YOU Decide


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I can’t believe it’s “destroy your neighbor’s political yard signs ” season already. Where did the time go?


From reading local posts and roasts, one might think multiple evil twins are running for the three Cambria Community Services District board seats. (From Wikipedia – “The evil twin is an antagonist found in many different fictional genres. The twin is physically nearly identical to the protagonist, but with a radically inverted morality.”

For every positive endorsement of an individual, there is an equal number that declare the candidate a disaster. It is Amazing how many Kreskins live around here, and how confidently they predict each twin’s exact agenda for the future. Spooky!


The Good

Cambrians are fortunate to have four well-known and qualified candidates competing for three seats. Each individual is deeply involved in the community, serving in both elected and appointed roles.

Incumbents David Pierson and Harry Farmer are both seeking re-election. Director Amanda Rice has decided to step back for a while. I hold Amanda in high regard when we agree and when we disagree. She is pragmatic and passionate, always does her homework, and values data, facts, and solid reasoning. As a keeper of the community’s trust, Amanda embraces challenging issues with compassion and a drive for social justice. Thank you for your leadership, Amanda.

Now, back to the election.


Harry Farmer and David Pierson have both served as Board President and chaired District Standing/Advisory Committees. Both serve with non-CCSD organizations such as the Cambria FireSafe Focus Group, Friends of The Fiscalini Ranch, American Legion, and Greenspace. Both men have demonstrated their values, influences, and approaches while serving as Board members. 

Harry and David have name recognition and a catalog of service. Those who follow the CCSD have a good idea of who they are and what they believe.

(The other Harry and David, in case you need a nosh while researching.)


David Pierson is a mature, moderating force on the Board. He offers civility and collaboration to what has often been contentious and partisan governance. David’s life-long devotion to leadership continues to be a great asset to the board and to each committee and community group he leads. His extensive engineering and management experience make him uniquely qualified to understand the intersections of technology and process as it relates to the critical issues that face the community. He is always calm, polite, and practical.

The “no he isn’t” contingent tag him as relentlessly pro-growth with little regard for fire safety, failing infrastructure, and the ratepayer pocketbook. All that leadership of the FireSafe Focus Group is just a cover for his true plot to build the town to within an inch of the ocean.

Five minutes with David should put a rest to those ridiculous assertions.

Oy Vey!


Harry Farmer has been a consistent advocate for fiscal responsibility, environmental awareness, and preservation of Cambria’s small-town community essence. He does constant outreach to the community and the district employees, looking to better understand the needs and concerns of the different parts that make the community what it is. He is not an experienced manager or public official, so his approaches don’t conform to usual practices seen on many boards. Over his four year term, he has become more familiar with the technical aspects of budgets, infrastructure programs and practices, and employee relationships. 

 Harry’s evil twin has all of the same characteristics, positioned as negatives rather than positives. Torch-bearing townsfolk see his behaviors as disruptive, uninformed, and regressive, with an unhealthy tilt towards a subset of the overall community and a significant disdain for Cambrians on the other side of the issues. 

Harry Farmer is Harry Farmer – he speaks his mind, and what you see is what you get. I appreciate the consistency and transparency of his service. 

Talk with him at the Farmer’s Market – you’ll find him deep in discussion with his fellow citizens. He’s a good man.


Karen Dean and Tom Gray also have long records of service to the community. Both have served on the North Coast Advisory Council and CCSD standing committees. Karen and Tom each stepped up and offered to serve as appointed Directors during the last go-around of Board vacancies.


When I look to gain a wider perspective on how our community is managed, Karen always welcomes a conversation around the challenging and divisive issues plaguing Cambria. These discussions are always respectful and factual, and regardless of disagreement often end in the sharing of some of her awesome home-baked cookies.

But wait, say her detractors! Her deep concern and environmental activism make her suspect in the eyes of some. Her “evil twin,” according to her doubters, is violently anti-SWF and anti-growth, and is easily swayed by more vocal and aggressive partisans.

I have yet to meet that twin and don’t believe she exists.

Karen Dean walks the walk, humbly.


Tom Gray has deep knowledge of the issues that impact Cambria’s quality of life. He engages in public service from a sense of obligation and perhaps a smidgen of hubris. We differ significantly on a few key issues, and have exchanged some heated comments while representing our positions. Regardless of differences, Tom’s education, experience, and work ethic can add value and substance to the efforts to keep Cambria in good health. 

Meanwhile, Tom’s evil twin wants to enable his coven of secret developers so they may turn a sleepy coastal community into a hellscape of mansions and swimming pools. His work as the Public Information Officer for the District during the development of the Emergency Water Supply project is all the proof one needs to convict him of everything, and then some.

Ay, Caramba!

This, of course, is silly, though it is not unusual thinking in a place where people’s character and motivation are suspect based on their professional associations.

Ask Them!

My recommendation to all who have questions, or who struggle to decide which twin is which, is to actively participate in the process. Each candidate has made it clear that they are accessible and eager to engage in positive dialog with anyone – though I would personally disengage from the rude, the bullying, and the abusive, like those who steal campaign signs. Visit the websites, call the numbers, send an email, and make your assessment on who will best serve the entire community.

Here’s a good place to start – 


Listen. Learn, Question, Debate. Decide.

The Owl


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We adapt because we must. The unbelievable darkness brought by a raging pandemic has changed the way we live and work within our home. Artificial intimacies keep us connected to the rest of our world. Outside, communities also adjusted, some with grace and acceptance, others with fear and anger. It had become a familiar and  numbing routine.

Then the owl appeared.

We have spent the past few months engaging with the world through the looking glass of laptops, cellphones, and tablets. In the forty years we have been together, this is the longest time where it has been just us: no kids, no shows, no bands. No career grind, no months away from home, no fifteen hundred-mile separations. Just us, finding our spaces together.

Jan was at her piano, working through a complex arrangement of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow,” a classic song that features the wistful lyric “Where happy little bluebirds fly, beyond the rainbow…”

A riot of screaming scrub jays interrupted the music. These little bluebirds were not the happy variety. They bounded from branch to branch, aggressively vocalized their objection to an outsider visiting their neighborhood. An equally persistent group of smaller birds sang backup, fueling a constant screed. Their message was angry, unrelenting, and unmistakable. You are not welcome here.

Jan spotted the owl perched atop a rain gutter that runs down along timg_0935.jpghe outer chimney wall. The chosen spot sits under an eave, about three feet to the right of the dining room window. To see him, you need to tilt your head slightly to the left.

The visitor closed his eyes for minutes at a time, while the jays railed and the humans angled cellphones to capture a perfect picture of the unusual guest.

The owl opened his yellow eyes wide, turned towards us, and slowly blinked. “Hello,” we said, fully expecting that he would understand us and feel comfortable staying for a while.

The jays continued their assault but to no real effect. The owl – I suspect he is a bit of a badass – just looked calmly at them and, in a splendid display of serene composure, began blinking in time to the blue jay’s cries. 

This unexpected visitor energized us. Jan grabbed her bird book – one of the very few thoughtful, unexpected gifts I had given her over the years. She thumbed through the pages, some of which have broken free from the binding, and found the owl section. We deduced it was a young Western Screech Owl.

The owl left for the evening, undoubtedly looking for a meal from the bounty all around us. We kept checking, wondering if he took off for good.

Ben and River

Wanting to share this close encounter, we tried unsuccessfully to connect with our grandchildren. We did the next best thing and sent them pictures and videos.

Two-year-old Ben is the youngest of our three grandkids. On the last, pre-pandemic visit, we spent a bit of time with a book that featured pictures of various animals. Ben would point at an illustration and make the sound the animal makes. Cows, ducks, horses were all covered. Then came the owl. Ben quickly began hooting softly, as expected. I decided to see if he could say the word “owl.” After a few tries, he did get it out. Owww- lll. Oww-ll. Ow—l. We were so excited by his accomplishment that the family spent the rest of the visit saying, “Ben, say owl!!!” And he did, every time. Two syllables, but still, the word is now in his forever vocabulary. He immediately knew what the pictures revealed.

 River, the four-year-old philosopher, said, “There’s an owl at Nana’s house? She should keep it, but not in a cage. Birds should be free.” River can confound, confuse, and converse at a level way beyond her four short years. She is a bulldog when she wants to know something, and doesn’t settle for glib answers. You need to be nimble when you engage with her.

Hello Again

The owl returned the next day to the excited jibber-jabber of the neurotic jays. Jan was thrilled and immediately started talking and waving to him through the closed window. When the owl rotated its head, Jan did the same. When it preened, she preened. When it twisted about, in the way owls do, she followed along. It was funny, sweet, and a bit weird.

Jan suddenly left the room, returning a few minutes later with a gift for our visitor. This small, lovely object is a beautifully smooth stone, hand-painted with an exact representation of the owl perched on the other side of the glass. The totem had appeared a few weeks earlier, fallen out of a box during a friend’s move. It was safely sheltered in Jan’s creative space, ready to be returned after the dismal time of distancing and separation ended. 


Jan carefully set the stone on the window frame, balanced between the upper and lower panes, a perfect line between woman, stone, and owl. She spoke conversationally, introducing the idol to the subject. Later, she retrieved Windex, paper towels, and a squeegee, cleaning the windows so everyone could see clearly.

These efforts made her very happy. I have a million thoughts as to why; some of them might be correct.


We picked up the iPad and succeeded in connecting with our oldest granddaughter, Chloe. After a few short moments, the picture came into focus, and Chloe saw the beautiful bird, blinking back at her. We watched her watching the owl.

 In that distant moment, I saw all of her lifetimes at once. An infant’s innocence, a toddler’s curiosity, an adolescent’s puzzlement, and an awareness and intelligence that hints what is still to come. It shook me, I admit, and made me realize how much of her life- all their lives – we are missing as we wait out this plague.

Until Next Time

The owl left us again for what we believe to be the last time. The painted one still sits on the windowsill, ready to restart the discussion should the living one decide to come back for a visit. Jan and I both look out the window towards the perch several times a day, hoping for another blessing. The jays come by every few hours, posturing like treetop bullies, spitting their dire warnings should anyone dare encroach on their turf. So far, the only interlopers are the squirrels that had been making a mess of the plants on the back deck, before the owl showed up. Somehow, the rock-faced replica does not seem to intimidate them as much as the living predator.  

We know that this painful time of separation will end. We will hold our children and their children again. The painted owl will find its way back to the rightful owner, and we two will be stronger friends and partners for having survived this time together.

A Last Long Look

We were gifted one last surprise, wrapped in a spectacular rainbow of a fiery summer sunset. We watched from the front deck as the sky turned in the evening hour. As the sun slid down into the ocean, a magnificent bird glided gracefully above the tree line. We followed its flight path, thinking it was a hawk. It landed atop a Monterrey pine a distance away. It sat tall and still, then slowly rotated its head, coming into focus through the binoculars we keep next to the french doors.

The big, majestic owl looked at us for a short while, and then, he too was gone.owlintree




End Times


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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.

Not So Great?

A man has three daughters-in-law.
One, British born and raised. One Portuguese born and raised. One, American born and raised.
There is no way to know their lineage until they speak. Then you hear it.
English, Portuguese, American.

If seen, but not heard, which one would likely cause a narrowed eye or a tightened jaw?
The one born under the Stars and Stripes, in a state rich in names that reflect her heritage and the history of those here first. The one with brown American skin.
It is the difference between being uncomfortable with today’s America and being uncomfortable in today’s America.

Cow Boy


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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.

Surface scratched

There is good and bad everywhere, it is said.

So where then should we live?

Here, we thought. This place is full of good.

Then we became home bound

physical bodies sitting around virtual tables

reading words without the cover of a smile or the nuance of inflection.

Just the words.

Ugly words.

Those people


Stay away from here.

Don’t kill us with your breathing

Don’t kill us with your rage.

We have enough of our own.

Label them.

Racist, anarchist, terrorist.

Only twelve percent

Whoop their ass.

Sick of them not knowing history

the way we wrote it.

We took care of slavery


Just a few hundred years.

If you believe it is over.

All Words Matter.

Thoughts From The Back of the Zoom


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As we enter year twenty-seven of the Corona Quarantine, Cambrians are doing a pretty good job of adapting to our new reality. Happiness begins at home!

Upstairs Downstairs

My wife and I have separate workspaces where we can write, play our instruments, and goof off. We have a few regular check-ins each day – morning coffee, lunch, afternoon coffee, and Jeopardy.

Her office is set up with an integrated desk for her computer and a cabinet that holds everything; pens, pencils, notepaper, stamps, paper clips, 3×5 index cards, and what I think is either one of the Dead Sea Scrolls or a yellowed press clipping from the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Across the room, her digital piano is set up in the closet, so she can move from the PC keyboard to piano keyboard in a few short steps. Her biggest weapon is her grand piano, which lives upstairs and gets daily vigorous workouts that range from Chopin and Mendelssohn to Lennon and McCartney.

My office is set up in what was a walk-in closet attached to the guest room. It contains a work desk I built to take advantage of a recess in the wall. In addition to my PC and associated devices, I am surrounded by my own musical tools. Most are kept in cases, but one or two are left out within easy reach should the muse strike. Behind me, a curtain conceals a couple of amps that allow me my own vigorous musical-ish workout. It’s mainly about the loud!

Going Digital

Our use of digital technology to keep in contact with the world has expanded. We have mastered Facetime through frequent sessions with the grandkids. It fills part of the void, but nothing replaces reading a book or playing the piano and guitar together. Sitting at the dinner table helps us all learn new scientific facts, like how far pasta can fly before sticking to a sibling’s ear. I miss those zany kids!

We have extended our virtual world to include work, worship, and writing.

Small Adjustments

As a home-based content creator, I have gotten comfortable with social distancing. My weekly sessions with my publisher, as well as client interviews, have been done over Zoom for quite some time. Seeing and hearing the people I’m writing about adds another dimension to the process of building compelling stories.

During a recent interview with the owner of a long-established printing and data management firm, I was struck by the impact the ongoing pandemic was having. On the day we spoke, he sounded exhausted, worried, and determined to keep his business open and delivering for his clients as COVID-19 cut his staff by almost half.

Even in a business with automated workflows, intelligent, data-driven systems, and process-bound operations, the reduction in well-trained, experienced employees was determining whether this family-owned, multi-generational concern could continue to operate.

It is all about people.

Big Adjustments

Jan’s routine has adjusted to the new realities. She has suspended her teaching practice, believing vocal and piano lessons wouldn’t be as useful over the web. Lyra, a woman’s vocal group featuring talented singers from Cambria, has not been able to maintain weekly sessions, leaving a musical and emotional gap in her Wednesday afternoons. The weekly writer’s group she participates in has adopted an virtual meeting format, using Google Hangouts. They gather online to share their works in progress, offer critiques and suggestions, and, most importantly, support each other as writers, artists, and connected creators.

Spiritual Connections

Sunday services are another part of Jan’s evolving routine. The process of moving what had been an in-person communal gathering, with a set flow, into an environment of multiple remote participants, was not trivial.  The switch required both simple and complex changes to use online tools to deliver the service and enable congregant participation.

As a contributing musician, figuring out everything from audio levels to synchronization of sound was quite a hill to climb.  Fortunately, this community is rich in talented, experienced members with backgrounds in the creative and technical arts. After multiple rehearsals and tech run-throughs, the service is again open to the congregation. People are able to come together as a community. The spirit is willing, and the flesh can wear sweatpants.

Local Government

California’s Brown Act sets the rules for government meetings to ensure transparency and accountability. As the pandemic widened, in-person public gatherings became at first impractical, and then impossible as shelter in place orders were enacted. The Brown Act rules were adjusted to allow for agencies to conduct the people’s business through virtual meetings.

The Cambria Community Services District (CCSD) and the Cambria Community Healthcare District (CCHD) quickly adjusted, conducting web-based meetings to ensure the public’s ability to participate in the process of government. These sessions are accessible through the internet, over the telephone, and, in the case of CCSD, the existing livestream and public access television.

Is This Thing On?

As the CCSD Board and staff work through different processes to hold online meetings, we get to experience every variant of the memes poking fun at web-based sessions.

You’re muted…YOUR MUTED!!!!…UNMUTE YOURSELF!!!!!!!!  Sorry, can you hear me? (CROSSTALK) Can you hear me now??? WHY ARE YOU WAVING AT ME????? WHO IS PLAYING THE BACKSTREET BOYS ???? I CAN”T HEAR ANYONE!!! DEAR GOD, IS THAT MY HAIR????? Oh, That’s better. Haley, any public comment? (I learned that you can actually hear and see eye rolls in high definition.)



Remote meetings offer Board members and staff the chance to mispronounce regular participants’ names in a whole new forum. Perhaps the abundant stay-at-home time presents the perfect opportunity to learn how to pronounce them correctly. It’s not like they aren’t called two or eight times a meeting! And for goodness sake, if “Elizabeth Bettenhausen” just rolls off the tongue, surely we can manage to put the “T” in the vice-president’s name! Say it with me now – Cindy Siedel…uh, Cindy Seitel, uh, Cindy Steidel – yeah, that’s it!

Hopefully, more Cambrians will find their way to the Zoom Room. Perhaps an inviting graphic might draw some regulars back. How about a pre-roll package featuring a perky, upbeat theme song and an announcer introducing the cast, super-imposed against the backdrop of various Cambria landmarks?  “From the beautiful central coast of California, it’s time for CCSD LIVE!!! (canned muttering and grumbling, chairs scraping and agendas rustling.) “And here’s your host, President Harry Farmer!!!!!” (Shot of the blue beetle pulling up and Harry entering the frame from his home.)


Hear Me Roar!

On a more serious note, the current webinar format used by the CCSD has a lot of positives and a few negatives. The ability to participate in the meeting is there, though not in a way that allows citizens to “speak” in their own voice. Instead, public comments are submitted to the Deputy Clerk via email. She then reads them into the public record. A serious objection was raised by a citizen who felt this process was an impediment to full public participation. I understand this objection, though I don’t agree that it blocks engagement. It might feel like voices are being muzzled; however, the words are communicated as they are written.  As the need for these virtual meetings continues, the opportunity exists to try different ways of including public comment in its native tongue.

Words Matter

As both a comment-er and a silent observer, I found myself intrigued by hearing public comment read aloud by a neutral party. People generally have a speaking style that is unique to them, and over time it can lull this listener into less than a fully attentive state. At the last meeting, I found myself paying closer attention to the words rather than the delivery. It was a bit disconcerting to hear how harsh many of the comments were. I found myself reacting viscerally and felt less open to understanding the stated points of view.

I had a similar moment of disquiet on last month’s CCHD web meeting when the new Director was sworn in using an extended version of the Oath of Office. The first part was familiar – it is the oath sworn by officials ranging from our CCSD board, our School District board, and even the Governor of California. The second part, however, made me sit up and say, “huh?”

“And I do further swear (or affirm) that I do not advocate, nor am I a member of any party or organization, political or otherwise, that now advocates the overthrow of the Government of the United States or of the State of California by force or violence or other unlawful means; that within the five years immediately preceding the taking of this oath (or affirmation) I have not been a member of any party or organization, political or otherwise, that advocated the overthrow of the Government of the United States or of the State of California by force or violence or other unlawful means except as follows:
_____ (If no affiliations, write in the words “No Exceptions”) _____
and that during such time as I hold the office of _____ (name of office) _____
I will not advocate nor become a member of any party or organization, political or otherwise, that advocates the overthrow of the Government of the United States or of the State of California by force or violence or other unlawful means.”

I checked with the District Administrator to make sure I heard the words correctly. He pointed me to the State of California Constitution. Further examination showed this section was added in the early 1950’s – during the time of the second “Red Scare.” Sound judgment has eliminated the paragraph from current oaths, and hopefully, it won’t make a reappearance in future swearing-in ceremonies.

Beautiful Cambria

Throughout this uncertain time, Cambria’s essential services continue to be delivered by the men and women who keep the water flowing, the ambulances running, and the open spaces available to us to clear our minds and stretch our legs (six feet apart.)

Our grocery stores are doing vital work, keeping shelves stocked with the food, medicines, and consumables we need to keep body and soul together. Thanks!

Our restaurants are adapting to the new reality, transitioning from sit-down establishments to pickup and delivery models. This fills some of the gaps for both the businesses and the residents who support them. Thanks, and hang in there!

Most impressively, the true spirit of Cambria is on display everywhere. Individual citizens and community organizations are shining brightly. Raising money, operating food banks, looking after the kids who depend on school lunches to survive. Making masks and keeping regular communication going out to the community on the many Cambria and San Simeon social media sites. The scope of this beautiful generosity is too great to capture in one paragraph, but the efforts are humbling and heroic.

Beautiful Cambria. Beautiful Cambrians.


Everybody Knows That!!!


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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…”

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.


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.


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.


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?


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.


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:


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.


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!



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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.


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 a 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.


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.


Tales From The Bluff


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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.





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