Tree Hunting Day

  Saturday, my husband will load chains and shovels into the truck while I’ll pack chocolate chip cookies, Christmas tapes, and lots of extra clothes. The rugrats “forget” to do their chores and Dad roars but soon everyone is squeezed into a battered pickup truck. And we’re off. We meet at the parking lot at the foot of the mountains

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Fagin's Fear

Luckily English or History majors, like the rest of the world, have children who insist on calling our pets Fluffy and Spot. Otherwise, we would foist witty titles on our animals like Chairman Meow and Lady Mac-breath (“Out, damn’d Spot! Out, I say!”) Before children, I had a handsome Great Dane whom I refrained from calling Hamlet only to succumb

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Cut String

When my oldest two were toddlers, we joined our neighbors in a baby welcoming. We drove through tunnels of trees and brush. For miles. Only a few select people lived out at the end of this road and trees embraced them and any vehicle that came to visit with gracefully arching arms and trailing green leaves. Along with a gathering

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Uncovering the Neighbors

Calling the police, when you live in the Humboldt hills is an exercise in patience. The sheer magnitude of curvy roads dictates at least an hour response time. Thus folks tend to rely on themselves and their neighbors. As a child of country people, I grew up knowing that. Then I moved even further out—I married into the Back-to-the-land hill

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