Don't Toss CFL Bulbs

I've got mixed feelings about compact fluorescent lightbulbs (CFLs) for a couple of reasons. First, the light quality is poor, and second, they contain mercury. Once broken, the mercury leaks out, contaminating air, water and soil. In California, tossing CFLs into the trash is illegal, but I'm betting most folks don't know that. Even if they do, chances are good they're sometimes tossing bulbs on the sly -- just as they're tossing batteries -- thinking, "Eh. One little bulb won't hurt."

So I don't love them, but I use them. In Folsom, where I live, I can recycle my spent/unbroken bulbs by calling Household Hazardous Waste Service and arranging for pickup, or by dropping them off at Osh, Lowes and Home Depot hardware stores. (I can drop off batteries there, too, and at my local library!)

Check for recycling locations for your own community at the Environmental Protection Agency's website, then follow the links to the state where you live. The world will thank you for it.

Short Stories by William Gay

There's a rumor that Barnes & Noble will absorb our local Border's, and you know, I hope it's true. I have valiantly tried over the years to support my local bookstores (independent and chain -- they all deserve our patronage), but so many times when I've gone into Border's to pick up a book, they haven't had it. Same was true a few days ago, when I'd hoped to buy the 2008 O. Henry Prize Stories. Nada one on the shelf.

They didn't have the 2008 Best American Short Stories, either, so I picked up the 2007 version, altogether grumpy about the situation and determined not to like anything in it. But guess what? There's a story by William Gay, "Where Will You Go When Your Skin Cannot Contain You?" that I can't wait to read. Gay wrote my favorite short story, "The Paperhanger," which was an O. Henry winner in 2001. (This story is so dog-eared and highlighted, it's falling out of my book.) If you haven't read it and can't find it, zip me an email and I'll send you a copy. I'll warn you, it's dark. But oh so delicious.

Thompson Takes a Tumble

Steve and I just returned from two days at Grover Hot Springs State Park, located south of Lake Tahoe, on Hwy. 89, between highways 50 and 88, and just a few miles west of Markleeville (pop. 200; Steve and I love this little town).

After we picked out our campsite and Steve set up the tent, we had a few hours to kill before heading over to the campground pool (fed by the runoff from six mineral hot springs), so we drove over to East Carson River so Steve could test his new fly-fishing rod. I sat on a boulder and took notes while Steve walked the river. The water looked pretty shallow, so he decided to wear his old hiking boots as opposed to waders, and to forgo his walking stick. I watched him stride in, then took in a bit of scenery while he practiced casting. Both sides of the river were lined with rocks the size of basketballs and bean-bag chairs, and just above the south bank there was a ridge covered in green-gray sage and stately Ponderosas. Cottonwoods shimmered in the sun. Every so often I'd glance over at Steve, and pretty soon he called, "The rocks are really slick -- I wish I had my walking stick!" Not three minutes later he tumbled into the river, rolling slowly onto his left side, his new rod gripped in his right hand, which he'd raised high into the air. (I guess he didn't want to get it wet.) Declining to look at me at first, he got up, then turned my way and sheepishly smiled. "Don't write that down!" he hollered while I giggled and scribbled. (Steve is the most coordinated human I've ever met -- that he would fall was a record-breaking event -- someone had to get this on paper!)

Next morning, he propped his wet boots at the edge of the campfire's grill while drinking coffee and watching birds. Distracted by a Steller's jay, he forgot about his boots and the soles began to burn. And, yes, I wrote that down too. Lucky for me, Steve's a great sport -- not only does he take the photographs for my blog, but he lets me make fun of him too. (Chipmunk, above, was a pill!)

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

This evening I watched the documentary, “Pete Seeger: The Power of Song,” which not only entertained and educated, but moved me in a way I’d not expected. Seeger, a pioneering folksinger and political activist, paid a price for his activism, as he was blacklisted during the McCarthy Era for his involvement with the Young Communist League at the age of 17, despite having drifted away from the party and serving in the U.S. Army during World War II.

In the Sixties, he was an opponent of the arms race and of the Vietnam War, and in 1967, when he was invited to appear on the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, he performed “Waist Deep in the Big Muddy,” a song later cut by the network for its anti-war/anti-Johnson sentiment. There’s a clip of this song in the documentary, and he performs it so fervently that I could not help but turn to Steve and say, “I can’t take it anymore.” Eyes welling, I got up and walked away. Here is a portion of that song:

All at once, the moon clouded over,
We heard a gurgling cry.
A few seconds later, the captain's helmet
Was all that floated by.
The Sergeant said, "Turn around men!
I'm in charge from now on."
And we just made it out of the Big Muddy
With the captain dead and gone.

Well, I'm not going to point any moral;
I'll leave that for yourself
Maybe you're still walking, you're still talking
You'd like to keep your health.
But every time I read the papers
That old feeling comes on;
We're waist deep in the Big Muddy
And the big fool says to push on.

Seeger is 89 now, moving more slowly and singing more softly, but the desire is still there – to make the world a better place through music and through song. Who will make the rallying cry once he's gone?

Holy Cow (And Milking Goats)

Took my parents to the California State Fair today, where I learned that lactating cows drink between 30-50 gallons of water per day -- enough to fill a bath tub.

My mom milked a goat. (This photo is from wikihow.com.)

Food Interrupted by Kingsolver

I'm in the midst of reading ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE by Barbara Kingsolver, the story of how her family was changed by their first year of deliberately eating food produced from the same place where they worked, went to school, loved their neighbors, drank the water, and breathed the air (her words, back cover).

Am almost halfway through the book and am struck by the effort required to undertake and then sustain this lifestyle. Like to imagine (fantasize, really) I could do it, too, if Steve and I owned 100 acres in northern California -- or perhaps the Olympic peninsula -- but how, good Lord, to give up coffee and sugar? She poses this question, too, but I'm 159 pages in and she's only briefly addressed the challenge. I'm hoping she'll tackle the trickier aspects of her family's deprivation, and suspect she will -- once they face the naked vines of winter (and that aromatic brown dust at the bottom of the coffee bag).