Mendocino County Today: Sunday, March 5, 2023

Cold Showers | Celebrating Women | AVUSD News | Gualala Fundraising | Budget Bunglers | Stump Hole | Dismal Salmon | Pet Pancake | Historical Society | Scout Cookies | Vineyard Workers | Circus Performers | AV Events | Yesterday's Catch | It's Over | Bald Hills | Weather Break | Donkey Crew | Special Debt | Route 66 | James Abourezk | Ruthenian Woman | Being Myself | We Kill | Taos Snow | Minions Required | Ukraine | War Stories | Mad World | In August | Motion Picture

CONTINUED SHOWERY CONDITIONS today with snow in the interior and small hail near the coast. Showers will become less numerous but continue on and off Monday into mid week. (NWS)

MUCHOWSKI PRODUCTIONS PRESENTS…

AV UNIFIED NEWS

Dear AVUSD Community,

Another busy week flew by. Thank you to all our families and students from both sites that attended the College and Career fair dinner on Tuesday. It was a great evening. Many thanks to Steve and Terri Rhoades for the tasty dinner, and for all the staff members that worked hard to make translation happen. I think after the crazy weather events, we were all just happy to eat dinner together and have a nice visit.

Bullying/Drug Task Force

I had the pleasure of watching the elementary Student of the Month assembly yesterday. It is terrific to see Ms. Thomas-Swett celebrate citizenship achievement with classmates including a student dressed up as the panther. We also had a long discussion with the upper grades about kindness and bullying. We are looking at some additional strategies, in addition to the educational components that have been introduced. We will be looking forward to hearing parent/guardian suggestions at our meeting on Tuesday at 5 PM in the high school library. Anyone is welcome to attend. I think for this meeting, we will break out into groups based on topics of drug prevention and bullying and do a working group for an hour on each of those subjects.

Facilities

As I learn more and more about the hardship process for building replacement, my brain gets angrier and angrier. You will not believe the amount of paperwork and expensive reports that will need to be created to replace obviously out of date and unsafe buildings. I understand from my political contacts that we have government support, but what is being asked of a little district office of five people all wearing multiple hats is absolutely what is wrong with the government today. Anderson Valley has to jump through the same hoops as LA Unified and that is flat out wrong. I am seeking a partnership with a firm in Sacramento to help us run these requests. The high school science wings and library wing are going through with the bond money as is the elementary septic. The larger projects will probably be a 2 to 3 year turnaround for the dry rot, and structurally inadequate seismic buildings Including the gym.

Weather

I am super proud of our staff for getting it done with the crazy weather. We had the benefit of mostly rain in the Valley unlike other school systems with deep snow, and our primary challenge was personnel getting over the road from Ukiah. We will evaluate weather conditions as always on Sunday night and Monday morning. As you know me by now, I always try to open school, so count on attending. Check your email, if we need to call for a late start. It is important when we are open that your child attend, if it is safe for you to have them come. I know some of our families have challenging driveways.Part of the achievement issue in our district is the belief that school is optional and we go when it is convenient. School is not optional and grades and achievement and attendance matter. It also matters that our teachers provide innovative instruction, and I am excited that the new curriculum adoption at the elementary school has been completed and the junior/high school staff is focusing on project based learning with a common theme for next year. Good stuff.

Schedule professional development day on Friday, March 10

As part of your students academic calendar, Friday, March 10 is a non-student day. Teachers will be in full day training that day. At the elementary school trauma-informed practices are discussed in addition to curriculum and a high school project based learning and planning for the upcoming exhibition on May 31. Mark your calendar for that day for 3:30 PM to celebrate your students' work and success.

We need employees

We have a second agricultural teacher opening available at the high school, as well as a painter, a classified librarian position pending at the elementary school and other opportunities. In addition, we need wonderful substitutes. If you have a bachelors degree, you can be a teaching substitute. If you can pass a basic skills test, you can be an aide substitute in the classroom. We also have openings for classified custodial and kitchen support on a substitute basis. It just requires an application and fingerprint clearance. This is a great way to support our community and add some additional flexible income. If you are interested, please email Sara Hayward at shayward@avpanthers.org for more information.

Have a happy weekend!

MENDO’S CANNABIS BUDGET ‘TRAIN WRECK’ HAS BEEN ‘TOTALLY BUNGLED’

by Mark Scaramella

Last week, we pointed out that the Supervisors planned to review their long list of long-ignored “directives,” a number of which were issued five months ago in a budget discussion last August, at their Tuesday, February 28 meeting. Several of the directives dealt with improving the County’s financial reporting to reduce the long delays in closing the books. The directives included speeding up vendor invoices, finding departmental data more easily, producing departmental budget vs. actual reports, and a list of mandated functions that are “not being met,” among others.

We predicted that they would either bemoan the delays but do nothing, postpone them again, or just give up and delete them. We were right. Although the meeting was only about half a day long, they decided they could delay the directives discussion again. Supervisor Ted Williams even said as much, commenting after the decision to postpone them again, “We could have been here all day on this one.” Not long after that they adjourned the meeting.

It just takes too much of their precious time to follow up on their own directives, even when doing so could make a dent in the budgeting and financial reporting delays that they have been complaining about for months now.

Auditor Controller Treasure Tax Collector Chamise Cubbison stuck by her previous $2.2 million General Fund carryover estimate (funds left over from last year which are available for this year). But she said there were still delays with some departments and with the outside auditor and ongoing problems in conversion from old the computerized financial system to “Munis,” the fancy new computer system that few people fully understand. Cubbison added that there were still some entries and adjustments to be made to comply with government accounting standards. 

Given that the County maintains an unusually high vacancy rate in funded general fund positions, nobody should have been surprised that the carryover would be in the millions, much more than the $500k the CEO estimated last month. But maintaining such high vacancy rates, rates that are higher in the line-worker positions than in management, means that lots of work is not getting done, not that the Supervisors care — nobody asks about workloads, productivity or completion rates in the County’s departments. This, of course, includes the Auditor’s office itself where there are not only long-standing vacancies, but vacancies in senior positions for staff trying to meet complicated accounting requirements.

When the Budget for the Cannabis Department arose, Supervisor John Haschak was uncharacteriscally blunt: “The Cannabis Department has a $1.1 million budget and their revenues that were supposed to cover all of that were at about less than 10%, 7% of what they were expected to come in at. We didn't have a department that even brought up the issues until the executive office found it. Is that correct?”

Deputy CEO (for budget matters) Tim Hallman replied: “That is correct.”

Haschak: “And then we have this issue of the possibility of paying off some of that, saying some of those salaries with the LJAGP [state cannabis admin grant] money. But then we are finding that that might not even be a possibility because of the restrictions on supplanting the existing positions with that money. So it seems like we have this department that has totally bungled $1.1 million! And it looks like the County general fund is going to have to pay for it with general fund. Whether its $600,000 or $700,000, we don't really know. But we have a real issue here.” 

Later in the meeting when the overall budget gaps were being reviewed, Haschak added, “Looking at this, ‘current funding needs’ [for the Cannabis department], I agree that cannabis is, what I'm hearing, about $100,000. Because it wasn't from staffing. But it certainly — that's a department that this board oversees and it is our responsibility to figure out why the projections were off by over 90%.”

Supervisor Williams agreed:“The money we did not receive in fees means we didn't process applicants. We didn't do some work. Because that was based on cost recovery. So why would we have a $600,000 expense for staff that didn't do work? They must be working on something else. Maybe that something else is work for the state licensing that would qualify under the grant. We don't have to answer to it now. But staff was issue-spotting and calling things as they see them, right? But I would hope this item would come back with some level of detail. … It's commonsense. What's the story? Normally it would have been $600,000 and we didn't budget that, yet we have staff working. They are not working on something that's providing cost recovery. What are they doing? Are they doing work that we can bill the state? I don't mean to put you on the spot, CEO Antle, if this needs to come back, that's fine. But I think the Board needs to address it. We can't just leave it here. This is a train wreck.”

We’re not sure about Haschak’s or Williams’ numbers nor their inarticulate attempts to describe the cannabis department’s situation because the entire cannabis program is so badly “bungled” that it’s hard to follow the bouncing bong. But whatever the numbers are, there certainly is “a real issue here.” 

Trouble is, the Board hasn’t done anything to address it. They haven’t even issued any of their infamous “directives” to their Cannabis department in an attempt to figure it out. Remember, the Cannabis Department Director, Kristin Nevedal, works directly for the Board, not the CEO. CEO Darcie Antle calmly reminded the Board: “That question about what the staff has been doing and working on is a question for Ms. Nevedal.”

But, of course, nobody even asked Ms. Nevedal. Haschak should have included himself and his board colleagues under the phrase “totally bungled,” but we doubt he’d ever go that far.

FACING DISMAL SALMON POPULATION FORECAST, Fishermen’s Groups Call For Immediate Closure Of Season, Request Disaster Assistance

by Ryan Burns

Facing some of the worst salmon fishery numbers in California’s recorded history, a coalition of sport and commercial fishermen’s groups is calling on state regulators to immediately cancel the 2023 fall salmon season.

The request comes two days after the California Department of Fish and Wildlife’s annual pre-season salmon informational meeting, where agency personnel delivered a dismal 2023 abundance forecast. 

For example, the forecast for fall Chinook on the Klamath River is just 103,793 adults, the second-lowest figure since the current assessment method began more than 25 years ago. 

Meanwhile, the projection for Sacramento River fall Chinook — estimated at 169,767 adults — is among the lowest forecasts in the past 15 years. Wildlife managers at Wednesday’s meeting also admitted to errors in their forecast models. 

Kenny Priest, a local fisherman and guide, told the Outpost that while losing an entire season would be “devastating” for him and many others, there’s “no doubt” that such a drastic measure is called for this year.

“The writing has been on the wall for quite some time,” Priest said. 

As the CDFW explains, salmon population numbers are episodic, reflecting what’s typically a three-year life cycle from when salmon eggs hatch to adults returning from the ocean to the rivers where they were spawned. 

As such, this year’s meager forecast reflects the state’s severe drought conditions in 2020, though it also fits into a much longer pattern of decline, according to CDFW Director Charlton H. Bonham. 

“This is a decades-long trend, and the past few years of record drought only further stressed our salmon populations,” he said in a news release. 

In recent days Gov. Gavin Newsom has faced sharp criticism from fishing and environmental groups (see here and here) for a decision to suspend rules protecting salmon and drastically cut river flows to preserve water in reservoirs for agricultural interests in the San Joaquin Valley.

The last time the state closed the fishery was in 2009. If it happens again this year it will have an economic impact on the North Coast, though local fishermen say the low forecast spells trouble either way.

“The worst thing that could happen for all of us would be to get, like, five days of fishing,” said Tim Klaasen, whose charter boat business, Reel Steel Sportfishing, operates out of Woodley Island in Eureka. Rather than such a short season, Klaasan and others are hoping that a closure could be accompanied by a disaster declaration, bringing state and federal assistance.

“Eureka in the past has always been a salmon port, really, more than anything else, so this [decline] has been quite a shock,” Klaasen said. 

Priest noted that the local salmon fishing industry, in both the ocean and the rivers, has a big economic impact on the region, attracting tourists who stay at hotels, eat at local restaurants, purchase gear and visit casinos. But he agreed with Klaasen that the numbers just don’t justify a season this year.

Priest said the press release issued today (and published below) represents a coalition of commercial fishermen, river guides and various other groups, “and we’re all saying, ‘Shut it down — for the good of the salmon.’ This is a united front.”

The recent rainfall and snow accumulation across the state is good news for fish, which Klaasen welcomes.

“We’ve seen with good conditions that fish can rebound quickly, so that’s what we’re hoping for,” he said. As for the closure request, he characterized it this way: “We’re ripping the Band-Aid off all at once here.”

Here’s the press release:

Today, leadership of the Pacific Coast Federation of Fishermen’s Associations, the Golden Gate Fisherman’s Association, and the Northern California Guides and Sportsmen’s Association are calling for an immediate closure of the 2023 salmon season and requesting [that] Governor Newsom, the State Legislature, and state agencies seek Federal and State disaster assistance funding for affected ocean and inland commercial operators.

On March 1, 2023, the California Department of Fish and Wildlife held their annual pre-season briefing and reported some of the worst fisheries numbers in the history of the state.

These numbers follow years of drought, poor water management decisions by Federal and State managers, occasional failure to meet hatchery egg mitigation goals, inaccurate season modeling, and the inability of fisheries managers to meet their own mandated escapement goals.

“Unfortunately we have gotten to a point that we have been warning was coming: another collapse of our iconic salmon fisheries,” said George Bradshaw, President of PCFFA.

“The harvest models, escapement goals and model inaccuracies show there is no warranted opportunity to harvest Chinook Salmon in the state of California in 2023. Our organization is asking Federal and State managers to take the required steps to ensure the survival of the resource and close the fishery. We demand we work towards future sustainable solutions so we can once again have robust salmon runs and thriving fisheries. Our coastal communities and generational fisherman deeply rely on the proper management. Therefore this requires our Federal and State leaders lead the effort to secure disaster assistance until we all get through these foreseeable hard times.”

“Inland recreational salmon anglers and salmon fishing guides are the last user group to access the resource every year when salmon return to their natal, spawning grounds and hatcheries,” said James Stone, Executive Director of NCGASA.

“We have seen historic low runs in the Sacramento Valley since 2015, with 75% of the last 8 years falling short of the required conservation objective of 122,000 spawning adult fall run salmon,” Stone continued. “Current salmon management policy and poor water management, without proper hatchery mitigation, has got us to this point of full collapse. Our small rural communities throughout the Delta and upper Sacramento river systems that rely on salmon for food, recreation, sport, and industry have been drastically affected. We need to enact immediate conservation measures and close the fishery in all sectors ocean and inland, coupled with a complete overhaul of our salmon management models and policies that have led to this scenario.”

“After several consecutive years of poor river conditions fishery managers have forecasted near record low salmon returns to the Sacramento and Klamath Rivers,” said Rick Powers, President of GGFA. “With low returns we feel it would be irresponsible to participate in a 2023 season. While we make our living fishing for salmon, we are willing to make a short-term sacrifice to ensure a return of robust salmon populations that our families depend on. Therefore, we suggest that this year’s salmon season be suspended to protect the salmon runs that are vital to California Coastal Communities, and we call for Governor Newsom and state leaders to fight for disaster assistance funding for our communities immediately.”

* * *

PCFAA, GGFA, and NCGASA comprise the three largest licensed operators and businesses that rely on the Fall Run Chinook fishery. These three organizations have partnered together on numerous previous meetings with each other and Federal and State fisheries managers seeking changes and improvements to California’s fisheries management, with mixed outcomes. While the communities they represent will be irrevocably harmed by a 2023 closure, they believe there is no other conscionable alternative at this time.

UKIAH SHELTER PET OF THE WEEK

We put out a cuteness alert when Pancake arrived at the shelter as a 5 month old puppy. Lucky Pancake went to live in a great foster home in Redwood Valley. She’s been hanging with the pack, learning her canine ABCs, and playing with her fellow puppers of all ages, sizes and breeds.

You can see how Pancake has grown in the past couple months from the inset photo. Here’s what her foster person told us: “Pancake is very obedient, loves to fetch and swim. She gets along great with all other dogs, although she does like to party hard! Pancake is very eager to please, and has a heart of gold.” What more needs to be said? 

Head over to mendoanimalshelter.com to begin the adoption process!

The Shelters are packed with dogs, so if you can’t adopt, consider fostering. Our website has information about our Foster Program, on-going Dog Adoption Events, and other programs, services and updates. 

Visit us on Facebook at: facebook.com/mendoanimalshelter

For information about adoptions, please call 707-467-6453 in Ukiah, and 707-467-6453 in Fort Bragg.

SAVINGS BANK OF MENDOCINO COUNTY:

We're dressing casual for a cause to make a difference in our communities! The Historical Society of Mendocino County received $1,603.72 donated by employees and the Bank as our December 2022 'Casual For A Cause - Denim Days' beneficiary. We are proud of the support we have been able to provide to local non-profit organizations since this effort began in 2012 with donations totaling $141,305.

The Historical Society of Mendocino County (HSMC) was established in 1956. This small budget non-profit collects, preserves, and shares the diverse history of Mendocino County. HSMC operates through membership dues, donations, and grants. They archive and research documents, maps, photos, etc. that represent the history of Mendocino County and its surrounding counties. They strive for representation of the entire county, both in their boardroom and in their work. HSMC seeks out the voices of all our county's population. They answer research requests from around the world about our people, places and events. 

HSMC is in the midst of an awesome attempt to digitize over 2 million pages of material that is often old, delicate, and absolutely unique in the world. Digitizing these resources will eliminate the need to handle them for research which will prevent damage. It also means that research work will be much faster and more thorough. And lastly, HSMC will soon be able to open records to the public through their website. This will benefit individuals, schools, and research work around the globe. This is expensive work, but their many donors give hope that this worthy goal will soon make HSMC one of the finest historical research institutions north of the Bay Area.

GIRL SCOUT COOKIES Coming March 8th! $6

Support AV Girl Scout Troop 10597 in raising money for trips and community projects. New Cookie! Raspberry Rally is really good

REALITY GLOSS

Editor: 

The feel-good story of the week has the Sonoma County Winegrowers and Sonoma County Grape Growers Foundation rewarding vineyard workers for their hard work. Certainly, they are folks deserving of such honors. But maybe The Press Democrat could dig a little deeper.

Did the vineyard employee of the year make enough to buy a house in Sonoma County? Send his kids to college? Can he and his partner afford to retire here or anywhere? How are his co-workers fairing economically? Do they have protection from smoke during wildfires?

The wine culture of the North Bay is a wonderful thing, but can it withstand the light of day? Are we afraid to look under the rug?

Michael Gillogly

Santa Rosa

FLYNN CREEK CIRCUS 

Flynn Creek Circus is looking for artists for the 2023 season. We are looking for performers who love circus. WHO LOVE ALL OF IT. The tent, the lifestyle, the community and the ring. We are looking for artists who want to create, co-create, recreate and perfect their craft with the ever present live feedback of the audience. If you enjoy hard work, travel, new experiences and adventure, we are interested in working with you. Professional skills, experience and attitude are a prerequisite. 

If you want to do your act to Disney music and go home, there are lots of cruise ships hiring.

Competitive pay rates. Send reels to circus@flynncreekcircus.com

Tour runs June to October, 2023 on West Coast, USA

ANDERSON VALLEY VILLAGE Events Calendar

CATCH OF THE DAY, Saturday, March 4, 2023

NATALI CARRASCO-SANTANA, Ukiah. Domestic battery.

SOREN GREGSON, Ukiah. DUI, misdemeanor hit&run.

CHRISTOPHER JUDD, Ukiah. Recklessly causing a fire to structural or forest land.

ROSS KIMSEY, Manchester. Burglary, vandalism, battery, criminal threats.

HAZZAR NAVARRO-TORRES, Willits. Domestic abuse, failure to appear, probation revocation.

JENNIFER PIFER, Redwood Valley. Controlled substance, paraphernalia, forgery, false ID, bringing controlled substance into jail.

ROBERT SCOTT JR., Clearlake/Ukiah. Burglary, vandalism, conspiracy, parole violation.

LEE SORENSEN, Gualala. Controlled substance while armed with loaded firearm, felon-addict with firearm, ammo possession by prohibited person, probation revocation.

JULENE SMITH, Ukiah. Failure to appear, probation revocation.

IT'S PLAIN IT'S OVER

Abandoning the American Postmodern Failure

Warmest spiritual greetings, Sitting here in front of computer #3 at the Ukiah, California public library at 2:26PM on a rainy Saturday March 4th, 2023 Anno Domini, there is nothing intelligent left to do but abandon and detach from the stupidity of postmodernism and the American experiment with freedom and democracy. Unless you are an idiot and constantly lie to yourself, it is plain that it is over! In regard to my year long effort to secure basic housing for the purpose of continuing to advocate for global ecological well being and peace & justice, whatever happens from now on is up to a much higher power. This body-mind instrument is available until no longer needed, and will eventually leave the crazy earth plane and go up. OM OM OM

Craig Louis Stehr

BREAK IN THE WEATHER

— Gordon Black

ON LINE COMMENT OF THE DAY

My finance professor back in the day told me American debt was “special” though, by virtue of it being American in the first place. You’re not saying that old bastard lied to me, are you? I might pop on down there to the admin building and see if I can’t get a refund on my so-called “education,” if that’s the case. I think the prof has already long since “self-liquidated.”

AS A YOUNG BOY in 1949, parents took their children for first trips on Route 66. For example, from Albuquerque, NM, they headed east to go see relatives. They saw a lot of old Route 66, but the places most remembered best were in the beautiful Missouri Ozarks like in this real photo postcard from the '40s of "Pep's Place, 10 Mi. W. Rolla, Mo. on Hwy. 66." Kids begged to stop at such neat-looking places with “Fireworks,” but all the wonderful toys made from Ozarks Red Cedar and their fantastic aroma stuck with people. This was when one place didn’t look like another…not even close.

PRAIRIE POPULIST, HONEST SENATOR: James Abourezk, Fearless Fighter for Justice

by Ralph Nader

Most citizen advocates who work with U.S. senators on a wide variety of issues probably would agree that the late South Dakota Democrat, James Abourezk, was one of a kind. It was not that he was so honest, so down to earth, or so engaging with friend and foe alike. Rather, it was his willingness to be a minority of one pressing into visibility the plight of the forgotten, the oppressed and the excluded.

During his one term in the Senate (1973 to 1978), he singlehandedly took the plight and causes of Native Americans to heights the long-complicit Congress and media could not ignore. Read what the Associated Press had to say in its obituary:

“Mr. Abourezk was the first chair of the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs and successfully pressed for the American Indian Policy Review Commission. It produced a comprehensive review of federal policy with American Indian tribes and sparked the Indian Self-Determination and Education Assistance Act, the American Indian Religious Freedom Act, and the Indian Child Welfare Act — a landmark piece of legislation meant to cut down on the alarming rate at which Native American children were taken from their homes and placed with white families.”

Abourezk found a keen supporter in fellow South Dakotan Senator George McGovern, who was pioneering Senate hearings “discovering” serious hunger in America, including on Indian Reservations. He grew up on the impoverished Rosebud Reservation and never forgot where he came from.

As Senator, he visited Lebanon, the ancestral land of his immigrant parents, which introduced him to U.S. policy in the Middle East and the oppression of the Palestinian people by Israel and its main backer, the U.S. government. As a lone voice on Capitol Hill, he championed wider recognition of these racist practices, including discrimination against Arab-Americans (the other anti-Semitism).

His style was one of dialogue and friendly debate. He co-authored a book with Hyman Bookbinder titled, Through Different Eyes: Two Leading Americans, a Jew and an Arab, Debate U.S. Policy in the Middle East (1987). They travelled together around the country discussing and disagreeing before rapt audiences unused to such two-way dialogues.

The former Senate Democratic majority leader, South Dakotan Tom Daschle was a Senate aide to Senator Abourezk. He told AP, “He was courageous, he was outspoken. I give him great credit for his advocacy of human rights, especially of the need to recognize the Arab American community in the United States. He was a lone voice for many years. He was a great storyteller; he had great humor; he was quick-witted and people loved to be around him.”

Not surprising when you learn of all the jobs Abourezk had before and after serving four years in the Navy, earning a civil engineering degree from the South Dakota School of Mines and a law degree from the University of South Dakota School of Law. He worked as a ranger, blackjack dealer, judo instructor, bartender, bouncer, car salesman and wholesale grocery salesman.

Such experiences can lead to an independence of thought and practice. These jobs gave him a sense of theatre. Saying that sports was not controversial and can bring people together, he arranged for the University of South Dakota basketball team to play a game with the Cuban national basketball team in Cuba, where he met with Fidel Castro.

After retiring from the U.S. Senate, he wrote a memoir epitomizing his sense of humor, rooted in truth, emerged in force. He wrote of the Senate: “Where else are your doors opened for you, is your travel all over the world provided free of charge, can you meet with world leaders who would otherwise never let you into their countries, have your bad jokes laughed at and your boring speeches applauded? It’s the ultimate place to have one’s ego massaged, over and over.”

He believed in term limits and practiced what he preached – one term only – to the detriment of the American people that “this prairie populist” so dutifully spoke and acted for in the corporate-dominated Congress. We found him to be the “go-to” person in the Senate when time was of the essence. He took up consumer, labor, and family farmer causes as a matter of duty. With knowledge and intuition, he rose to the occasion, often with his close collaborator, Senator Howard Metzenbaum (D-OH), to challenge big business lobbies.

After he left the Senate, he founded the American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee (ADC), practiced law in South Dakota for good causes, and continued to speak out on U.S. foreign policy. Former ADC president, Albert Mokhiber wrote: “We lost a dear friend and mentor, a brave leader and the best that America has and hopefully will continue to offer.”

In the Nineties, he told me he sometimes regretted leaving the Senate, noting that by then his seniority would have made him chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee. He observed that had he led that Committee, several top judicial nominees, including Clarence Thomas, would not have been confirmed.

He was an exceedingly compassionate man. He was quick to express condolences and suggest some award or other legacy be established in honor of the deceased.

His many friends should gather together and decide what kinds of permanent legacies can be established in honor of a man who stood out, stood tall and proclaimed the needs of justice for the dispossessed. That would be a good way to convey condolences to his outstanding restaurateur wife and author, Sanaa Dieb, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The young generation, turned off by corrupt and cowardly politicians, needs to learn about the luminous life of 92-year-old James Abourezk.

HOW MUCH BETTER IS SILENCE; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here forever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself. 

— Virginia Woolf 

I THOUGHT IT APPROPRIATE, as I now frequently must, to make clear some theoretical lessons from this practical demonstration. “Comrades, I should not need to say we Bolsheviks do not consider human life sacred. Many more human beings are condemned to die before our Revolution is safe. Very probably, some of us here. In all wars, it is essential to have death behind, as well as ahead, of the army. Capital punishment will never be enough to guarantee discipline among those who do not wish to fight the war—Kerensky learned that. But we cannot allow deserters, traitors, cowards, to escape their duty without some punishment. And there can be only one punishment a soldier fears. We can ignore the rebukes of our enemies, hypocrites all. They have slaughtered millions upon millions over the centuries, for the benefit of a few. We kill for mankind, for the future, for a new world. Nobody will condemn, as an immoral act, Comrade Trotsky’s execution of twenty, or 220, or even 20,000. There is only one test—was it necessary to preserve our socialist republic?” 

— Lenin, as channeled by Alan Brien

THE MOST DANGEROUS people in the world are not the tiny minority instigating evil acts, but those who do the acts for them. For example, when the British invaded India, many Indians accepted to work for the British to kill off Indians who resisted their occupation. So in other words, many Indians were hired to kill other Indians on behalf of the enemy for a paycheck. Today, we have mercenaries in Africa, corporate armies from the western world, and unemployed men throughout the Middle East killing their own people - and people of other nations - for a paycheck. To act without a conscience, but for a paycheck, makes anyone a dangerous animal. The devil would be powerless if he couldn't entice people to do his work. So as long as money continues to seduce the hungry, the hopeless, the broken, the greedy, and the needy, there will always be war between brothers.

― Suzy Kassem

UKRAINE, SATURDAY, 4TH MARCH

The fighting around the town of Bakhmut is getting more and more gruesome. A Ukrainian soldier told the Guardian: “If you don’t burrow in you die pretty quickly. You start with a small hole. Then you make another one next to it. You keep going… It’s a meat grinder [for the Russians, too]. Bodies are left where they fall. Their own people get injured and cry out. Nobody helps them.”

The Russian and Ukrainian losses are staggering. One recent report estimates: “More Russian soldiers have died in Ukraine than in all Russian wars combined since World War II, including Chechnya and Afghanistan…The average rate of Russian soldiers killed per month is at least 25 times more than Chechnya and 35 times more than Afghanistan.” The Ukrainian losses are even higher.

Putin’s war to stymie NATO expansion has done the opposite. Hungary has started the process to ratify both Finland and Sweden’s request to join NATO. Meanwhile, Finland has begun constructing a fence along its once open border with Russia. 

— Jeffrey St. Clair

A TRUE WAR STORY is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil.

— Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

I’LL SEE YOU IN AUGUST

by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (translated by Louis S. Bedrock)

When Gabriel García Márquez died on 17 April 2014, he was working on a collection of short stories entitled En agosto nos vemos (I'll See You in August) 

It would consist of five interrelated stories about one Ana Magdalena Bach; however, each story could stand alone. 

Gabo only completed two of the five stories: "La noche del eclipse" ("The Night of the Eclipse") and the title story, "En agosto nos vemos" ("I'll See You in August"). 

To my knowledge, neither story has ever been translated. The Anderson Valley Advertiser published the second of the two stories 0n November 13, 2019: The Night of the Eclipse

"Nos vemos en agosto" — "I'll See You in August" was the first story of the collection that Gabo wrote (but the second that I have translated.) In it, he introduces the protagonist of all five stories, Ana Magdalena Bach, and establishes the basis for all five stories: her annual visit to her mother's grave. 

As with all my translations, even after several proof-readings and revisions, even after friends have read the work and offered feedback, I'm not 100% satisfied. 

But it is a work by one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century and I hope this comes through despite any flaws in the translation. 

Louis S. Bedrock

* * *

She returned to the island on Friday afternoon, August 16, on the two o'clock ferry. She was wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, simple low-heeled shoes without socks, and carried a satin parasol and a beach bag as her only luggage. At the line of taxis by the pier, she went directly to the oldest model, corroded by the salt air. The driver received her with the greeting of an old acquaintance and took her lurching through the destitute village of mud-brick houses with palm roofs and white sandy streets facing a burning sea. He had to maneuver from one side of the road to the other to get around the unflappable pigs and naked children who taunted him with movements of bullfighters. At the end of the village, he headed down an avenue of royal palm trees where the beaches and tourist hotels were located between the open sea and an interior lagoon populated with blue herons. At last, he stopped in front of the oldest, most run-down hotel. 

The concierge was waiting for her with the keys to the only room on the second floor that faced the lagoon. She climbed the stairs in four strides and entered the modest room that reeked of insecticide and was almost completely filled by an enormous double bed. She took from her bag a small satchel and a thick book that she placed on the night table with the page marked by an ivory paper cutter. She pulled out a pink silk nightgown and placed it under the pillow. She took out a silk head-scarf with equatorial bird prints, a white short-sleeved shirt, and some well-worn tennis shoes, and carried them into the bathroom with the satchel. 

Before washing up, she took off her plaid shirt, her wedding ring, and the man's watch she wore on her right arm and she splashed water on her face to wash off the dust from the trip and chase away the sleepiness left over from her nap. When she finished drying herself off, she examined her breasts in the mirror: round and sublime, in spite of her two childbirths and her being on the threshold of old age. 

She pulled her cheeks back with the ridges of her hands to see herself as she had been when she was young and saw her mask with Chinese eyes, flattened nose, and intense lips. She ignored the first wrinkles to appear on her neck—about which nothing could be done, and exhibited her teeth—which were perfect, and well brushed after a lunch on the ferry. She rubbed the ball of the deodorant against her recently shaved armpits and put on the fresh cotton shirt with the initials AMB hand-embroidered on the pocket. She untangled her shoulder length Indian hair with a brush and made a ponytail using the bird scarf. Finally, she softened her lips with simple vaseline lipstick, moistened her fingertips with her tongue to straighten her eyebrow line, dabbed perfume behind each ear, and, lastly, faced the mirror with her face of an autumnal mother. Her skin maintained its original color without a trace of cosmetics and her topaz eyes were ageless within her dark Portuguese eyelids. She examined herself thoroughly, evaluated herself mercilessly, and found herself looking as good as she was feeling. It was only when she put on her ring and her watch that she was aware of her tardiness: it was six minutes to five. But she dedicated a minute of nostalgia to check out the herons gliding motionless in the smoldering vapor of the lagoon. The black clouds by the sea warned her to bring her umbrella with her. 

The cab was waiting for her under the banana trees by the gate. It drove away, heading down the avenue lined with palm trees to a clearing by the hotels where there was a popular open air market, and it stopped at a flower stand. A large black women, who was taking her siesta in a beach chair, woke up with a start, recognized the woman in the rear seat of the automobile, and after some laughter and small talk, handed her the bouquet of gladiolas she held for her since that morning. A few blocks further on, the cab turned onto a barely passable path that climbed up a sharp stone ledge. Through the rarefied air, one could see the pleasure yachts lined up at the tourist dock, the ferry departing, the remote outline of the city in the misty horizon, and the open Caribbean. 

At the top of the hill was the dreary cemetery of the poor. She effortlessly pushed through the rusty gate, and entered with the bouquet of flowers onto the path of burial mounds overrun by the undergrowth and with debris from coffins as well as sun-burned bones. The graves all looked the same in the deserted cemetery with a ceiba tree in the center that had huge branches. The sharp stones hurt even through the overheated rubber soles and the harsh sun filtered through the satin of the umbrella. An iguana emerged from the bushes, stopped in front of her, looked at her for a moment, and quickly ran away. 

She had just finished cleaning three graves and was exhausted and soaked in sweat when she managed to recognize the head stone of yellow marble with the name of her mother and the date of her death twenty-nine years ago. She habitually provided her with the latest news from home: she had once informed her of confidential data so that her mother could help her decide if she should get married—and had received the response that seemed wise and unmistakeable in a dream. Something similar had occurred when her son was stranded between life and death for two weeks after a traffic accident; however, this time the answer didn't arrive in a dream but rather through a casual conversation with a woman that approached her in the market for no apparent reason. She wasn't superstitious but she was reasonably certain that her perfect relationship with her mother continued after her mother's death. So she asked her the questions for this year, placed the flowers upon her grave, and left convinced that she would receive responses when she least expected them. 

Mission accomplished. She had repeated this journey for twenty-eight straight years, every 16 of August, in the same room, in the same hotel, with the same taxi driver, the same florist, under a fiery sun above the same god-forsaken cemetery, in order to lay a bouquet of fresh gladiolas on the grave of her mother. From that moment, she had nothing more to do until nine o'clock the following morning when the ferry departed for the trip home. Her name was Ana Magdalena Bach, she was fifty-two years old and had been married twenty-three years after a well conceived engagement to a man who loved her and whom she married without completing her degree in literature, still a virgin, and without previous courtships. Her father was a music teacher who was still director of the Provincial Conservatory at the age of eight-two and her mother had been a famous Montessori primary school teacher who, despite her merits, did not aspire to be anything more until her final breath. Ana Magdalena inherited from her mother the grace of yellow eyes, the virtue of few words, and the intelligence to disguise her temperament. Her mother had expressed her wish to be buried on the island three days before her death. 

Ana Magdalena wanted to accompany her from the first trip, but no one thought it prudent because even she herself did not believe that she could survive her desolation. However, on the first anniversary of her mother's death, her father took her to the island to place over her grave the marble headstone they had promised her. The crossing, which lasted four hours in a canoe with an outboard motor, without a moment of calm seas, alarmed her. She was amazed at the beaches of golden flour at the very edge of the virgin forest, the deafening din of the birds, and the phantasmal flight of the herons in the backwater of the inland lagoon. But she was depressed by the poverty of the village, where they were obliged to sleep outdoors in hammocks slung between two coconut trees, and by the quantity of black fishermen whose arms had been mutilated by premature explosions of sticks of dynamite. Above all else, however, she understood the desire of her mother when she observed the splendor of the world from the summit of the cemetery. It was at that moment that she made it her obligation to bring her mother a bouquet of flowers every year as long as she was alive. 

August was the hottest month of the year and the season of heavy downpours, but she understood it as an obligation in her private life that she had to fulfill without fail and always alone. It was the only condition she imposed on her man before marriage and he had the intelligence to concede that it was something outside his power. Thus, Ana Magdalena had seen the glass cliffs of the tourist hotels grow year after year; she had gone from the canoes of Indians to motor boats, from motor boats to the ferry; and she believed she had good reasons to feel like the oldest native on the island. 

That afternoon, when she returned to the hotel, she lay down on the bed wearing nothing but lace panties and resumed her reading of a book she had begun during the journey, It was the Dracula of Bram Stoker. She always was a good reader. She had read rigorously what she liked most, which were the short novels of any genre, such as Lazarillo de Tormes, The Old Man and the Sea, and The Stranger. In recent years, on the verge of fifty, she had immersed himself deeply in novels of the supernatural. Dracula had fascinated her from the start, but that afternoon she had succumbed to the continuous roar of the fan that hung from the ceiling and fallen asleep with the book on her chest. She woke up two hours later in the darkness, sweating profusely, in a foul mood, and half dead from hunger. 

It was no exception to her routine of many years. The hotel bar was open until ten o'clock at night and several times she had gone downstairs to eat something before going to sleep. She noticed that there were more customers than usual at this time, and that the waiter did not seem to be the same one as before. She ordered a ham and cheese sandwich with toast and coffee with milk, to be safe. As it was being brought to her, she realized that she was surrounded by the same elderly customers as when the hotel was the only one in town or by people of limited means, like herself. A mulatto girl sang popular boleros and Augustín Romero himself, now old and blind, accompanied her competently and lovingly on the same baby grand piano from the inaugural celebration. 

She finished quickly, overwhelmed by the humiliation of eating alone, but she felt good because of the music which was soft and tender—and because the girl knew how to sing. When she came back down to reality, there were only three couples left at deserted tables and right in front of her was a stranger—a man she hadn't seen enter. He was dressed in white linen, as men wore in her father's time, he had metallic hair and a musketeer's mustache with pointed ends. He had a bottle of aguardiente and a half-filled glass on the table and he seemed to be all alone in the world. 

The piano began to play Debussy's "Claro de Luna" in a nice arrangement as a bolero and the mulatto girl sang it with passion. Moved by the music, Ana Magdalena ordered a gin and soda on the rocks, the only alcoholic beverage she permitted herself from time to time. She handled it well. She had learned to enjoy gin when she was alone with her husband, a cheerful social drinker who treated her with the courtesy and complicity of a secret lover. 

The world changed after the first sip. She felt good, cheerfully mischievous, capable of anything. She thought that the man at the opposite table had not looked at her, but when she looked at him a second time, after the first sip of gin, she caught him looking at her. He blushed. She, on the other hand, maintained eye contact while he looked at his pocket-watch, impatiently put it away, looked towards the door, and refilled his glass. He was disoriented because he was now aware that she was staring at him without mercy. He looked directly at her She smiled unabashedly at him, and he saluted her with a slight nod. At that moment, she got up, walked over to his table, and attacked, employing the tactics of a man. 

—May I buy you a drink? 

The man's resistance broke. 

—It would be an honor —he said. 

—It would suffice if it were a pleasure —said she. 

She had not finished the sentence when she had already seated herself at his table, poured one drink into his glass, and another for herself. She did it with such skill and with such style that he was not able to take the bottle from her to prevent her from serving herself. Cheers, she said. He got on the same wavelength and they both downed their drinks in one swallow. He choked, his entire body was racked by coughing, and his face was bathed in tears. He took out a spotless handkerchief with the scent of lavender water and looked at her through his tears. They were both silent for a long time until he wiped his handkerchief and regained his voice. She dared to set the stage with a question. 

—Are you certain that no one is coming? 

—No —he said without any reason—. It was a business matter but he won't show up now. 

She asked with an expression of calculated disbelief:

 —Business? 

He replied like a man whom she wouldn't believe: 

—I'm not here for anything else. 

And she, with a vulgarity that was not hers but was well calculated, finished him off: 

—It would have to be at your house. 

She continued to shepherd him with refined tactfulness. She played at guessing his age, and overestimated it by one year: he was forty-six. She played at discovering his native country by his accent, but was wrong three times. She tried to guess his profession, but he was quick to tell her he was a civil engineer. 

She suspected it was a ruse to prevent her from learning the truth. 

She talked about the audacity of turning a sacred piece of Debussy into a bolero, but he had not noticed. Undoubtably, he realized that she knew a lot about music and he had not gotten beyond the Blue Danube. She told him she was reading Dracula. He had read only the children's version of the story when he was a little boy; he was still impressed with the idea of the Count landing in London after having been converted into a dog. After the second drink, she felt that the aguardiente had mixed with the gin somewhere in her heart and she had to concentrate to keep from losing her mind. The music ended at eleven o'clock, and the staff was just waiting for the two of them to leave so they could close. 

At that moment she knew him as if she had lived with him forever. She knew him to be neat, impeccably dressed, with muted hands exacerbated by the natural enamel of his fingernails. She knew that he was intimidated by her great golden eyes that she had not taken away from his eyes; that he was a good man and a coward. She felt that she was sufficiently in control to take the next step, something she had not even dreamed of in her entire life. She took it without pretense. 

—Shall we go upstairs? 

He said with ambiguous humility, 

—I don't live here. 

But she didn't even wait for him to finish the sentence. She got up, shook her head a bit in order to overcome the effects of the alcohol. Her radiant eyes burned brightly. 

—I'll go up first while you pay —she said, —Second floor, room 203, to the right of the stairs. Don't knock, just push the door open. 

She went up to her room swept by an agreeable anxiety that she hadn't felt since her last night as a virgin. She turned on the ceiling fan but not the light. She undressed in the darkness without pausing, and she left a trail of clothes on the floor from the door of the room to the bathroom. When she turned on the lamp of the dressing table, she had to close her eyes and inhale deeply to regulate her breathing and control the trembling of her hands. She washed up quickly: her sex, her armpits, and her toes, macerated by the rubber shoes. Despite having perspired abundantly during the afternoon, she had not planned to bathe until bed time. Because she didn't have time to brush her teeth, she put a dab of toothpaste on her tongue and she returned to the bedroom, dimly illuminated by the oblique light from the dressing table. 

She didn't wait for her guest to push open the door; instead, she opened it from the inside when she heard him arrive. He was startled: 

—Dear Mother of God! 

However, in the darkness, she didn't give him time for anything else. She removed his jacket with energetic movements; she removed his tie, his shirt, and threw everything over his shoulder and onto the floor. As she undressed him, the air became impregnated with the strong aroma of lavender water. At first, he tried to help her, but she audaciously and authoritatively impeded him. When she had undressed him to the waist, she sat him on the bed and kneeled down to remove his shoes and socks. At the same time, he loosened the buckle of his belt so that she only had to tug on his pants to get them off. Neither of them worried about the trail of keys and the fistfuls of bills and coins that fell on the floor. Finally, she helped him slide his briefs down his legs and discovered that he was not as endowed as her husband, who was the only man that she had known, but he was serene and erect. 

She didn't allow him to take the initiative. She got on top of him ravaged him, thinking only of her needs and not thinking about his, until they were both exhausted and soaked in a sweaty broth. She remained on top of him, battling all alone against the first challenges of her conscience, beneath a hot stream of perspiration and the suffocating noise of the fan, until she realized that he was not breathing well and was spread out like a cross under the weight of her body. At that moment, she dismounted and lay face-up by his side. He remained immobile until he able to ask with his first breath: 

—Why me? 

—I found you very manly —she said. 

—Coming from a woman like you —he said, —it's a great honor. 

—Ah —she joked—, It's not a pleasure? 

He did not answer and they both lay in the bed listening to the noises of the night. The room was soporific in the penumbra of the lagoon. A fluttering of wings was heard nearby. He asked: 

—What is that? 

She told him about the habits of the herons at night. After a long hour of banal whispering, she began to explore with her fingers, very slowly, from his chest to his lower abdomen. She then explored him rubbing her feet along his legs; she found that his entire body was covered by curly, soft hair that reminded her of grass in April. After that, she began to tease him with tender kisses on the ears and neck, and they kissed on the lips for the first time. He then showed himself to be an exquisite lover who effortlessly lifted her to the highest peak of ecstasy. 

She was surprised that such primitive hands were capable of such tenderness. But when he tried to induce her into the conventional missionary mode, she resisted, fearful of spoiling the delights of the first round. However, he firmly insisted, manipulated her according to his desire and his style, and he made her happy. 

It was two o'clock when she was awakened by a bolt of thunder that shook the entire building. The wind dislodged the latch and blew open the window. She struggled to close it and in the instantaneous noon produced by another flash of lightning, she saw the choppy waters of the lagoon; through the rain, she saw the immense moon in the horizon and the blue herons fluttering their wings, out of breath in the storm. 

On the way back to bed, her feet got tangled in their clothes. She left hers on the floor to pick up later but hung his jacket on the chair, hung his shirt and tie on top of the jacket, folded his pants carefully so as not to wrinkle the crease, and placed the keys, the knife, and the money that had fallen out of his pockets on the pants. 

The storm had cooled the air in the room, so she put on the pink nightgown made of a silk so pure that it made her skin bristle. The man, asleep on his side and with his legs curled in, looked to her like a huge orphan and she could not suppress a glimmer of compassion. She lay down next to his back and put an arm around his waist. The ammoniacal scent of his sweat-soaked body touched her to her core. He wheezed abruptly and began to snore. She barely dozed off and then woke up when the electric fan stopped and the lights went out and the room was left in a green phosphorescence from the lagoon. He snored with a continuous whistle. She began to tap on his back with the tips of her fingers out of simple mischief. He stopped snoring and awoke with a start, and his exhausted sensuality began to revive. She left him for an instant and yanked off her night shirt. 

But when she returned to him, her arts were useless for she realized that he was pretending to be asleep so as not to risk a third round. So she moved to the other side of the bed, put her nightgown back on, and fell sound asleep with her back to the world. 

Her interior alarm clock woke her up at dawn. She lay in bed for a few moments daydreaming with her eyes closed, not daring to acknowledge the throbbing pain in her temples or the bad taste of copper in her mouth because of her uneasiness about something unknown that awaited her in real life. The sound of the fan told her that the lights were also back on. The room was already visible thanks to the light of dawn coming from the lagoon. 

Suddenly, she was struck, as if by a death ray, by the brutal realization that she had fornicated with and slept with a man who was not her husband for the first time in her life. Frightened, she turned to look over her shoulder at him but he was gone. So were his clothes, and she found her own, which she had thrown on the floor, folded—almost lovingly— and lying on the chair. Until then, she hadn't realized that she knew nothing about him, not even his name, and all she had left of him was the faint scent of lavender in the storm-purified air. 

Only when she took her book from the night table to put it into her bag did she notice that he had left a twenty-dollar bill between the book's pages of horror.