Field Notes From The Northcoast Outback

Superbowl Invitation

This is an outrage, this is a crime against nature: We have Carl here, a big sports fan who has humbly just listened on the radio to every 49ers game this year, watches the highlights on his phone, and all he wants to talk about is football and the 49ers, and yet he chooses to be in this rehearsal and miss the beginning of our most cherished national holiday, The Super Taylor Swift Bowl!

Yes, Carl, this is your life! This is the theatre stuff you love, these are your people, and who am I? Just your long-time sports buddy, who has taken you to a 49ers and a Giants game, yet you choose this random theatre rehearsal over watching the beginning of the big game with me. 

Something you might not know about this “gentle man” is that he loves boxing and unlike me, when a player gets hurt on the football field he always watches the replay multiple times, to gawk at the broken bones, twisted ankles, and grimaces of pain on the faces of the warrior gods writhing on the field, while I always turn my head and cough.

He loves that shit, but he loves you all more, the theatrical process, always seeing the positive and enjoying the adventure of experiencing an act evolve into something a little more than just an attention-getting device, and so he will miss the first quarter of the biggest game of the year, of years, of decades, of the century really.

This cannot stand, this is not right, I’m here to perform an intervention, I ask you theatre people, you amateur actors, to release Carl from this last half hour and let him come down to my nearby house where I have a chicken in the oven, barbecued by god!, with potatoes, sweet potatoes, and squash with mango chutney sauce. You may ask but where are the greens and yes, there will be an all-organic twelve-veggie salad on the side, by god again, with maybe a fancy beer, and then I’ll give him a dark chocolate bar to take to his next stop, watching the rest of the game with his true loves, his “wives,” the old couple Susan and Jeannie. 

And what are they serving over there? Chips and salsa and cold lima beans from Winco? (Look at Carl, he loves to be fought over!) They probably don’t even care about the team, just want a glimpse of Taylor Swift, and will distract Carl with all sorts of conversation, when he just wants to watch the game. He will not have that problem at my house, only talk about the game is allowed, as I am an extreme control freak, perhaps why he chose his “mommies” over me.

I think this man, someone who we used to say resembled Harrison Ford, has made his point: He’s willing to sacrifice his sports joy (though one bad play by Brock Purdy will plunge him into disconsolate darkness) to show that you, his acting family, are all that matters. So please release him for the kickoff, a glance at the cute Taylor Swift with her bright red lips, and the big game.

Lets act together to help Carl overcome his deep feelings of unworthiness, huddling here in your bosom, and show him, tell him, that he is worthy enough to watch the first quarter of the game. Thank you, and Free Carl!

* * *

More Tales From The Hills: Grape-nuts

I was feeling great in town but became immediately depressed when I got back to my dark little cabin in the woods. I poured milk into a bowl of Grape-nuts and it tasted a little stale. I looked in the bowl and saw mouse turds floating on top. I lurched to the sink and barfed. Just then my uncle came halfway down my trail to visit for the first time. I said I had just barfed up mouse turds and he offered to stick his fingers down my throat. I told him it was bad timing and he went back up the trail. I never saw him again.

* * *

Mites and Mold

The worse time was the greenhouse era with all the mites and mold. After predator mites, lacewing larva, and Pyrethrum didn’t work someone said they were vacuuming their plants. I’d go out there at 11am every other morning, climb on the ladder with a shop vac, and vacuum the webs off the colas with a long improvised attachment as the sun burnt down on me. I decided to remove the roof and glass and grow out in the open.

I unscrewed a batten but it was securely caulked and wouldn’t move. The tempered glass pieces underneath them were also calked tight. I threw a rock at it with no success. I took a hammer and slammed it into the glass. Nothing. Next I took a pickaxe and slammed the pointy end into the glass. That worked. I spread plastic around the edge of the perimeter and smashed about forty sheets of the tempered glass.

* * *

Buying Plants Fiasco

Way back in the day I went over to the goat shed in Briceland to buy some plants from Crazy Will. I picked out a group of twenty plants and said I’d be back to get them in two weeks. He agreed.

Two weeks later I returned. The plants had grown a lot and as I started to load them up he said, “No! Not those, these over here.” He pointed to some smaller ones.

“Hey, we had a deal for these over here!” I said.

“No, these over here!” he said.

“That’s bullshit!” I said. Will picked up a jack and lifted it up threateningly. I picked up a rock about the size of a baseball, cocked my arm, and aimed it at his head. We stood there like that for a few moments. Was this the famous Mexican Stand-off?

Finally we cooled down and I shrugged and paid him $400 for the twenty plants.

(I saw him a couple weeks later in town and he smiled and started over to greet me. I turned and went the other way and ignored him for months.)

* * *

Massage Class

Whenever I’m driving to a big Gulch gathering memories of scenes out there over the years come flooding into my head in a pleasant wave of nostalgia. When heading to Beginnings for Nancy’s big 70th birthday party the other day I remembered a massage class that Joan had lead back in ’75 or so:

Upon arrival at the Tower House there were about ten naked people in the room. What could I do but take off my clothes too. Soon I was massaging a beautiful naked Star, although I remember having trouble focussing on her neck from above, necks can throw me. Then I was massaging Goat Don, and after a few minutes he opened his eyes and said “Will you stop dripping sweat on me?!”

* * *

It’s a Boy!

Births were often community events, they became like parties.

“Hey, Jan’s in labor, she’s having her baby!”

“Alright, let’s go over!”

Yerba’s birth of Sage in ’75 became one of those community events. Once I hitch-hiked to Willits three times within one month to be at the birth of a friend’s baby, it was the most amazing experience I ever had. Later people became a bit more private about it.

* * *

Last Tale From The Hills: California Shit Story

Back in the day it was often a cold rainy walk out to the outhouse so a neighbor, thank you Keith, came up with a brilliant solution: Shit on newspaper and burn it. Back then everyone had a wood-burning stove. This worked out well and we learned pretty quickly to push that bundle way back into the stove. There were some odd moments for visitors, like when during a dinner party little six-year-old Rosa, spread her newspaper in the corner and continued the family tradition.

So I burned shit during the long winter and then it was spring and I took a shit on newspaper but realized it was a nice day! Too warm to make a fire.

I put the package in a ziploc and stashed it up the hill behind my truck tire. Keith came by, glanced at it, and knew exactly what it was. I took it to town and settled on the Redway post office dumpster. Just as I was making my illicit drop-off the post master came out to confront me.

“Just this one time Jay,” I pleaded.