain of the season the entire section solidified and became like cement. After that, the lilies stopped blooming.

A few years passed and one spring morning as I hauled a pile of laundry out the back door on my way to the washing machine in the garage I was startled to find the entire area aglow with bright yellow flowers. "Well," I thought, "something likes the cat litter after all." I would have continued to be delighted with this outcome except that I found out my lovely yellow blooms were Oxalis, a noxious invasive plant that spreads like wildfire and once done blooming, the entire area is littered with dead brownish-yellow plant matter that eventually dries out and looks really crappy.

Such was the condition of my back garden throughout the ensuing years. Until now.

Don't ask me why but for some reason I have taken to doing a bunch of things to the house that I never even considered doing for the past 20 years. Maybe it's because after enduring a five-vertebra spinal fusion and a 10 month bout with breast cancer, I finally feel like a whole human being for a change. Aside from getting rid of things and buying new furniture and curtains and bedding, I decided to tackle the ugly weed ridden dirt patch out the back door. Spinal fusion doesn't afford me the pleasure of digging in the soil and putting in plants so I hired a gardener to do that. After warning him that he would have to remove the cement-like dirt section where the Tidy Cat still reigned, he agreed to take on the job and ultimately planted a small tree type plant with stringbean hanging foliage, a flowering vine, Mexican sage, and an assortment of yellow day lilies and purple bottle-brush type plants. A nice bark mulch completed the job. "Now, don't forget to water this," he warned me.

I heeded his word and tried using the old hose that had been lying around the side of the house for all the same years that I have lived here, and while it did work, it was worn and patched and apparently the washer in the hose where it connected to the outside faucet had worn away. This produced a huge fountain of water spewing out all over that side of the house, which then also shot inside the house through an adjacent ventilation opening. Since the hose connection was on another side of the house from the garden, this was not discovered until after watering with the hose for a half hour. The next half hour was spent mopping up the flood inside the house.

The old hose had to go.

A trip to Miner's Hardware was in order. I wheeled my cart down the aisle with the sprinklers and the hoses and the wheely things to store hoses on. A vast assortment of hoses greeted me, all in various shades of green and all at various price levels. "You get what you pay for" rang in my head, so I passed up the $9.99 and $14.99 ones and lay my hand on the "Only 8 ply, Flexogen, 50 foot, ¾-inch diameter, with Lifetime Replacement Policy " hose for $39.99. "The Last Hose You'll Ever Buy!" was emblazoned across its packaging. This was the hose for me!

Now, if you've ever purchased a hose you know that they are coiled up in a circle reminiscent of a Cobra in a basket. Held together with three pieces of twine, they are secure in their packaging. When you get them home and snip off the twine the beast stays tightly wound.

I attached one end to the faucet. It had a new washer inserted so I hoped I would no longer have the fountain of youth blasting away when I turned on the water. I then attached the spraying nozzle, a new one, of course, with five different types of spray – Mist, Gentle Shower, Stream, Flood, and Cone-Jet-Full. These were reminiscent of my bathroom shower head with three settings, regular flow, piercing flow, and pulsating massage. If these are good for my body, I figured they would also be good for my plants.

The time had come to turn on the water. I twisted the knob on the faucet and immediately the hose leapt to life, it's ¾-inch diameter swelling measurably but still remaining tightly coiled – all 50 feet of it. I tugged at it and moved a few feet of coil forward and then pressed the lever on my new nozzle. Whammo! Flood came bursting forth. The Mexican sage ducked. The stringbean tree bent over halfway. Flood would not do! I feverishly twisted the dial on the nozzle to Gentle Shower. Ah, yes, this brought forth a nice wide soft flow just like "regular" on my bathroom shower head. Now all I had to do was get the hose to uncoil more so I could water all the way down the length of the garden. Easier said than done.

Flexogen was a misleading brand name for sure. There was no flex and it certainly wasn't gentle. I tugged and pulled and the hose moved forward still in rounded coil mode. I managed to move it about 10 feet so I could aim the Gentle Shower down the length of the garden. The flow didn't reach all the way. I decided to try Stream.

Stream wasn't exactly my idea of what stream should be, but would do well if I was washing caked-on mud off of my car. It was death for the mounds of bark encasing my new plants. Mulch went everywhere. I quickly switched back to Gentle Shower and began to tug at the coiled hose again.

This time the swollen green beast wrapped its coils around my legs and I was sure at any moment I was going to be dragged under water and consumed. The hose was not a hose. It was an anaconda.

"No wonder this is "the last hose I'll ever buy," I mumbled out loud, "it's going to kill me!"

I disentangled my legs and loosened my grip on the nozzle and let the hose swell up from the flow that was no longer being released either by Gentle Shower, Flood, or Stream. It hit me that I better check the hose connection to the faucet to assure that there was no water bursting out. It was holding fine with just a bit of a dribble around the connection. "Good," I thought, "at least that's working out well."

I went back to wrestling with the anaconda and finally managed to pull the coils out as far as they would go and even though they remained basically coiled, I was able to take advantage of the so-called 50-feet of hose. With Gentle Shower working well, I completed my watering chore for the day.

Now it was time to get the hose back to a spot to store it. HA! Before doing that I just had to know what "Cone-Jet-Full" would be like and so switched the dial on the nozzle. Well, use your imagination – at least one side of my house has had 20 years of grime removed.

I switched to Mist and held the nozzle over my head. Ahhhh!

Once again I tugged and pulled and slowly the anaconda moved back into a modified coiled up snake. After shutting off the flow, the beast was a bit easier to handle, still I was thoroughly beat and any idea of coiling it up so it would store neatly by the faucet was out! I lumped the miserable creature in a tangled mess by the side of the walkway. "Oh God," I thought, "I have to do this every day!"

I didn't water the garden yesterday. Today the temperature is 90 degrees in the sun. The stringbean tree has turned yellow and looks limp. The cats have dug holes in the mulch still using it as kitty litter.

The anaconda lies in wait for me, eyeing me each time I look out the window.

Ruth Ann Angus

The Candid Cow

2008-06-06T13:07:00.000-07:00

Day Trip to Lopez Lake
by
Ruth Ann Angus

The hills are green and the days are gradually getting warmer. It is spring and the perfect time to visit one of our county’s best attractions – Lopez Lake. The frenetic pace of the summer months when the lake is busting with boaters and water skiers is not yet upon us and there is a peaceful mood for you to enjoy the natural surroundings.

Pack a picnic and head out through Arroyo Grande Village into the countryside. Soon you will approach the beginning of the lake. Lopez came into being in 1969 flooding farmland, strawberry fields, and all, to become the water supply for the growing Five Cities area. Two Chumash villages located near the present dam are now under 160 feet of water as is the original ranch belonging to Juan and Jesus Lopez. Trees and buildings were removed in preparation for the flood. It wasn’t long though before area residents recognized that this was a great recreation spot and Lopez Lake became a popular county park.

There are 22 miles of shoreline and afternoon winds make the lake a perfect place for sailing or windsurfing. The lake is also a great place for a canoe or kayak trip. Good boat launching facilities are located adjacent to the marina and store and there are boat and equipment rentals here too. Waterskiing is especially popular.

Fishing is great at Lopez Lake, which is stocked with rainbow trout, bass, crappie, catfish, and bluegill. You will find fishermen quietly angling in the backwaters of the lakes many arms.
If you love nature then this is the place for you. More than 150 species of birds have been noted and 30 mammal species. Among these are mule deer that are easily seen browsing the oak studded hillsides. Coast live oaks with their acorn abundance attract the colorful and industrious acorn woodpecker. Masters at saving up for a rainy day, this bird goes about in a serious manner drilling numerous holes in the trees. Then they collect acorns and one by one stuff them into the prepared receptacles storing them for future consumption.

Many migratory birds find Lopez Lake a great stopping-off point. A flock of American white pelicans often resides at one end and eared grebes, cormorants, mergansers, and other waterfowl dot the surface of the lake. One of the best ways to see this is to take a ranger guided nature boat tour. Park rangers will take you out on a comfortable, stable pontoon boat that can get back into all the twists and arms of the lake. If you’re really lucky, you may spot a bald eagle perched in a tree or an osprey hunting.

Turkeys also love the acorn rich habitat at Lopez. They even have their own special trail named for them – Turkey Ridge Trail. This is their favorite roosting and feeding area and they are so accustomed to people that you can get pretty close to them. During mating season the big males strut their stuff, puffing up their feathers and fanning their tails. Turkeys aren’t aerodynamic experts, but it may surprise you to see them well up into the trees. Their large wings make flying between trees difficult and they’ll never do long distance trips. They roost in trees at night and make crazy, careening flights from the trees to the ground.

Hiking is a great way to experience the flora and fauna of the park. Just walking beneath the stately live oaks is a treat. In spring lupine, buttercups, popcorn flowers bloom among the hummingbird sage, swordfern and maidenhair. There are numerous trails available and most are relatively easy. Some bring you to views of the lake and others offer panoramic vistas. Along the way you may see evidence of prehistoric times in the shell fossils embedded in the Santa Margarita limestone. This was an inland sea some 26 million years ago and the remains of scallops and oysters stick out of the crumbly soil.

You can enjoy your picnic at one of the lakeside tables. You might even want to stay overnight at one of the tent or RV campgrounds rated among the best in the county.
For more information see www.slocountyparks.org or call 788-2381.

Road Trip - San Juan Bautista

2008-06-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

Road Trip—San Juan Bautista
Text and Photos by Ruth Ann Angus

One wouldn’t expect California, our most populous state, to have some of the country’s smallest towns, but scattered throughout the golden state are many places with fewer than 2,000 people. One of those spots is not far from the Central Coast, and it is a pleasant drive to reach there. Take Highway 101 north and turn right onto route 198. You will ride past green rolling hills for a short while until meeting up with route 25— one of the most forgotten, but beautiful, side roads around. Farms and ranches dot the landscape, and as you amble along, all your cares will drift away. A jog through the town of Hollister eventually will bring you to route 156. Head west and you will soon arrive at your destination—San Juan Bautista.

This small town named after Saint John the Baptist is packed with history. The town was founded in the late 1700s along with one of the grandest of the California missions. A state park adjacent to the mission contains restorations of structures that were built in the 1800s. The buildings that are open to the public include the Plaza Hotel, hall and stables, a blacksmith shop, a livery stable with antique carriages, a granary, a jail and the C a s t r o - B r e e n Adobe. Rooms are furnished with antiques and period furniture and artifacts.
The Castro-Breen house was the original home of the Patrick Breen family, who survived coming to California with the ill-fated Donner party. Living History Days are celebrated on the first Saturday of each month with docents from the Plaza History Association in period outfits carrying out tasks such as basket weaving and candle making. San Juan Bautista was once the largest town in Central California, and its mission is considered the grandest of all 21 California missions. Founded in 1797 by Father Fermin de Lausen, who succeeded Blessed Junipero Serra, it is the15th in the chain and the largest. As with all of the missions, it was built with Native American labor. Members of the Mutsun, Ohlone Yokuts, Tulare and other tribe from the San Joaquin Valley constructed the grand edifice of bricks made from mud and straw. Approximately 4,000 of them are buried in the graveyard behind the church.
The mission originally had a nine-bell tower, but the church met with misfortune in the earthquakes of 1800 and 1906. It was restored first in 1884 and again in 1949, and now has three bells. This mission is the only one that has a three-aisle entrance to the altar. It is still an active parish, with daily masses. Many weddings are held here as well as the Quinceanera, a young Latina woman’s celebration of her 15th birthday.
The historic walking tour will take you to 48 sites within the five downtown blocks. Highlights are the Glad Tidings Church, built in Greek Revival style; the Crane house, which reflects a Cape Cod influence; the Masonic Hall; Honeymoon House; and the John Anderson House, a real Victorian structure.
The town retains a decidedly Hispanic flavor, with Spanish-style architecture and old adobes, and a smattering of ethnic eateries. Free roaming chickens will sometimes cross your path. There are antique stores to browse, as well as art galleries and tasting rooms featuring the wines of San Benito County.
Eating in San Juan Bautista will offer you a variety of world specialties. Stop in at La Casa Rosa for some fine food, and sample their array of fruit chutneys in the Victorian tearoom. There’s also the Mission Café for a sandwich and a look at a Mutsun clapper stick, which was carved from cured blue elderberry. The Cutting Horse restaurant for Angus steaks served in what was a 19th-century brothel, or yummy strudel at Joan & Peter’s German restaurant, or a cold margarita in the garden at Jardines de San Juan.
After a great day touring this historic old town, stay the night and sleep in peace and quiet to awake to a new adventure—perhaps hiking the Juan Bautista de Anza National Historic Trail on the Old Stage Road. A three-mile portion of this trail, which runs from the Mexican border in Arizona, passes through San Juan and is a marked trail for foot or horseback. Or you might wind up your weekend trip with a tour of nearby Fremont Peak State Park and Observatory. At 3,169 feet, the peak affords a 360-degree view of the surrounding area, and at night a wonderful stargazing adventure. The observatory is open to the public and offers group tours.