Category Archives: Humor

End Times

10 Monday Aug 2020

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Humor, Satire, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Social Media, Words matter

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Well, it is here. The cataclysmic events presaged in countless movies, books, and television shows have arrived. Driven by a mutant virus, rapidly spreading through a combination of bad luck and bad behaviors, fueled by a resistance to reality and a sense of invincibility, and enabled by babbling baboons that somehow have taken over the circus.

The world waits for the latest bug to just disappear, like a miracle. Do miracles disappear? Or is the disappearing the miracle? Either way, miracles are getting a bad name. I expect a malevolent rebel to sneak up under cover of an N95 mask and rewrite the whole MIRACLE Wikipedia page.

Here, in beautiful Cambria, our community’s governmental gatherings have migrated online; reduced to small clusters of like-minded folks who connect from a safe distance under the control of one known as “the Host.” In my mind’s eye, “The Host” sits surrounded by computer screens, telephones, sheaves of official-looking documents, a cup of tepid herbal tea, and two cats who invariably step on the right key when an outraged citizen raises a virtual hand to speak.

Like most evolution, it initially went unnoticed. At first, it was just a board meeting or two. Soon, that wasn’t enough. The lure of the standing committees drew me in. Hunger grew. I soon found myself scouring the CCSD website event calendar, searching for the next meeting. Finance, Infrastructure, it didn’t matter. I knew I had a problem when I clicked the link for the third leg of the trinity. Yes, I am talking about the Policy Committee. Then came Parks, Recreation, and Open Space. I could not stop. I attempted to access the legendary FireSafe Focus meeting, but, like a lapsed Catholic, sat in the purgatory of the virtual lobby, waiting for “the Host” to grant me entry. That entry never came. I suppose I will have to make do with the minutes.

Not to be too indelicate, but my office chair is telling me we are reaching the end. The squeaks and groans grow louder as the cushion grows flatter. The tilt is more forward, and the distance from seat to screen shortens. The dents in my forearms from the laptop frame have inched towards my elbows, and my sedentary body’s stiffness now covers a whole lot more real estate.  Eyedrop consumption rises as visual acuity falls. I cling desperately to my razor, for surely growing a white beard would be the final sign of surrender.

Yes, the end is near. I am squinting straight into the new reality.

The Zoombie Apocalypse has arrived.

Cow Boy

01 Wednesday Jul 2020

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Communicating, Educating a Community, Home, Humor, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Treasured Finds

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A few ‘Stay at Home Sundays” back, Jan and I headed out to enjoy a beautiful, socially responsible afternoon. Our plan, we agreed, would be a visit to the Elephant Seal rookery. 

We headed out and immediately noticed the heavy traffic flowing in both directions. Moonstone Beach Drive was packed with cars, vans, campers, and bodies. We continued up the road to San Simeon, where the narrow road leading to the pier sat clotted with vehicles parked on every inch of the roadside. 

Okay, new plan. We turned around and headed back towards town, deciding to mosey up Santa Rosa Creek Road.

To those readers not familiar with beautiful Cambria, Santa Rosa Creek Road is about nine hundred and seventy-two miles long, goes pretty much straight up, and at its widest is maybe thirty-seven inches. Cars pass so tightly that they are required to wear masks. My math might be a bit off; perhaps Mike Broadhurst can sharpen up the numbers for me.

The road takes you past Coast Union High School – go Broncos! – and ascends past farms, ranches, vineyards, and homesteads. Farm machinery and farm animals share the soundscape with the call of birds, the rustle of swaying trees, and the gurgle of water from the namesake Santa Rosa Creek that winds alongside the roadway, feeding the farms and fields and nourishing the wildlife as it makes its way to the ocean. It is stunning, beautiful, and for those of us who seldom make the drive, it can be white-knuckle inducing. (Full disclosure – I am a terrible driver, even under the best of conditions. I am the chagrined recipient of numerous “STOP TALKING AND FOCUS ON THE ROAD” awards.)

As we motored along, we encountered a few cars, a motorcycle or two, and several bicyclists laboring up and gliding down the road. I maintained a forward speed of at least thirteen miles per hour as a courtesy to those who had the misfortune of following behind. I assume the confident and occasionally impatient drivers were residents who know every twist, bump, and divot along the route.

The sound of a vocalizing cow cut through the air. As a city boy, this sound was not something I’d often heard in person. Rather than the gentle mooing of a TV cow, or the more enthusiastic proclamations from the animatronic cow at Stew Leonard’s, this sound had both a volume and sharpness that got my attention. The surrounding rocks, trees, and hills amplified the tone as it bounced around, making it hard to locate where it originated. A nearby herd soon joined in, creating a bovine dialog that filled the early summer air.

As we reached the upper section of the road, a beautiful scene unfolded in front of us. Headed downhill came three massive black cows being gently managed by a young man of perhaps thirty, who guided the herd with a quiet voice and a small stick. The trio headed toward a pasture where a cluster of fellow cud chewers grazed, lolled, and lowed. And that is the extent of my cow terminology. Standing beside the open gate that led to the pasture was a young boy of about six or seven. His job, which he was taking very seriously, was to control traffic, and then steer the cattle through the open gate. He waved us to a stop, then turned to his next task.

Now, this may seem like a “so what?” moment to those familiar with cows and such. For me, it was inspiring. 

Here is this young boy, facing several thousand pounds of animals headed right towards him. He didn’t even have a stick! Yet he stood his post, ready to turn the herd when they reached him. He held a little too close to the gate, so the man (his father? his brother?) quietly directed him to take a few steps back to give the cows all the room they required. The boy never took his eyes off the animals as he repositioned himself. The cows made the turn through the open gate and into the pasture. Their arrival set off another round of mooing, like a bovine version of Norm entering Cheers. The boy closed the gate and received a measured “good job” from his mentor.

So, a young boy facing and controlling three beasts hundreds of sizes bigger than him. A calm, focused adult giving quiet, confident directions to both the animals and the youngster waiting for the hand-off. No fear, no yelling, no big deal. Just two generations who were working together to accomplish what looked to be an intimidating and challenging task to the uneducated. As we resumed our drive, we offered our own “good job” to the two cowboys, who nodded their acceptance and went on with their work.

For those of us struggling through these unsettling times, perhaps there is a lesson to be found up on Santa Rosa Creek Road.

Everybody Knows That!!!

26 Wednesday Feb 2020

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Cambria CCSD, Communicating, Community Involvement, Educating a Community, Emergency Preparedness, Emergency Services, Home, Humor, Local politics, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Social Responsibility, Words matter

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Johnny Carson used to say “I did not know that!” Was he the last honest man?

A major insurance company has revived a series of television ads featuring a “fractured fairy tales” approach to classic characters. The setup of “everybody knows that” is followed by a “well, did you know…” leading to an absurd premise. My favorite spot features Pinocchio as a failed motivational speaker. Everything from the concept to the actors is note-perfect. I particularly love the facial expressions – first, the kid’s reaction to his father’s assertion that the fictional boy lacked sales skills, to the crestfallen response from the seminar attendee who sees the wooden wonder’s nose betraying his words that “you have potential…”
geico-pinocchio-was-a-bad-motivational-speaker-large-9

If you pay attention, you might see similar looks on the faces of fellow Cambrians as they ingest information from different sources in and around town.

ZAP!

A short while back, an incident occurred where power lines fell across the only legal access road into and out of one of our neighborhoods. Cambria Fire and CalFire responded to the event and followed emergency protocols. Safety first. They took up positions to keep people from coming in contact with the still-charged lines.

According to the Cambria Fire crew that responded, there was a real danger. Active fire impacted the poles on either end of the cable run. The lines that fell into the street were charged and arcing. Yet, even with this crazy and highly visible danger, people were driving and walking around the firetrucks, ignoring the orders to stop. Dumb and dangerous to the citizens and the first responders.

Why?

With the road blocked, residents were not able to get out of the neighborhood. This blockage presented some real headaches, as folks needed to get to work, or school, or to a big pro-or- anti -swimming pool meeting. An inconvenience, to be sure.

A citizen approached the firefighters and asked if they could open the gates at the emergency fire road that traverses the Fiscalini Ranch Preserve. The crew declined, saying they didn’t have the resources to spare.

So, here’s where the false premise of “everybody knows that” comes in. Grumblings began that the firefighters “didn’t have the resources” – which translated into “they didn’t have a key to the gates.” Which turned into “nobody knows who has the key to the gates.” which became “if this were an evacuation scenario, nobody would know how to open the gates.” And on and on it grew.

Eventually, a community member in possession of a key unlocked the gates at either end of the emergency road, and people were able to use it to exit the neighborhood.

Begats

A legitimate emergency – downed power lines -begat an inconvenient situation – no exit from the neighborhood – which begat irresponsible actions – driving and walking around the emergency vehicles and through the danger – which begat a questionable use of an emergency road across a protected preserve – which begat a series of assertions about emergency response preparedness.

Not Everybody Knows That!

The reality is that there are plans to handle emergencies and facilitate evacuations if needed. There are protocols in place, including communications plans, multiple agencies and civilian responders with assigned duties, and plenty of keys to go around.
All of this information has been published, shared, mailed, reported out on, posted, and promoted for citizens to read and absorb. There was a major town hall meeting this past June 29, 2019, focused on fire safety and emergency response plans. Hundreds attended. It was even on the TV.
In January of this year, there was a second town hall meeting hosted by the Cambria FireSafe Focus Group. The Vet’s Hall was packed. Representatives from Highway Patrol, SLO Sheriff’s office, CalFire, Cambria Fire, Caltrans, and SLO County’s office of Emergency Response shared their emergency response plans. Each presenter engaged in Q&A with the attendees. Printed material, websites, and contact information were given out.
But still, in this contained, limited event, things spun out, with people demanding answers and making statements that were more from annoyance and ignorance of the facts than anything else.
So what would happen in a real emergency? Who will respond, and how?

For a quick and helpful primer, go to the FireSafe Focus Group/Cambria Fire website.

Says Who?

Cambria’s agencies work hard to make as much factual information and data available. Public meetings provide the opportunity to see and hear what is going on. Yet, these meetings are often sparsely attended. Citizen engagement often means the same small handful of folks trooping to the podium to express the same small handful of opinions and grievances, with an occasional “atta boy” for a well-done job or a significant individual accomplishment. Of course, there are also a fair amount of thoughtful, probing, and important questions raised that drive action and greater community awareness.

What is more remembered, the protestation, or the response?

Who Has That Kind Of Time?

Public meetings are often long, sometimes confusing, and regardless of the time of day, difficult for many to attend. There have been honest efforts to try different schedules to drive more attendance, but the result has been the same. So how else do citizens and interested parties get their information?

LIVE!

Community Services meetings are live-streamed as they occur, and broadcast on local public access television. The recorded sessions are archived and accessible within a few days so that interested people can watch the sessions at their convenience. These services come with a price – a rough estimate of the fees charged to facilitate these channels come in around $1K per session – costs increase when the meetings go over the scheduled time. With two meetings per month, plus additional special meetings that might be broadcast, the amount spent adds up.

AGP

Excerpt from Feb 20, 2020 Board Packet

Anybody Home?

I was curious as to how effective this process is – how many people watch or listen remotely? I reached out to AGP to gather some data. After some back and forth, they told me they only provide that information to the agencies they serve. I followed up with CCSD staff who returned the following stats. It appears these hits were not previously tracked, so I was only able to get one month’s numbers. They provide limited information, but something worth monitoring over time.

Here’s AGP’s statistics for January 2020 CCSD meetings, provided through a public records request.

CCSD 1.16.20:  LIVE: 16

CCSD 1.22.20:  LIVE: 22

CCSD Archive views for the month of January to date: 82

It seems like a lot of money for a little return.

Hosted Websites

The Services District and the Healthcare District host websites that contain information about what goes on in each organization, as well as legal, regulatory, and organizational details that support many of the district policies and practices.

The CCSD site has been recently overhauled and has become more user-friendly. According to the data collected by Google Analytics and provided through the Public Records Request process (accessible through the website,) a good number of people use this tool to gather information and seek answers to ongoing puzzlements.

From January 20, 2019, through January 26, 2020, the Cambria Community Services District website was accessed 87,690 times, with 68,394 unique page views. That is a pretty good amount of traffic, though the top pages were a bit of a surprise.CSDWEBTRAFFIC

The complete list of results can be found in the following link:

CCSD_CombinedWeb

The Healthcare District website is currently undergoing a redesign, with the goal of making it both user and administration friendly. The work is being done by an active District employee, often in his free time, so it might take a while before it is ready for publication.

Widen The Lens

There has been a sporadic outcry around CCSD directors and staff using electronic devices during meetings, with the subtle and occasional direct accusation that all manner of nefarious communication was happening between board members and mysterious influencers and special interests.

Rather than rail against the perceived downside of electronic communication, why not embrace the potential and expand its use? Open a web channel to the meeting that would allow viewers to submit questions or comments to the presiding clerk, have the item read out loud, and have the written/electronic dialog entered into the minutes. Viewers who wish can ask their questions or make comments through the microphones on their computer, tablet, or smartphone. Brave citizens having a good hair day can turn on their camera for their allotted three minutes. More people will have the opportunity to “speak” to the board, staff, and community without the challenges of having to physically be “in the room where it sometimes happens.” Caller number five could win a toaster!

Businesses engage with clients all around the world in this fashion, using video and audio to make personal connections that increase understanding and decrease uncertainty. Participants can make “eye contact” through video, exchange written comments and conduct Q&A through chat/messaging features, upload documents for review and comment in real-time. Tone, tenor, facial expression, body language – all contribute to a complete dialog.

But..but…Cambria has old people who don’t use computers!

Really? Take a look at local social media sites and get back to me!

Let’s try it!

Shot Clock

Public commenters are limited to three minutes per item, with the board President controlling the clock and having some discretion with the time.

I suggest the same (or even shorter) time limits should apply to each board member who wishes to speak on a topic. Yes, the dialog between the members is essential and should happen freely. It is sometimes the case, however, where a director will go on a ramble. That suggests a lack of preparation.

Put together a compelling thought and present it in a manner not requiring a map, a compass, a dictionary, and some of that free coffee from the back counter. Each director should prepare their thoughts in advance and know what points/questions/positions they wish to share. Write it down. Read it back. Time it. Edit. Repeat. Speed up the meetings and reduce much of the frustration of fellow directors, staff, and the public who are trying to follow along. It may seem like this would limit dialog, but in my view is it would make dialog more effective and drive better results.

Takeaways

Even with all the efforts to communicate critical information throughout the community, there are, and will always be, gaps in our collective knowledge. Information is everywhere, we just need to look, ask and at times suggest better ways to share what we know, and what we would like to know. This community is blessed to have a good number of people who help all of us stay smart and safe. But as we are often reminded, we are each responsible for our own well-being.

Just because we may not know something, that doesn’t mean it’s unknowable. As Pinocchio tells us – we all have potential!

Lunchtime

07 Friday Feb 2020

Posted by in Home, Humor, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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Bring the Trader Joe’s bags, we’re going to Albertson’s!

Thursdays with Morro Bay

My well-organized wife is the Keeper Of The Grocery Lists – actually, a half-folded sheet of paper filled on one side with previous writings or misprinted sheet music. The clean side keeps track of wants and needs. There are three headings – Costco, Albertson’s, and TJ’s. Sometimes an item will migrate from one column to another, or get crossed out and replaced with something else.

Non-grocery tasks are tracked on index cards. It’s a process.

Basics

The weekly trip to Albertson’s is never dull. For a guy with a minimal range of lunch likeables, this has not been a good couple of weeks. I’m a three-item menu man. A simple tuna sandwich on a whole wheat pita will appear twice a week. On Albertson’s day, a basic American cheese on a plain bagel will land on the fiestaware. A beautiful bowl of hot chicken noodle soup, courtesy of Lipton, will round out the lunch week. Of course, no soup is complete without a short sleeve of Premium Saltines, half in the bowl, 45% as stand-alone crackers, and the rest, crumbs that bounce off the table and land under the chairs. It’s a process.

Groans Ahead

Just a simple man with a simple soup and sandwich lifestyle, living the dream until an item in one of the inescapable news feeds caught my eye. An iconic brand was ensnared in a scandal that cut to the core — actually, the albacore. Bumble Bee, busted. This one stung.

It turns out my long-held wariness of that Charlie Tuna character was well-founded. According to the news report, Mr. Tuna and his henchmen conspired with that little mermaid from Chicken of The Sea and the Bumbling Bee to market canned tuna with all the price fixin’s.

“The troubled brand was embroiled in a price-fixing scheme that drained its resources. Major grocery chains, including Walmart, Kroger, and Albertsons, sued Bumble Bee, Starkist, and the maker of Chicken-of-the-Sea in 2016 for fixing prices. In 2017, Bumble Bee agreed to plead guilty for its role in the conspiracy and to pay a $25 million criminal fine.” 

$25 million – that’s a lot of clams! The weight of the penalty has proven to be too much, causing the bumble to tumble into bankruptcy. Thankfully, there were still plenty of cans on the shelves, flashy gold-colored tins promising a premium experience. “Hah!” I thought, “More marketing gimmickry designed to entice the unwary.”

I picked up three cans.

Moving On

A few yards down the aisle, an open space appeared where my preferred brand of soup mix usually stood. I wasn’t too worried since the popular classic often stood stacked in rows that extended several boxes deep. Worst case, I’d have to grab a few of the “with real chicken” varieties and wait for a restock. However, that was not going to be an option. Hanging off the lip of the shelf was a printed piece of HELL NO!!!! I silently screamed as the words “recall” and “listeria” leaped off the page. “This simply can’t bee,” I thought, mixing my metaphors as I struggled for some sense of normalcy. All manner of craziness ran through my mind. “These are not my reading glasses,” I thought. “I must be misreading the words.”

I whipped my head around, looking for my wife. She wears progressive lenses; she will know what this all means. Unfortunately, she was still two aisles over, weighing the differences between generic and name – brand crushed tomatoes. I frantically spun around, looking for Angela, or Kyle, or Brenda. But no, Angela had moved over to produce, Kyle was ringing away on register 4, and Brenda was now working for the bank – so close yet so far!!!

Keep Moving

Panic was setting in, or maybe it was hunger. It was time to move on. I closed my eyes and silently recited my go-to mantra; “what would Shirley do?” The answer came to me in a flash. I wheeled my cart around and headed to where I knew I would be safe. The frozen food aisle. Thanks, Shirley!

Wait – what the frosted hell is this??? Another sign, blurry through the refrigerator glass. I slowed my roll – actually, a misbehaving front wheel had already done that for me – and wobbled up to familiar section only to find yet another nightmare. It seems listeria was not satisfied with just taking out the soup. No, those mischievous microbes set out to take down the king. Yes, that little bio-bastard went straight to the top, laying siege to the freezer aisle. White Castle has fallen.

Oh, those many Bronx nights, weaving down Fordham Road in Pete’s Firebird or Tommy’s father’s station wagon, towards the bright beacon of regrettable choices and reckless consumption. No matter how many quarts of beer sloshed around in our bellies, no matter how many Sambuca shots left lips licorice-y, there was always room for one or twelve murder burgers. There was no listeria hysteria then, no microbe that could stop us. Germs were expelled in a stream of “all the above.” It was a process.

Nothing Stays The Same

Those days are long past. I’ve come to an uneasy truce with alcohol and all that followed. Pete has gone on to whatever existence comes next. Tommy, too, along with a few others that took that late-night slalom down the broad street that both connected and divided neighborhoods, cultures, and realities. But many of us are still here, carrying the scars and badges of the histories we have written for ourselves.

It is nearly impossible to find a real live White Castle anymore. Pretty much all that is left are the frozen replicas that take well to the microwave, but fail to recreate the full foolish experience of over-consuming things that are bad and potentially fatal. I guess it’s good that they are not as great as I remember — less chance for reigniting old bad habits.

Receipts

I walk past the wine, beer and whiskey with no hesitation, thanks to thirty years of practice. The thousands of cigarettes I smoked could likely stack as high as a detached garage, but that number was frozen a quarter-century ago.  But White Castle, Bumble Bee, dehydrated pre-packaged soup? Yellow American – the lowliest and most misunderstood of all cheeses? They still find a place in the shopping cart, surrounded by yogurt, fruit, and (I hope I’m pronouncing this correctly) vegetables. The beer is alcohol-free, the wine is not mine. But these things that have shaped me, both literally and metaphorically, hang on for dear life.

I’m okay with that.

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Tales From The Bluff

27 Wednesday Nov 2019

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Home, Humor, Satire, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Treasured Finds

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A Man and His Dog

Ted was worried.

It was the second time in a week where the solitary woman appeared in the jcvisorgrdistance, striding aggressively along the scenic ocean bluff. It was odd, he thought; where’s the lumbering man in the off-white windbreaker and faded cap?
But this day was different. The woman walked alone, singing softly into the ocean air.

At one end of the leash, Chloe strained ahead, looking impatiently back as Ted’s long strides shortened and stuttered. A quick look towards the oncoming figure explained it all. “She is alone,” thought the gracefully graying beasts. “Again. Why? Where is the other of the pair? And why this week, this day?” The thoughts quickly left the canine’s brain, swooshed away by the appearance of one of the 63,245 squirrels that call the trail side fields and hillocks home.

At the other end of the leash, Ted had similar thoughts. As a careful and precise man, Ted did not easily trust that there were 63,245 squirrels. As a practical and pragmatic man, he realized the folly of counting them all. Chloe, he decided, could have this point. He let slack into the lead, silently transmitting his concession through the woven strap that kept the two connected.

“Maybe he broke free of his leash,” they both thought.” No,” they quickly realized, there had been no signs of a harness, or collar, or any such restraint. The man was often slightly behind, appearing to struggle with the pace set by the alpha. He likely had not the strength nor the stealth to escape.

Chloe grew more worried. Her angular face turned instinctively towards the ocean, taking in the crags that lined the bluff trail, angling down in places, while a few yards away dropping acutely onto the rocks below. “It would have been quick,” Chloe thought. A hip check would have upset his balance just enough to send him skittering towards the edge. He did like to take cellphone photos, so it would not be unusual for him to stand on a sandy patch of trail, better to get a shot of a swooping seagull or a preening pelican. Timed right, the crash of surf upon deadly rocks could easily drown out the sound of a surprised “what the fu…..aaaaarrrrrrggggghhhhhhhh!!!!”

The Fog

The afternoon fog came on little cat feet, gauzing the hills and altering the sound of the sea. As the distance between the duo and the solitary strider lessened, minor details become both more explicit and less. The approaching white-billed visor served as a locator, marking distance and direction. The arms swung forward and back in a precise rhythm, palms facing rearward, slightly cupped, an artifact of years of competitive swimming and piano training. The finely ground gravel whispered as each Keen-covered foot landed and lifted. It sounded familiar and odd at the same time, as there was no accompanying “whoosh” of a nylon windbreaker.

The distance closed. The three met at the dragon-headed bench, where the woman sat benchwith one leg casually curled atop the faded redwood slab. Ted remembered how the man would often mumble “five more minutes” as he reached into the bulging pockets of his off-white windbreaker crowded with Kleenex. Each sheet emerged mysteriously wadded, so there was no telling which was new and which was not.

Ted and Chloe put on their most nonchalant faces and greeted her in the usual way. The trio exchanged small talk about local goings-on. Finally, Ted asked, as casually as he could, about the other half of the team.

“Oh,” she replied, “he is home, uh, working.” Chloe looked up slowly, flashing a look that said, “yeah, right!”

Realizing that no further information was forthcoming, Ted and Chloe waved and resumed their walk towards the parking area.

Gloom, or Doom

The fog continued to gather, enveloping the white water line and swirling around the protruding rocks. As the neared the section where the trail ran close along the cliff’s edge, a blast of wind opened a momentary window to the shore. They froze. On the rocks below, a glimpse of off white stood out against the inky black of the protruding rocks. Just as quickly, the thick mist rushed back and obscured the view. Ted peered into the near distance, studying the scene as intently as if it were a balance sheet for the Friends of The Fiscalini Ranch annual report.

Chloe sat still, lightly panting as she sniffed the sea air. The blended scent of seagull and seaweed overwhelmed any possible trace of other organic matter. It was a moment of uncertainty that grew more sinister with the faint sound that rose from below, A bleat? A cry? A desperate plea? They could not tell. Still, the flash of off-white on the rocks below kept them rooted to the spot.windbreaker

Ted turned to his companion and said, “We should call someone, Chloe! But who? And how? Neither of us has a cellphone, and only one of us has thumbs.” He absently reached for his belt, subconsciously feeling for the beeper he carried years ago, All he found was a small grip of poop gloves tucked neatly between belt and waistband. Chloe, remembering she was thumbless, scratched her right haunch and thought of the oatmeal cookies that were cooling on the kitchen counter.

Enter Sandman

Suddenly, a new set of sounds floated through the mist, seemingly coming from around the bend that led to the parking area. The thud of footfalls floated through the thick, damp air. The crackle of disembodied voices, speaking in acronyms and numbers, adding yet another element of mystery to an already edgy vibe. As Ted and Chloe stared into the fog, a figure began to emerge, headed straight towards them.

A sturdily built man rumbled up the slight incline, dark hair visible through the mist. As he neared, more details came into focus. The man was draped in a Bill Belichick-styled sweatshirt, raggedly cropped sleeves falling defiantly over a long-sleeved athletic shirt. Long shorts reached down towards black laced work boots. Grey goatee and sharp sideburns immediately identified the approaching figure. Ted immediately thought, “what’s the guy from Metallica doing here? Are those sounds a rough mix from an upcoming album?”

Chloe growled softly. She knew who the man was, as sure as she knew Ted would slip her one of those oatmeal raisin cookies from the kitchen counter. He was no rock star.

He was The Chief.

Clues

“Ted!”

“Chief!”

“Woof!”

With pleasantries complete, Ted began filling The Chief in on Chloe’s suspicions. “Just about every day those two make an appearance here on the ranch. But for the past few days, he has been absent. At first, we thought nothing of it, but something about the he’s-home-working line didn’t ring true. I mean, really…working? At what?”

Chief thought for a minute before replying. “I have to admit; this is a bit strange. I hadn’t seen him at any of the meetings lately, so I sent him an email to see if everything was ok. I got a reply, but something seemed…off. The typewriting just didn’t look authentic. And now you’re telling me that…”

Before he could finish his thought, a violent gust blew across the shoreline, revealing the scene Ted and Chloe had described. Chief saw it immediately. The off-white shape splayed atop the rocks was visible for just a few seconds. It was enough. He raised the radio he was carrying in his go-bag (actually, a black leather fanny pack) and began barking codes and numbers into the device, ending with the command to “launch the dinghy.” Chloe, who had also started barking, stopped, cocked her head, and thought, “launch the dinghy? I hope to heck that isn’t a euphemism.”

Within seconds voices came back through the handset, asking for clarification, directions, and a request to pick up some rice cakes on the way back to the station. Ted realized that there was no time to waste, and that he had given his last coupons to Dan during the great firehouse flood of 2019. A calm, clear voice broke through the escalating chatter, bringing everything to a sudden stop.

“Hi, guys! What’s going on? And what in the world is a dinghy?”

Ted gasped. Chief gasped. Chloe peed a little. “Whothewhattheheck!!!” they all thought, staring in disbelief at the man stuffing wads of Kleenex back into the pockets of his off-white windbreaker.

They looked at each other, then turned to peer over the cliff to the rocks below. One, then two outlines appeared, followed by a few more shapes emerging from the lifting marine layer. The largest, a good-sized, light-colored seal, turned to look up at the assembled group, which by this time had grown to include a passing group of visitors from Fresno and three women from the UU church. With a wave of a flipper, the seal wiggled and waddled to the edge of the rock, then slid gracefully into the water.

Ted, Chloe, and The Chief turned around to look at the man in the off-white windbreaker. They shrugged, looked back to the sea, and silently agreed that, well, there was a resemblance, anyone could have come to the same conclusion, he had been absent from his usual routine…

“Hey, what the heck is that?” shouted one of the Fresnonians, pointing into the swirling surf. “Is looks like some kind of visor.” Ted froze. The Chief froze. Chloe peed a little more. They turned slowly, afraid to see the reaction of the man in the off-white windbreaker. But he was gone, leaving nothing but two wads of Kleenex and a half-eaten oatmeal raisin cookie.

“So, do we still need the dinghy?” The Chief asked quietly. Ted took a long deep breath, ran a few mental calculations, and slowly shook his head. “No, I think it best we just go on about our day and see what, or who, tomorrow brings.”

Chloe picked up the discarded oatmeal raisin cookie and began the slow walk back to the car, the marine layer filling in the space behind her. In the distance, floating just above the ranch, a barely audible soprano voice could be heard, keening for a lost love. Or visor. It was hard to tell.grey

Scarecrow, or Pedestrian?

01 Tuesday Oct 2019

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Cambria Scarecrows, Communicating, Home, Humor, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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I almost ran over Tom Gray today. Well, I think it was Tom. It wasn’t intentional, of course, and he probably didn’t notice. We were both paying attention to our Main Street surroundings, as sensible Cambrians do. The crosswalk and Tom were where they were supposed to be. So was I, buckled in, hands appropriately spaced on the steering wheel. My eyes ran through the sequence – straight ahead, sweep side to side, check mirrors, react, and repeat. Tom, it seemed, was doing likewise, sans steering wheel. He made it across safely, and I continued on my way. So what happened? I’ll tell you what happened; it was those damn scarecrows, that’s what happened.

Boo Who?

They are everywhere. On the corners, in the alleyways, and fronting just about every store in town. They pop out from behind the pines. They drop like party streamers from lamp posts. They stand guard at the entrance to the church. I stood on Cambria Drive for twenty-seven minutes, waiting for a Dancers By The Sea Flash Mob. Nope. Scarecrows.

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Nuns and priests. Cats and Dogs. Goblins and ghouls. Pirates and Italian Chefs. I waved enthusiastically to a group of cyclists, thinking it might be Andy, Susan, and Charles. I assumed they were going slowly to accommodate a new hip. Wrong! Scarecrows.

After a spirited discussion on local water politics, I took off my glasses to give them a wipe. When I put them back on, I realized I had been arguing with a dummy, and not Cindy Steidel. Hoping nobody noticed, I patted a stuffed shoulder and thanked her for service to the community.

Say It Like You Mean It

I decided to make the most of my mistakes and began shouting greetings to all the figures. “Hi, Elizabeth! Great pictures from the beach this morning!” “Thanks for the road closure matrix, Susan!” “Love the new sport coat, Mr. Lyons!” “How goes the potato crop, Leslie?” “Great piece on your time in country music, Kathe!” Sorry about almost running you over, Tom!”

And thus I made my way through town, thinking of something positive to say to each scarecrow. Words I might not have the opportunity to share in person with every real, living, and breathing character in Cambria’s ever-changing story.

Different Spirits

Arriving at the far end of town, I popped into the Cutruzzola Tasting Room to say hello. I thought they might be busy, based on the crowd next to the building. DOH! Scarecrows with streamers. Thank goodness a real live Mari was there to talk me down. I did most of the talking, as I am wont to do. By the time I left, she was probably hoping for a mute scarecrow to stop by.

A Happy Place

I made it to my original destination – the Cambria Library. I go there to write, and by write, I mean people-watch in between sentences. It seems like the natural place when trying to turn thoughts into words–into sentences–into paragraphs. I like this library. It is not so quiet that you can’t think. It is not so stuffy that you are afraid to sneeze.

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It is, instead, a welcoming place with friendly librarians, local volunteers who staff the bookstore, and kids with grandmas who come every week to exchange last week’s adventures for a whole new set of imagination boosters. Astronauts on week one, traded in for Lego Dinosaur adventures the next trip. Today’s choice features a Princess, a Snowman, and enough excitement to keep a young boy and a young-at-heart grandmother joined in exploration, building a bond that will strengthen with every turn of a page.

There should be a scarecrow for that.

Learn about the Cambria Scarecrows here.

Everyone Looks Familiar…

23 Thursday May 2019

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Communicating, Home, Humor, Satire, Social Media, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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“Hmmm, that person looks familiar.” It seems I have that thought a dozen times a day.

Smile

Wherever I go, the people I see seem to strike a chord in my brain. At the post office, at the Cookie Crock, or on a walk across the ranch, faces all look familiar. It is not only a face that opens my mental file cabinet, but a hat, a jacket, some glasses, or a gait that says “oh, hello again!”

As often as not, the person is a stranger to me. I do my best to smile and say hello, and frequently get a guarded nod or smile in return. Occasionally I get a scowl or a narrow-eyed stare, or a slightly frightened or worried look.

Sometimes my smile falls on someone I know slightly, and we enjoy a brief, pleasant exchange about simple things. Then there are the times where people react less positively, sometimes with good reason, sometimes for reasons only they know. It’s all good, as the kids say. I’m just grateful I can see it all.

What Are You Looking At, Kid?

cuteLilFellaAs a child, I had a “lazy eye” – strabismus – which always had me looking off to the side. At age eight, I had surgery to correct the turn. I can recall, over fifty years later, the terror of seeing the surgeon looking down at me as anesthesia was being administered. I can see his eyeglasses, and the magnifying lenses attached to them, between his mask and his cap. I can still smell the gas – maybe it was ether – and then nothing. I woke up post surgery with a big bandage and the constant need to throw up. After it was all over, I was a relatively normal looking kid with two straight eyes.

Life went on, and I used those eyes to explore the world.

Drift Away

As I aged, my eye decided not to follow the straight and narrow path. It began to drift, noticeable to me but not to others for some time. I would be having a conversation with someone, and would notice them glancing over their shoulder. It dawned on me that they were wondering what the heck I was looking at back there. To me, I was making and holding eye contact. To them, I was scanning the area looking for butterflies. It got weird, so I decided to have it straightened again.

Upon the recommendation of my brother-in-law, who is an expert on eye stuff, I went to see Doctor Martin Lederman. If a call went out to Central Casting for a nattily dressed, old-timey doctor with a speaking style that recalls an earlier era, Dr. Lederman would be the person they send.

Dr. Lederman’s practice focuses on adolescent ophthalmology. He volunteers a lot of his time traveling around the world, performing corrective surgeries on children who face real social and cultural challenges because of their condition. He is a true hero who has changed, and likely saved, numerous lives with his gift.

He would fit in perfectly in beautiful Cambria.

Here We Go Again

After many exams and many tests, we decided that surgery was the best way to straighten me out. We booked a time, and on the big day my wife drove us to White Plains Hospital to get me fixed. My eye, that is.

This time, the terror was replaced by a slight nervousness. The anesthesiologist came in to sedate me, and I told him solemnly, “Doctor, if anything happens to me during surgery, I want to donate my body to science fiction.” Nothing. Not a twitch, not a fleeting grin. Just dead eyes and a big needle. Good night!

Wonderful Job

I woke up many hours later, groggy, thirsty, and more than a little confused. I had a bandage that resembled a rolled-up pair of sweat socks affixed to my head. I was a sight with sore eyes. After a few weeks of recovery time, I was ready to resume normal activities. Dr. Lederman was quite pleased with the results of his work, saying proudly, “My, I did an excellent job!” After we moved to California, Dr. Lederman referred me to a colleague at UCLA for follow-up tests to locate and treat some residual eye pain. Though he couldn’t identify the cause of my discomfort, he did remark, “My, Dr. Lederman did an excellent job!” Well, then, I guess he did.

Dr. Lederman is particularly interested in improving care to the world’s children and has headed teaching and surgical missions to Panama, Kenya, Morocco, Dubai, and Belize. He cofounded “One World, One Vision”, an organization devoted to training Ophthalmologists in developing countries to treat children and adults with strabismus and children with cataracts.

Natalie Portman

Seeing a face is one thing; remembering a name is something else altogether. I can “Name That Tune” as fast as anyone, complete with title and artist. I remember lyrics, bass lines, backup vocal parts, and little ornaments within a song. People’s names, though, often frustrate me.

natalie-portman-miss-diorNatalie Portman was, for the longest time, one of those names I could not remember. I could list her movies. I could remember seeing her on Broadway in “The Diary of Anne Frank,” and could instantly visualize her brilliantly funny video shorts on Saturday Night Live. I just could not remember her name. I eventually found myself saying it out loud for no apparent reason. I realized that it was my way of giving my brain a little jolt when I struggled to recall something. Now, when I see her face, I yell out, “NATALIE PORTMAN!!!!!” It’s fine when I’m home, but not so much when I’m out in public.

The same thing happens with former heavyweight boxing champion Lennox Lewis. This giant, dreadlock-ed champion with the British accent, who won the gold for Canada in the 1988 Olympics, who captured the heavyweight title twice, who went on to be a commentator for HBO – well, my mind doesn’t fill in the blank. Lennox Lewis is the Natalie Portman of sports.

Everyone Looks Familiar…at Costco

So, here I am, looking at the world with two straight eyes, pushing my cart down the aisle at Costco. I’m pretty sure I won’t bump into Natalie or Lennox, so the odds are good I won’t blurt out either name as I scan the mini-city. I find myself glancing at faces, listening to voices, and creating flash stories in my head about the people that stream past. An occupational hazard, I suppose.

Every Picture Tells A Story. I’ve Just Seen A Face. Delta Dawn. Mother and Child Reunion. Santa Baby. Inspiration for these songs could well have struck at Costco, or any concern where a wide range of people would shop.

Wait a minute – Santa Baby? Explain, please.

Ok, sure.

This Brain

As I did my Shop N’ ScanTM, a woman flew by, headed towards the checkout line. Ding ding, ding went my internal facial recognition program. Scanning records (mental file cabinet stuck, pick up some WD-40 in aisle 35, or maybe some ginkgo biloba in the lotions and potions section), no match. Re-scan. Still no match, but the image of a Santa hat randomly pops into my head.61Iy6w-VamL._SX425_

I mutter to my brain, “Santa hat??? Really??? Do you need some protein, maybe?”

I let it go, only to glance across the aisle to where the books sit piled on tables, and again feel the sense of recognition as a young woman carrying a small child hurried past. Nothing connects, but something seems familiar. I give up, turn back upfield, and see another face, and this one I identify immediately. Then it all comes together. Mother, father, daughter. Cambrians. Neighbors. First responder. Michael. Luna. Uh, umm, uh…Natalie Portman?  We chat for a minute, and I am reminded of her name. And immediately forget it. Aaaarrrrgghhh!

Thanks For The Sample

We find ourselves at the registers, separated by a few aisles. I look to my right, and the Santa hat lady and her husband are checking out. She looks over at me; I think she thinks we know each other. We banter, light, and non-committal. I pay for my stuff, get my cart and head to the exit.

As I pass the optometry department, I exchange hellos with Rachel, the always friendly and efficient rep who has helped me with my eyeglasses. Her name, I remember instantly. Maybe the protein from that chicken nugget sample I ingested was helping. Yes, that must have been it, because all of a sudden I remembered who the Santas were – Cambrians who attended a holiday concert, wearing Santa hats! Yay brain! Yay, chicken nuggets! Yay Costco! And their names are, uh, umm, ehh, Lennox and Natalie?

Memory

I got in my car and headed homeward, two straight eyes protected by prescription sunglasses Rachel helped select. I made a quick stop at the fire station, did a little research, and added Madison to the list of names I must try to remember.

Names and faces may soon fade away, but I’ll always have Natalie.

Sing Sing Sing!!!

17 Friday May 2019

Posted by in Cambria Schools, Communicating, Community Involvement, Home, Humor, Music and Art, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Treasured Finds

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After spending time at the Cambria Center For The Arts open house, I thought of all the opportunities beautiful Cambria offers to music lovers of all levels and tastes.

Though not featured at the Open House, the Cambria Center For The Arts offers concerts and performances that feature both local and visiting artists in multiple genres.

The community was recently treated to a beautiful, personal blend of music and memoir by local singer/writer/multi-instrumentalist Mary Anne Anderson, who shared her story from childhood to today, through the musical touchstones that marked her journey. A brave, thoughtful performance. Brava, Mary Anne.

Choices

Intimate, stellar concerts are offered on occasion at Painted Sky Studios.
The Legendary Jazz Series, hosted by distinguished pianist/vibraphonist/educator Charlie Shoemake, brings top-level musicians to town to perform in the intimate setting of the Harmony Cafe. The names may not be readily known by those who don’t follow jazz, but the performances are other-worldly brilliant.

There is no shortage of performance spaces that feature local area talent, from solo singer/songwriters to duos, trios and revolving groups of like-minded artists who collaborate and support each other’s visions. Casual listeners who happen to stop by for a taste at 927 Beer can find themselves enchanted, disturbed or otherwise moved by a voice, a lyric, or a personality putting it out there for the world to experience.

Stop by the Farmer’s Market and hear live music delivered by an eclectic range of talents including a trombone quartet thematically named “Bone Appetit”.

Chorale

The Cambria Community Chorale is a magnet for many older members of the community. They carry a love of song up on the risers, joyfully belting out everything from holiday standards to intricate, multi-part vocal pieces. It’s great fun to scan their faces as they sing; the serious – “I can’t make-a-mistake-ers” to the “I think I’m in the right place-rs,” to the “I can’t believe I’m having this much fun-ers.” One thing is sure – they all enjoy being part of the musical community. I see you, Midge!

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The current Spring concert is a doozy, spanning everything from the classic Americana of Aaron Copeland to the pop sparkle of ABBA. There is just something indescribable about listening to fifty or more mature singers raising the roof of a church with the 70’s pop classic (and personal guilty pleasure) Dancing Queen. I mean, you just have to experience it for yourself! Luckily, there is one more performance scheduled for May 19th at the Presbyterian church on Burton Drive.

The Chain

Beyond the rehearsals and the performances, the Chorale lives their commitment to music. Every year, the Chorale, in concert with the Lions Club, provide scholarships for local students with the desire and commitment to further their music education. These awards come with the understanding that the students and their families will commit to a level of support, and that the training will be embraced and given the proper level of focus.

Each spring, the students join with their teachers in a recital, demonstrating the skills they have gained and more importantly, the true love they have for the art. From the littlest pianist to the tallest singer, performances touch a supportive community of family, friends and fellow Cambrians. Nerves and confidence sit side by side, and it doesn’t matter how many mistakes happen or how many restarts are required. Everyone is in it together.

Teachers

Not enough can be said about the teachers. I can tell you with confidence that the level of effort put into each student, each piece, and each performance far exceeds whatever pay they receive. Watching the teachers work with the kids is a joy. They encourage, compliment, and correct as they journey along, note by note. They are building musicians and so much more; they are building confident and caring kids.

Education, The Musical!

Even with the financial pressures out schools face, Coast Union still goes all out for the annual high school musical. Building the musical is a great process where complete chaos turns into manageable chaos as scores of students get to put their efforts and passions on display. The performances are the end product of months of a collaborative effort from students, teachers, parents, musicians,and technical crews. The whole megillah is supported by promotional, logistical, and administrative folks who devote themselves to the endeavor.

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Along the path to performance, real learning takes place. The students experience challenging situations that they will often face as they move through life. Conflict resolution, competition, repetitive practice, social skills, and teamwork all come into play. Disappointment, envy, and tears are as present as laughter, confidence, and splashy performance.

Life Lessons

They learn the differences between merit and entitlement, between wanting to shine and working to shine. They have the chance to succeed or not succeed, and the opportunity to learn how to handle both. They can learn a new skill, and realize that there is just as much creativity and satisfaction in helping to build scenery as singing in the chorus. They live real-life case studies in helping each other succeed. It is life lessons in a time and place where learning and growing are encouraged and supported. As much as the grown-ups involve themselves in the endeavor, it is, and should always be all about the kids.

There is plenty of Education in the Arts.

Disaster At The Firehouse!

09 Tuesday Apr 2019

Posted by in Cambria Fire Department, Communicating, Community Involvement, Emergency Services, Home, Humor, Satire, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Words matter

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Part One – The Mistake

It started innocently enough, just another day in a long stretch of multi-day shifts. The duty crew was settling in for a fitful sleep. Reading lights glowed in small, spartan rooms. Each member of the service reading, texting, or relaxing, near rest but still on the edge of adrenaline known to those who answer the bell.

A television played quietly in the communal room near the back of the station. Jimmy Fallon was doing his usual “laugh too hard at his guest’s every comment” routine. The last few unpopped kernels of Skinny Girl popcorn (with sea salt) sat at the bottom of an old takeout carton from Robin’s. The empty cans of Red Bull lay in the recycle bin. The unique nightlight, thoughtfully provided for the new reserve who had not quite settled into the firehouse environment, glowed softly. Above the beacon sat the station’s whiteboard, tagged with a series of “To Do’s” and “who left the taco sauce uncovered???” complaints written in different colored dry erase markers. Each shift had their color, but as the ink ran dry, everything was captured in that washed-out red/orange/maybe blue color that showed the effects of being dipped in a glass of (non-potable) water to eke out one more scribble.

Times are tight in this tightly run department.

The night turned to morning, just as surely as Fallon turned into Seth Meyers. In the half-light of dawn, a still-groggy first responder shuffled into the kitchen to begin the daily routine. Perhaps it was the lack of uninterrupted sleep. A half-remembered exchange between Meyers and guest Patton Oswalt had him rustling through grey matter, trying to recall the “Ratatouille” punch line that had the audience roaring. Add to all of this slightly impaired vision; an unintended by-product of the commando-style blue blocker sunglasses donned to aid against the rapidly growing sunlight that sliced through the novelty Smokey The Bear window curtains.

In this almost awake and kind of confused state, an error occurred; A mistake that started a chain of events that still reverberates to this day.

The after-action report laid it all out in clinical fashion. But it was neither clinical or fashionable. But first, the mistake.

One Job

As highly trained, experienced professionals, the ability to multi-task, even under stressful conditions, was a source of pride for all the crew. The relatively simple and routine morning tasks – wake, pee, wash, and brew – required little thought. Of course, mixing up these steps can prove both embarrassing and potentially sickening. This theory was tested- severely tested.

Reach into the container, remove contents. Put contents into the machine. Start machine. Pee again. Wash. Wait for the aroma that shouts “READY!!!”

The shout that eventually came was not what anyone expected.

In a groggy fog, the first responder made a terrible, nearly unimaginable mistake. He went out of sequence, mixed up container one with container two, and accidentally put the coffee beans where the Tide Pod was supposed to go.

Suddenly, the station was flooded with luke-warm latte.

At the same time, The Chief, still agitated from his commute, took his first sip of what he thought was morning coffee. Bubbles flew from his mouth as he attempted to spit out the soap while yelling “Maalooonnneeeeyyyy!!!!!!!!!” All the stain-fighting power of that tiny pod couldn’t clean up the language that flew that fateful morning.

Part Two – A Dank Place   

It didn’t take long for the leak to spread throughout the house. Possessions were submerged. Critical documents were soaked and smeared. Slippers squished, and flip flops floated. It was a mess of epic proportions. A choked expletive escaped from an Engineer as he picked up his latest copy of “Tattoo Today – Heart on My Sleeve.” The colorfully printed pages had fused in a wet wavy clot. Lost for all time were the handwritten notations placed in the margins just hours earlier. Now, there were just runny, swirly lines where thoughtful comments like “cool – I wonder if it will fit in that special place” and “nice, but I like my Keep on Truckin’ guy better” once stood.

Across the hall, the leadership team came together to develop a plan of attack. In an intense brainstorming scrum, ideas were floated and discarded.

“Maybe we can get a sh*tload of donuts to soak up the spill?” “

“No, not donuts – too much sugar. How about rice cakes?”

“Hmmm, maybe, but I think Dan ate the last bag yesterday.”

“Ok, Ok. We need a solution RIGHT NOW!!! Everybody, grab a towel, a mop, an old tee shirt from Pinedorodo 2014, anything that will absorb moisture.”

“Ryan – get the mop. Michael – get the roll of Bounty from under the sink.  Other Michael – put down the tattoo magazine – it’s gone. We need to focus!!!! And for the love of everything holy, somebody call Dan and have him pick up some more rice cakes from Albertsons.”

The crew sprang into action, determined to get the upper hand in the battle of the bilge. Obstacles and impediments were moved to the side, clearing a path that would serve as a bridge from which teams could work. To the left, a shift captain quickly had his crew working to soak up the now-bitter coffee/water. Getting into the spirit of close teamwork, a firefighter began softly whistling; others soon joined her, whistling louder and with more enthusiasm.

B shift, working from the other side of the path, took up the challenge and began their own musical rally cry, substituting humming for whistling. The station filled with whistles and hums, so powerful that nobody heard the loud crackle of the radio.

(A second after-action report determined that everyone thought it was merely the sound of Jiffy Pop being made by an eager-to-please member of the FireSafe Focus group, who had mixed up the meeting dates and showed up in the middle of the mess. Subsequentially, A new procedure was put in place, known as the Shirley Rule, which calls for at least two radios to be equipped with an audible, human-voiced alert yelling “ We ain’t poppin’ so you need to get hoppin’!” to alert the crew to an actual call.)

Thankfully, the radio call was just a message from Dan, letting everyone know that Albertson’s had rice cakes on sale, and he had a coupon. Budget saved!

Part Three – Word Spreads

The crews worked valiantly to contain and repair what the flood had wrought. Despite their efforts, the job was just too big, too involved. They needed help, and they needed it quickly.

Surveying the situation, The Chief realized what he had to do. He sighed heavily, took another sip of soapy water, bellowed again, and headed out to his truck.

He turned the key in the ignition, knowing things were about to get even more challenging. He inched his command vehicle forward, looking both left and right before pulling into the busy roadway. No turning back now, he thought to himself. He guided the truck down the winding road, past the Lodge, and towards town. As he turned left on Main Street, a thought jolted him, and he exclaimed, “I hope Dan got the good rice cakes and not that store brand crap.” It was out of his hands; he just had to trust that years of leadership training would lead Captain Dan to the right shelf. And that the coupon was still valid.

The Meeting

Chief pulled into the parking lot of the Vet’s Hall, knowing that the report he was about to give might be shocking and sobering to the regular attendees. He had updated the Board and public many times in his tenure with the department. This one would be different. No amount of slides, no stream of acronyms and codes would provide him cover. He had to let the town know that disaster had struck, and what he was doing about it.

The video was rolling.  Allegiance was pledged. The sheriff’s commander was there to give his readout and immediately sensed that something was wrong. Chief didn’t seem quite himself. He smelled slightly of lukewarm latte and soapsuds. Not an entirely unpleasant combination, the sheriff thought, but not what he had come to expect.

When he was called to present his report, Chief took a minute and found his center, calming himself before striding confidently to the podium. He hadn’t noticed, but a contingent of off-duty members, as well as a few ambulance guys, Jerry McKinnon, and for some reason that kid from the Cookie Crock had filed into the meeting space, standing shoulder to shoulder in support of the Chief, knowing his update might not sit well with some of the usual suspects.

It was a touching sight, though it was a bit distracting to hear a voice loudly whispering “Hey, I can’t see…what’s happening now???” The line separated just enough so that the blocked captain could better see the proceedings.

The Report

The Chief began his report, only to be interrupted by a few shouts of “we can’t hear you, turn the microphone on…not, the button…the other button…” Finally, levels were corrected, and he began.

“Mr. President, members of the board and staff, community and the Cookie Crock guy, I had a prepared presentation, which can be found in the agenda packet. However, I need to pre-empt myself and give you an update on a bit of a problem we experienced at the station.”

And he told them everything. The mistake. The wavy clot of magazines. The bridge, the whistling, and the Jiffy Pop. He spared them nothing. Sensing the moment was near, he told them about the mocha mixup and the bubbles. So many bubbles. In a scene reminiscent of Brando in “Streetcar,” he bellowed, as he had bellowed that very morning, “Maalooonnneeeeyyyy!!!!!!!!!”

The crowd was stunned into silence. They had no idea the Chief had those acting chops. Snatches of excited whispering were heard. “He needs to star in the next Follies!”

NOOOOOO!!!

From all the chatter rose a solitary, insistent voice. The sound terrifying and chilling, the noise akin to every alarm in the county sounding at once. Everyone froze, except for the Cookie Crock guy, who figured his break was over and he better get back to work.

“OUTRAGED!!! I AM OUTRAGED!!! REALLY REALLY REALLY OUTRAGED!!! I AM NOT EVEN SURE WHY, BUT DAMMIT I AM OUTRAGED!!!!! I DEMAND THAT WHATEVER HAS HAPPENED, WHOEVER IS RESPONSIBLE, WHATEVER THE PLAN, THAT WE FIND THE LAST GENERAL MANAGER, WHEREVER HE IS, AND BRING HIM HERE SO WE CAN FIRE HIM AGAIN!!!!!” DID I MENTION I AM OUTRAGED?????”

It could be only one voice, one force of nature that could create such a tsunami of sound. The keeper of all things outrage had spoken.

But…

For once, the usually reliable crowd did not rise in support of the outraged. Instead, the good people of the town put their heads together and started churning out helpful suggestions. It was quite a transformational moment until things got a bit testy when “someone” was reminded that the whole rice cake thing had already been discussed. Beyond that one small flareup, no good ideas surfaced.

No Capes Needed

Amid the discussion, the Chief and his supporters quietly filed out. They got in their vehicles and headed back to the station. They were people of action, and there was work to be done. And Dan should have returned with the rice cakes, and, the gods willing, a box from Dolly’s Donuts would have found its way home.

Sent with great appreciation and affection for Cambria’s Bravest.