Sunrise Hall of fame

Sunrise Hall of fame
Just another sunrise?

The pond

The pond
Filled at last

Hurray for da bees!

Hurray for da bees!
HappyDay Farms bees.

Iria and Daffy-bff. Who'd a thunk it?

Iria and Daffy-bff.  Who'd a thunk it?
My good friend, Iris and Daffy.

At the wharf in San Francisco

At the wharf in San Francisco
Mark and Annie

Blue Rock

Blue Rock
One day last winter...

My Shrine to baseball

My Shrine to baseball
Bring on the Dodgers. We're in a bad mood!

Biggee Fats gets patriotic and joins the army.

Biggee Fats gets patriotic and joins the army.
Private Fats, Biggee, reporting for duty, Sir! Can you direct me to the mess hall?

The mustache...

The mustache...
Be careful what you wish for...

Mahlon Masling Blue

Mahlon Masling Blue
My friend and brother.

Mark's E-mail address

markyboy1231@hotmail.com

Saturday, October 18, 2014

That Kind of Gal


That Kind of Gal

Annie and I went down to Windsor the other day, to visit Pauline, who just turned 92 on the 14th. We brought along Dozer because when she still lived up on the mountain, we used to bring him over to her when we visited, and he always made her smile. “But he’s so ugly,” she would exclaim, lauging, as Annie and I both tried to ensure that the Doze couldn’t her.

We found Mama in the big reception room where Laura and Isabel had performed their Celtic music last March. She was sitting with her friend, Moira, and was obviously in good spirits, recognizing us from across the room, and trying to stand as we approached.

Though frail, Pauline carried on lively conversation with us, asking about various issues to do with the mountain. Had we seen Celia recently? How was the farm doing? Was Happyday Farms still doing the farmers market? At one point she carefully stood up, walked across the room into the entry area so as to view a clock, and returned, again, very carefully, but still able to do it.

JT visits her regularly and has told us that Pauline’s physician, my first cousin, Mary, has informed her that Pauline is experiencing increased symptoms of heart failure. Whereas it is unnecessary to be specific about what this looks like, indications are that at 92, she is coming close to the end. 

Being in an assisted-living complex in Windsor, carefully researched for its warm and dedicated staff, relieves us of having to worry that her medical needs will not be met. Mama is in good hands. She has someone to seek her out, and deliver her medication to her, as needed, and she has help doing things that are no longer possible by herself, such as bathing.

We feel very certain that she has the best care that a family can provide for an elder who needs continuous monitoring. The environment exudes professionalism and warmth, from the meticulously maintained premises, to the flowers and artwork strategically placed to enhance the attractiveness of the facility.

I feel comfortable in the knowledge that all of the above is in place. As each of us must ultimately face the demise of the two people responsible for one’s life, I have come to grips with this reality, and feel comfortable in the knowledge that when the time comes, I will accept the news calmly, both on the outside, and more importantly, on the inside.

There was much dialogue amongst the siblings when it was deemed that Pauline could no longer live by herself. Two schools of thought presented themselves: one expressed the opinion that Mama should stay in Willits, with family members in attendance to care for her on a rotating basis. The other felt that she needed more care than non-trained family members could adequately provide.

I was firmly in the latter and having personally done Pauline’s day-to-day care, as far as firewood in the winter, weed-eating in the spring, and watering in the summer, from 1996 until October of 2012, I had no reservations saying that I was ill-equipped to provide elder care. Bringing in firewood was one thing; keeping track of medication, and bathing Mama, were two elements that I was unwilling to take on.


Take me out and have me shot, if it will make you feel better. I refuse to assume the role of Meursault, from the book, The Stranger, by Albert Camus, who was ostensibly convicted of murder, not because he was guilty, but because he was callous in describing the death of his mother.

Pauline, the matriarch of our family, has lived a long and fruitful life; no one could ever match up to her accomplishments, when it comes to instilling lasting values and morals in her children. No one could ever surpass her industry or her stamina, or her ability to withstand the hardships of economics; she is the ultimate survivor.

For now, we visit, we smile, we chat and we wait. When the time comes and we gather to speak of Mama’s accomplishments, I hope you have plenty of time. The list is quite extensive and covers a lot of material. She is just that kind of gal.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Writing in My Mind


Writing in My Mind

When I am experiencing the symptoms of mania, it is rarely a negative occurrence. Though I sleep only four or five hours in every twenty-four, I am alert, lively, cheerful and singularly creative. I can no more block out that need to harness beauty than I can sleep at night.

When I walk, my camera accompanies me and my eye meanders, incessantly. If the white-tailed kites are out and about, I am bound to get lucky. When I post my pictures on f/b, I can’t just slap them down and move on. There has to be some haiku. It’s lightweight, doesn’t cost a dime, and fits into my manic method of coping with my mood spectrum disorder.

Because the Giants are thriving in the playoffs, and there is a heightened awareness of all things related to them, I have been writing two or three pieces a day, and posting them with incredible results, in terms of page-views. Through the first two weeks of October, I have topped 25,000 and as the Giants keep winning, I will keep writing.

I am learning journalism on the run, having been told recently by my editor, that if I keep writing strongly-opinionated, third-person articles, my work will continue to be featured on Bleacher Report, which provides a lot of exposure. Third person? No problem. Strongly opinionated? Check.

So one track of my mind is continuously sorting and sifting that plethora of available topics, dealing with the game, players in the game, or the ramifications of the events of the game, in an effort to pin down a viable topic for expansion.

I need so very little to kick-start the process: someone dissing on a favorite player or manager; my wanting to acknowledge a superior performance, or analyzing an upcoming matchup. All I need is a subject and I can give it an audience.

When I wake up after I have had my allotment of sleep, all four hours of it, I don’t just get up and go to work. I try to return to sleep. I will work on a piece of writing in my mind, which I realize doesn’t help because it engages my mind and prevents sleep from returning, but it beats lying there stewing.

I experience these manic symptoms from February through April, and from August through October. I guess I should be grateful that I don’t experience the depressive side of my disorder, the other six months of the year.

I don’t see very much of the depressive side of me and that’s a good thing. It probably also explains why I managed to teach all of those years. Heck, most teachers are naturally manic-they have to be.

There is just too much about teaching that requires energy and a lot of it, to contemplate teaching while in a depressed state of mind. 

And as far as the sleep deprivation, four hours a night sounds about right for teachers, so my illness actually complemented my vocation.

Scary thought, that.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

My Medicine Is Free


My Medicine Is Free
There is a cannabis crisis in our community. Illegal grows wreak havoc on the environment, suck water from our watershed, and insert fear into the hearts of unsuspecting bystanders. Legitimate, hard-working, good people, also grow cannabis, but do so utilizing ecologically sound methods, with water that has not been pilfered.

I use the term crisis, because if you are an individual who has seen your doctor, been prescribed medication that had insidious side-effects, and then found that cannabis not only assists in fighting your illness, but has no side-effects as well, then you might consider it a crisis if you could no longer obtain it because it is not legal. Continued propaganda about all cannabis growers being impervious to anything but making profits, simply clouds the fact that cannabis helps countless people in pain.

I found after going dutifully to the VA heath clinic and experiencing unspeakable side effects from the prescribed medication, that cannabis helps my mood spectrum disorder, or what old-schoolers call being bipolar II. Cannabis helps it a lot. I used to make oatmeal cookies using cannabis oil just as one would use butter, but oil made from an assortment of strains serves only a generic purpose for aches and pain, whereas specific strains of cannabis provide a much more accurate manner with which to fight specific symptoms of an illness. 

One strain does not serve all. There are as many varieties and uses for cannabis, as there are for any of a plethora of medicinal herbs that are used for salves, such as St. John’s Wort. I do not differentiate between the two, except to note that medicinal herbs serve my medical needs. And it doesn’t cost me anything, because I grow my own.

Since my retirement, I have grown medicinal cannabis and been able to serve my own medical needs for the most part. When I flipped the quad going up the hill in the snow and ice, with the firewood loaded, front and back, I did have to make a trip to the clinic, before returning home to my bong.

Now Casey has decided to come out of the weed closet, having been out for many years here on the mountain. Our community is  tight-knit, and has been for the thirty-two years that I have been up here. We play baseball together, we celebrate together, and we have provided hospice care for many individuals over the past three decades. And yes, cannabis is a part of our lives, in the good times, in the hard times, in the sad times, and in the joyous times. 

While serving his eight-week sentence in the Mendocino County Jail, Casey began reflecting on his upbringing and the parts of it he cherished, and how that conflicted with his felony cultivation issue. He read voraciously, worked on the jail farm, and began to form a plan. He pondered cannabis and carrots, cannabis and corn, cannabis and tomatoes, all mingled together, and grown for the betterment of his community.

Out of this brief period of time, came the foundation for Happyday Farms and the CSA, which provides produce for Northern Mendocino County residents and their families. Between the CSA, the farmers market in Laytonville, and the quarry market on Wednesdays, Happyday Farms is very busy. Growing any kind of crop in quantity is challenging, but keeping the whole rotational nature of starts, burgeoning growth, and harvest, meticulously orchestrated, is what Happyday Farms does best.

Our farming methods are organic, we use minimal machinery in the day-to-day operation of the farm, and we put in a pond last year to supply us with water. The pond filled up when we got the torrential rains last February and March.

Now we are on the threshold of cannabis becoming fully legal. It’s only a matter of time since both Washington and Colorado are leading the charge. As I used to teach in eighth grade US history, this is a classic disagreement between states and the federal government. Here at Happyday Farms, we choose to follow the mandate of the state of California.

The purpose of the film crew, which spent the weekend documenting what our farm is all about, was to create a short clip of information, to provide for dispensaries who distribute cannabis, a guide for patients to be better able to align their medicinal needs, with the specific strains that are available to contend with the symptoms of their affliction.

We embrace a transparent model for the future: sun-grown, values-based, cannabis production. We will continue to support the small businesses in our local community, by purchasing those goods and services that are available to us.

The time has come to stop punishing good people for providing medicine for the betterment of the community. 

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

My New Fling


                                                                Ny New Fling

I have been ignoring my blog and I feel bad about it. Most people who blog just simply get tired of writing and they move on to other hobbies. Well, writing is my hobby and I have not gotten tired of it; it’s just that my blog is like a little sister, and now that I have a real girlfriend, I just don’t have the time.

My new girl friend demands much from me. I have to lavish attention on her and it leaves me too drained to keep my blog even remotely happy. My girl is top shelf, and it’s not that I don’t want to hang with my blog anymore, it’s just that the thrill is gone.

I mean, I have made it clear that I write for pleasure. But I also derive enjoyment when folks stop by and check out a particular piece, or maybe several. I occasionally check the stats and see how many people are reading what. It’s kind of egocentric, I admit, but I don’t get paid so I have to take what perks there are.

And that has worked fine for more than three years. I have posted six hundred and a bunch, and I have worked out more than one issue by writing about it. Heck, I wrote well over a hundred episodes on my mood spectrum disorder. That was quite therapeutic.

My world is different with my new girl, though. I mean, there was a time when I was pulling in 300 page-views on my blog and I was hop-scotching all over the country, chatting with my bloggie-buddies, but that tapered off. It requires time and energy and as long as my sister JT was still into it, so was I.

She gave me a lot of support back in the early days, when she was the only one who would comment on my posts. Now, however, having been at it for as long as I have, I find that my blog is nowhere as near exotic as my new girl. Instead of sitting around racking up thirty or forty page views on a good day, I am in the big leagues.

Writing for Around the Foghorn has been a completely different ballgame, if you’ll excuse the pun. I mean, I have a limited audience, but they are passionate about the Giants, just as I am, and they read my stuff. For a long while, I would get a hundred, two hundred, as many as five hundred page views for a timely piece. Once I hit 750.

Then a couple of weeks ago, just as the Giants’ season started to wind down, and the Giants got into the playoffs, my articles began skyrocketing into the stratosphere. I wrote a piece on the Giants being underdogs in the wild card game and it erupted, eventually topping off at 1,750. A couple of days later, I wrote one on rookie Joe Panik, and it didn’t stop until it hit more than 2,500 views. Then yesterday, a piece I wrote on Pablo Sandoval, shot up to 3,700, and it’s still climbing.

My top view-getting piece on my blog is The Only Scoreboard the Matters” and has gotten to 1,400 views, but it’s taken a year and a half to get there. Not like watching a piece get 500 hits in an hour. That is a rush.

I emailed my editor Timmy, a nineteen-year-old lad who lives in Ireland and asked him what was up. I said it felt as though I were writing the same stuff as always, except now I was getting all of these views. He told me that my stuff was being featured on “Bay Area Bleacher Report” which posts articles that have merit for fans to have easy access to.

Bleacher Report! Beyond my wildest expectations. Timmy also told me that I had netted over 10,000 views in the past five days and that as long as I kept writing strongly opinionated pieces in the third person, the editors at Bleacher Report would continue to feature my stuff.

So here I am, feeling guilty for ignoring my little sister, in favor of my publicity-seeking girlfriend. I guess the silver lining is that instead of costing me money, my girl could lead to me actually earning money.
They do pay sportswriters to write about baseball teams and I write about the Giants.

Stay tuned.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

The Outlook Isn't Stellar for the San Francisco Giants- Poetry



                                       The Outlook Isn't Stellar for the San Francisco Giants

The outlook isn’t stellar for the San Francisco Giants. I’m no freakin’ genius and this isn’t rocket science.
We have a dozen games to play, with three against LA; We’re going to need to win them all to make it all the way.

The division crown is what we need, the wild card won’t do, ‘Cause when you hit the playoffs, ONE game is four too few. 
The Dodgers have it going right now, they’re at that magic spot; The Orange and Black must strike-not out-but while the anvil’s hot.

Posey has amped up his pace-we’ve seen his act before. He’s led us to a pair of crowns; the pedal’s to the floor.
Pence is still the preacher man and Sandoval don’t stammer; The former is inspiring, the latter wields the hammer.

Now the first of two big series has gone the Dodgers’ way; It wasn’t what we had in mind, there’s nothing much to say.
But come next week we’ll meet again, down in the smoggy city, And if we can’t get ‘em back, all the more’s the pity.

Jake’s lined up to pitch this time-he is a Dodger killer; His win/loss mark against the Bums makes him a Giant pillar.
MadBum goes on Tuesday night-he is the starting ace-And Hudson throws the final game, trying to save face.

Tim got rocked so hard last time-he lasted just one plus-That now he has a real bad need to prove himself to us.
He’s never had a losing year; you know that says a lot. So don’t expect that Tim is done; he’ll show us what he’s got.

The season series, tied at eight, is just one element, Though winning two instead of three is only just a dent.
San Francisco needs all three; of that there is no doubt. With timely pitching close at hand, we need offensive clout.




Zack was hot and shut us out; maybe try some bunting. With speed at hand and practice too it could make for good hunting.
Get the rabbits on the paths and bring the big bats on; Home runs are not necessary but Man, they sure are fun.

Clayton Kershaw is the best, we say with certain candor. It’s funny that I’ve heard that tune back with Justin Verlander.
We listened to the things they said, “The best on all the planet,” But when the Panda finished up, the Tigers just said, “Damnit.”

A walk, a bunt, a hit batsman, and we’ll have things a going, Especially with the new kids here and backups really rolling.
Small ball works just fine for us, and Blanco likes the extra, So when we load the bases now, get ready and I’ll text ya.

Experience the Giants have; they know the script by heart. Seventeen of them were there and buddy that’s a start.
The playoffs are the time they thrive; the team plateaus together
And overcomes adversity so we can add a feather.

So put aside your negatives and just remember this: The Giants have stood back before and stared at the abyss.
But when the fog had lifted and we saw what had occurred, We found ourselves in cruise control, ahead of all the herd.

To win it all is no small feat; it takes all twenty-five; The schedule is so grueling that they’re barely left alive.
But if it were so easy that just any team could do it, We’d all let out a boring yawn and say, “There’s nothing to it.” 

Battling adversity, along the path is healthy, Especially if it also means the uniforms get filthy.
Complacency in MLB is not the way to go; Hunger drives the Giants-they’re ready for the show.

Some teams have got the grit it takes to overcome bad luck, Instead of simply giving up and saying, “What the heck?”
The Giants are the kind of team that knows just what to do, When October is upon us and the lot are just a few.

The pitching rises to the cause-the bats follow right along. Before you know what’s happening, we’re singing Journey songs.
Parading down the City streets, drinking at O’Leary’s-Once again the Orange and Black has won the World Series.

Friday, September 5, 2014

All That Would Fall Apart


All That Would Fall Apart

I celebrated my sixty-second birthday yesterday and spent it canning tomatoes, about the most enjoyable thing I can think of to do on one’s birthday, because I was surrounded by family and we did a lot of laughing. The contrast between yesterday, one of the best birthdays I have ever experienced, and my birthday two years ago, without question the lowest point of my life, is stark.

Two years ago in August is when our family was rocked with the knowledge that Annie had kidney cancer, she had a tumor the size of a softball that had to be removed, along with one of her kidneys, and she needed to get a place in Willits to be near her health-care provider. The surgery was scheduled, she was leaving after dinner on my birthday for San Francisco, in the company of her daughters-in-law, and I had to stay at home to tend the home fires.

I had never felt so desolate in my life. Even spending sixteen months, 7,000 miles away from home while in the army, did not compare. As is the custom in our home, I got to choose my birthday dinner, but it was like being a condemned prisoner eating his last meal. I had no interest in food but I did not want to hurt Annie’s feelings. So I ate.

I felt as though I were a high-rise and that a good portion of my substructure had crumbled, allowing me to move about sluggishly, as if in a daze, but unwilling to show on the exterior that I was not up to handling my end of the arrangement. I would be maintaining the home front, including critters, garden and all that would fall apart if no one were there to care for it.

And I would be trying not to fall apart myself, after having spent from earlier that year in March, through August, undergoing intense cognitive therapy, to try and get a handle on my mood spectrum disorder. Annie was my coach and my mentor, having done her homework and guided me through the process. Now, when I needed my coach the most to help me cope with this life crisis, not only was she not there, she was in critical danger of never returning.

I would love to say that I have little memory of that bleak period of time during which Annie was in the hospital in San Francisco and then recuperating and trying to get back on her feet, but unfortunately, I remember it vividly. I still shudder to think of it. I remember cleaning the house from top to bottom, and then doing it again, more deeply and thoroughly.  And when I finally finished the second time, I started on it again.

I did not write; I did not feel. I just functioned, operating on automatic pilot, going through the motions, waiting. Annie, who had never been sick in her life, who walked for exercise daily all those years we lived on the ridge and who was so health-conscious, had cancer.

Now, two years later, battling not only kidney cancer but thyroid cancer as well, Annie never stops. She is preserving her relishes, salsas, sauces, peppers et al; she is cooking for the farm crew’s big midday meal, two or three times a week; she is working endlessly on all matters pertaining to Relay for Life, all-year-round; and she is fighting the battle of her life and holding her own.

We traveled down to San Francisco on Wednesday, the day before my birthday, so Annie could see her thyroid doctor.  It was a two-thirty in the afternoon appointment, and we were reasonably certain that it would be a long ride home. We were an hour and fifteen minutes early because we always leave early to account for traffic and road construction delays so we checked into the office.

Amazingly, Annie’s doctor, knowing we come from Mendo, whisked her in, conducted the consultation, and got us out of there by two. The commute home was a breeze, we stopped at Star’s in Ukiah for a pleasant meal and we were home by six. Talk about lucky.
Well, yesterday’s birthday dinner of barbecued tri-tip, with corn on the cob, still in the husks, string beans and zucchini also on the barbie, a green salad, and the two biggest rainbow tomatoes I have ever seen, was stellar. My productivity yesterday, plowing through eight heaping lugs of tomatoes, coming up with a forty-quart stockpot filled to the max with sauce and enjoying the company of Annie and the family is what yesterday was all about.
Sure, I’ll talk about lucky. Anyone who has ever spent two minutes with Annie knows, that I am the luckiest man in the world.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Anything But Old-School




                                                          Anything But Old-School

Yellow pencils and watches are old-school, you know. Most people eschew both in favor of mechanical writing devices and cell phones, because, you know, pencils need to be sharpened, and watches are so limited. All watches do is keep one informed of the time.

But what happens to those folks out there who still have the audacity to not want a pencil that clicks, or who wants to be able to see instantly how much time remains before the start of a baseball game, without having to fish through one’s pocket for a phone, which must then be turned on and consulted, only to find out it is anywhere but in one's pocket? Thank-you, I’ll pass.  

I know you will tell me that watches are still available and that one can still find pencils, even if the erasers on said pencils are as effective as rubbing a penny across something you would like erased, because they are as hard as granite.  

The problem isn’t that I can’t find a watch, the problem is I cannot find a watch that does not also have the day of the month feature included on the face of the watch.  And I have found pencils also, but only in bins of merchandise clearly marked “discontinued.” How long is that going to go on?

There are countless other practical items that have faded from the landscape, but a watch with a plain face and a pencil with a planed tip seemed like they would be available forever. Why does someone who is retired have to worry about what day of the month it is? And what about the classroom pencil sharpener for the kids? No longer necessary?  Is nothing sacred?

I would tend to lump these sorts of trivial concerns under the category of suck it up, except that it bugs me that no one ever asks the public’s opinion. OK, so I would still come out on the short end of the stick and I appreciate that, but how about a small compromise?

Can we just still manufacture a few of these old-school items, at least until these same old-school folks have sauntered off into the sunset, the sunset that can never be anything but old-school?