This is yesterday’s sunrise. See how the light is all creepy, red, and polarized? It would have been even more amazing with a really monstrous digital SLR, but this picture is still pretty damn awesome. The sun literally looked like a ruby in the smoke, and the light was bright red. For several hours. And again almost all day today. I really cannot describe the light; if you’re been near epic fires, you’ll know the kind of light I am talking about, it’s so orangey-red that you almost feel like everything is on fire.

And now, this from the National Weather Service:

“A RED FLAG WARNING MEANS THAT CRITICAL FIRE WEATHER CONDITIONS ARE EITHER OCCURRING NOW…OR WILL SHORTLY. A COMBINATION OF STRONG WINDS…LOW RELATIVE HUMIDITY…AND WARM TEMPERATURES WILL CREATE EXPLOSIVE FIRE GROWTH POTENTIAL.”

I think this means that more epic sunrises can be expected. The red flag warning is not projected to be lifted until Sunday.

Last Friday, Baxt and I went to the Guest House Museum, which for residents of Fort Bragg is known as the big brown building on the hill. I hadn’t been there since kindergarten, and she hadn’t been there since high school, so we were very excited to explore this megalithic figure in the Fort Bragg landscape. Plus, it only costs $2, and it’s a whole lot more fun than a miniature ice cream cone, which is pretty much the only other thing you can get for $2 in this town.

See, here’s a picture. I didn’t actually take that on Friday, it’s from a while ago, but I promise you it hasn’t changed that much.

Small town museums are really interesting because they are basically just collections of old pictures and weird junk that people donated because they thought it was interesting, or because they couldn’t bear to throw it away. So the Guest House Museum has everything from beautiful examples of antique harness:

To things I didn’t take pictures of, because they were not very exciting, like a military uniform from Iraq and old lard pails. The Guest House has an interesting collection of photographs, which I also didn’t photograph because, well, I hope that’s obvious. But they are well worth checking out, because it’s really fun to try and orient yourself in perspective to old pictures, and I love looking at the clothes people wore in times of yore.

I really loved this saddlemaker’s bench:

Which, uhm, yeah. I think my more kinky readers can come up with uses for this bench which go beyond saddlemaking. But it’s awfully pretty, and very cool.

I was also surprised to learn that the whistle they used at the mill was actually an antique steam whistle which had been in service for a very long time:

I guess if it’s not broken, don’t replace it, right? The sound of that whistle is indelibly etched into my mind, and I’m sure I’m not the only one; it’s a pretty iconic noise, and I still miss it every day at noon.

This is in a room dedicated to the history of the train. There’s also a very cool antique bed, but the picture didn’t come out at all well, so you’ll have to take my word from it when I say it’s cool. And lots of pictures of trains, as you can probably gather.

The Guest House used to be, you know, a guest house. So the museum staff have kept a lot of the original fixtures:

Check out those taps! Bet those saved a lot of water back in the day.

That’s the main stairwell, complete with awesome stained glass. Alas, the picture is too dark for you to tell, but on the right there, you can see some original redwood water pipes; we had redwood pipes through the 1950s! How cool is that?!

I really enjoyed our little expedition, and I think Baxt did as well. You, in turn, can also visit your very own personal local museum, because chances are good that there probably is one, and there might be something interesting to be found there. Every community has a history, and it’s neat to meet the people who are trying to preserve it; unfortunately, chances are also very high that your local history museum, just like the Guest House, needs some financial help or volunteer effort to keep going. So why not support your community by helping to preserve the past?

Walking Fort Bragg happens to be on hiatus at the moment, and while I am apparently not cool enough to be listed in Blabberon’s blogroll, I can still take up some of the slack. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Walking Fort Bragg, it’s a very neat site written by a guy who walks around Fort Bragg pretty much every day, taking interesting pictures and writing about the things that he sees.

In the course of wandering around Fort Bragg, there are all sorts of fascinating things to see, for those who choose to look for them, and last week, I wandered around one of my favourite sections of town. It’s in the Northeast corner, bounded by East Bush Street and North Harrison Street, and I call it “the garden district” because it has a bunch of lovely old homes with beautiful gardens. I love the garden district because it’s very quiet, and peaceful, and because I can tell that the homes there are lived in, and loved. Someday, I would love to live in one of them.

There are all sorts of awesome hidden surprises, like this spectacular gate on Winifred Street. And this is just a side gate. Here’s the main gate:

This is the kind of gate I want to have, a gate that looks like it’s going into another, hidden world. There’s this beautiful lush garden beyond it, with piles of mature plants every which way, and then a low, simple Craftsman bungalow which embodies my plain, clean aesthetic. Not for me the epic mansion, please.

Here’s a fence with a riot of roses on a cul-de-sac.

A magical glimpse across a lawn.

Not all sidewalks are made of cold, hard concrete. While this isn’t very disability-friendly, it looks so charming and awesome that I can’t help but love it.

Here’s some snazzy low-water landscaping. Alas, this house is right next to a for-sale house that is just monstrous and ugly and everything wrong with the world. I’ll bet it used to be a quiet bungalow, and they tore it down to build a HUGE house that took up almost the entire lot, since that’s what people seem to want these days, and it stands out on the street like a sore thumb.

Here’s a man painting his trim. I wanted to ask him if it was his house, but I was too shy, so instead I surreptitiously photographed him from across the street. It’s a beautiful house.

Another awesome Craftsman bungalow with a beautiful and oh-so-inviting gate.

A glimpse through the foliage to another wonderful house.

More rambling vines on an old fence.

One of the things that makes the garden district so excellent is the big lots, and relatively modest homes. Sure, there are a few houses that are pretty big; one of my favourite houses here is way too big for my needs. But even the big houses look graceful in the landscape, because they don’t overwhelm their lots. As someone who firmly advocates density, of course, I should be pointing out that huge lots with single family dwellings aren’t very sustainable, but they are so very beautiful, with their gorgeous landscaping and lovingly maintained decorative elements, that I don’t have the heart to condemn them.

The garden district is like a living illustration of my internal conflict over personal desires and utilitarian function. I would love, love, love, love to live in one of these houses, to putter around the yard painting the trim and pruning the flowers, even though they go against my stated beliefs about sustainability. This little corner of town is like a magical wonderland which seems so abstracted from the rest of this blighted, tired, sad-looking town; I hope it stays this way forever.

So, I went to the Neighborhood Watch meeting tonight, mainly because Tristan said that I should, and because I figure if I want to get the rest of the neighborhood to band together to start a violent revolution, I’d better meet them all.

Unfortunately, I had forgotten how much I loathe meetings. My friend David was there for the first half, and we entertained each other, but then he fled, using meatloaf as an excuse, and I suffered alone through the agony.

I was going to give an entertaining and pithy blow-by-blow of the madness, but, honestly, I think I will let my notebook speak for itself:

Click through for the full version, including explanatory notes.

Yesterday, I wandered around Zida Borcich Letterpress for awhile, taking pictures of the shop and generally getting underfoot. Anyway, I happen to like letterpress, and I think that letterpress shops are pretty neat, so, you know, here are a bunch of pictures of a letterpress shop. (The presswoman was camera shy, so you don’t get any pictures of her, but she’s very talented and supercool. And she didn’t mind me clomping about and making idiotic statements like “ah, foiling, are you,” so she wins a prize for that in my book.)

These are very thin spacers made from brass and copper, used to ensure that lines of type are tight when they are set. They are extremely thin, and supercool.

These jobs are either waiting to be filed, or waiting to be printed. It’s common for shops to keep frequently printed jobs on file, so that they can just pull and re-print as needed, rather than setting the piece all over again. Incidentally, this type is the real deal, 100% lead and delicious in the mouths of toddlers. And I speak from experience.

On the left is a photopolymer plate; a lot of printers use photopolymers rather than hand setting type and ordering engravings for images, or mix photopolymer and actual type. On the right, you can see the finished job.

Ornamental initials in a typecase full of dingbats and initials.

A 1924 Chandler and Price press, which was originally owned by the Georgia Pacific Lumber Company.

Directions for running said press.

One of two Heidelbergs at ZBL, with the engine running.

The other Heidelberg, set up for foiling. Alas, nothing had been foiled yet, so I can’t show you how awesome a roll of foil looks after it’s been used. But, trust me, it’s cool.

Some vintage type.

A stack of plates on one of the many file cabinets in the shop. You can see full metal in the front, and a photopolymer lurking in the back; both are made by coating the surface in a photo sensitive emulsion, exposing it, and then dipping it in an acid bath which dissolves the areas to be left white.

Here’s a case of type, looking all type-y.

Here’s a printer’s workbench, set up for composition. The stone in the center is used to mix ink.

Cases and cases of type.

You can never have too many slugs in a working printshop.

Printers’ ornaments, also known as dingbats. Check out the level of detail, pretty cool, eh?

More dingbats and initials, with brass clips to keep them divided in the drawer.

Note the slanted drawers!

I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into the workings of an actual functioning letterpress shop. There are lots more pictures on my Flickr account, for those who want to explore a little more.

While walking to the post office today to pick up a gently worded plea for my money from my more well-heeled alma mater, I noticed that the last dry cleaning store in town is going out of business. According to the sign on their window, it’s because the dry cleaning machine broke and they can’t afford to fix it, so, poof, no more dry cleaning.

In a quick Google search, I determined that the closest dry cleaner is now Willits, roughly 45 minutes to an hour away. So, apparently, we are all supposed to drive our dry cleaning to Willits now, or just not dry clean our clothing, or maybe throw our sweaters away when they get gross?

It’s not the fault of the dry cleaning company that they went out of business, obviously, but I think it’s really emblematic of everything that is going wrong in Fort Bragg. Franklin Street is more empty storefronts than actual businesses at this point, and while the over-priced boutiques on Laurel with nothing over a size four are thriving, the people who live here can’t get their dry cleaning done. Or buy a tea kettle, or sheets, to mention two recent examples of things I’ve had to go out of town for, or anything else which might be vaguely useful and necessary.

I mean, this is just insane. A dry cleaners is the kind of thing which should just exist, you know? People make clothing that needs to be dry cleaned, people like me buy it, people like me like to be able to clean our clothing. I love that it’s becoming harder and harder for me to buy locally and to use local services, because everyone is being forced to cater to the tourists (who apparently don’t need dry cleaning during their stays) and the people who just moved here and want it to be just like Healdsburg, only more quaint, like before all those awful people discovered Healdsburg and made it less quaint. And obviously, quaint towns don’t have dry cleaners, and they magically have restaurants that are all open late because nightlife is just part and parcel of a quaint traditional farming town. (Let alone the fact that Fort Bragg isn’t and never was a farming town, it’s an exploit-natural-resources-like-timber-and-fish town.)

Good thing I got all my sweaters dry cleaned in April as part of the annual spring sweater storage program, eh?

I went to Ukiah yesterday, and, honestly, I’m still recovering. Ukiah is just that exhausting. My father and I went ostensibly to shop for various sundries which are hard to obtain here, such as socks (I like Pippi’s Longstocking, personally, but my father is too utilitarian to appreciate things like DINOSAUR SOCKS and POLKA DOT CASHMERE SOCKS and ARGYLE SOCKS), and I am happy to report that all necessary sundries were obtained, along with some sundries which were less necessary. Also, I got a new spatula, and I am really excited about it. My new spatula is red. See:

Now, when someone buys me a red Kitchenaid Stand Mixer, I will have a spatula to accessorize with. By the way, the spatula isn’t deformed, it’s just wet because I washed it.

For those of my readers who are not local, here are some fast facts about Ukiah:

• Ukiah, spelled backwards, is “haiku.” There is an annual Haiku Festival in Ukiah. Oh, the hilarity.
• I was born in Ukiah. I was actually going to go take pictures of the hospital I was born in, because I thought it would be amusing, but I ran out of steam.
• Ukiah is the county seat of Mendocino County.
• Ukiah is one to two hours away, depending on how fast you drive, and it is over a large hill, so people talk about going “over the hill” a lot. In the future, if I say I went over the hill, you will now know what I mean. But don’t hold your breath, because I go over the hill very rarely.
• Roughly 15,000 people live in Ukiah.
• Judging from the amount of Chinese restaurants in Ukiah, a lot of them must be Chinese.

Anyway, the point of this admittedly weak post, other than to announce that I like stand mixers and I now own a new spatula, is that I noticed that gas is, like, really expensive. Now, many of you may already be aware of this, but the thing about not having a car is that I tend to be oblivious to this kind of thing, so I was a little astounded when we went past the gas station and gas was $4.15 a gallon. Back in the heady days when I owned a car, gas wasn’t even above three dollars, ever.

Seeing a visual illustration of how expensive gas really is was kind of startling, honestly. I knew it in the abstract, but it was interesting to actually see it, and my father and I started wondering when/if Americans will revolt over high gas prices. I say they won’t, unless gas prices jump radically overnight, because this incremental business gives people time to adjust.

My father predicts that gas will be $5 by 4 July, and $6 by Labour Day, which could be quite exciting. Bring on the revolt, I say.

(As to the question of whether or not I really needed a new spatula, allow me to present exhibit A:

I mean, seriously. Would you bring that spatula home to your mother? I think not. Also, apparently the correct name for this kitchen tool is “scraper,” but I’ve always called them spatulas. I wonder if this is a regional dialect thing? Anyone want to weigh in here?

Also, as to the question of how I could rant about not buying things and then write a post about buying things, uh, well, even I recognize that sometimes, things must be purchased. For example, bras can be worn for an extended period of time, but they eventually come to a sad end, requiring the purchase of new bras. It’s not about avoiding the purchase of things altogether, it’s about making conscious and hopefully minimal purchases. Also, we all know that I’m a bit of a hypocrite.

Speaking of hypocrites, when I got home, I felt obligated to take a very long shower to wash the filth of Ukiah from my sullied flesh. Have you ever plugged your ears in the shower and listened to the water landing on your chest? It kind of sounds like rain in a far off place.)

I checked out the “two buck book sale” this weekend at the library, and, let me tell you, it was a fascinating glimpse into unabashed, naked greed. Secretly, that’s why I like going to the book sales. It’s not the books, although I can usually pick up a few decent things, it’s watching the other people at the book sales. I tell you what, I would love to see some psych graduate student do research on these things, because it’s truly amazing.

The book sales at the library follow a very strict format. Every few months, a book sale is announced, and it’s always scheduled to start at 10:00 on a Saturday. The books come from donations to the library, and the funds are used to support the library’s programs. Given that our library is pitifully underfunded and basically ignored by the county library system, every dollar really does count, so I get to feel like I’m helping out the library while picking up shamelessly cheap books. It’s pretty much a win-win.

So what happens is this: people start milling around outside the library at 9:45 or so, champing at the bit, and eventually the door to the community room is unlocked, and people surge in to look at books. I’m always reminded of the scene in Tempest-Tost when a man stipulates in his will that his books are to be given away to members of the clergy, and there’s a mob scene, with frantic priests shoving each other back and forth, battling over volumes, yanking beards, and pushing each other out of windows. When the scene is over, the house has been denuded of every scrap of printed material and the executors sit shell-shocked in the study. While the book sales don’t get quite that crazy, they definitely get a bit hairy.

You see, there are a couple of people in the community who make their living by selling used books, and these people go to the book sales specifically for the purpose of picking up books which they can then resell. Now, I don’t have a problem with this, on principle, I mean everyone has to make a living, but they are generally quite rude and rather nasty. I’ve had books snatched out of my hands, for example, and once I thought a large pile of books next to one of the tables was part of the sale, only to have a nasty little man descend upon me, snarling “that’s mine! THOSE ARE MINE! YOU CAN’T HAVE THOSE!”

And then there are little old ladies, who dodder harmlessly between the rows, buffeted as the book poachers (as I call them) zoom back and forth, snatching up volumes at lightning speed, and library volunteers drift about, attempting to straighten things and keep people in order. I tend to see the same people at every sale, each with their own specific tastes, ranging from the people who thrive on mass paperbacks to the types who descend on the multiple copies of Angela’s Ashes and those sorts of books and then swoop off with them in delight. (And if you think I’m kidding, I counted five copies of Angela’s Ashes and three of ’tis at the book sale.) Then there are a few people who are genuinely just there to browse and pick up a few interesting books, like me, although I notice that I am generally the only one under about 40 at the book sales. But maybe that’s because I always arrive early. (Not, I should note, out of a deep need to be inside first, but because I am pathologically early to everything, and also when you get up at 6:00 in the morning, as I seem to be doing lately, you get pretty bored and restless by 10:00.)

While I’m normally a pretty fractious and temperamental person, something about the book sales puts me in a sort of zen state. I can’t decide if I’m just in awe of the sheer, naked, horrifying capitalist lust which fills the hearts of the book poachers, or if I just don’t care that much. This used to happen to me at arena registration in college, too; I would stand in the middle of the room, bemused by the utter madness, and by the time I motivated myself into moving, all that would be left were classes like “The Sociopolitical Impact of Textile Dyes in Urban France, 1567-1643″ or “Calculus for Marine Biologists.” Perhaps I just become paralyzed by the actions of large, desperate crowds. Maybe this is why I get punched in the face by senators* when I go to protests, because I become too lethargic to move, let alone recognize danger.

At any rate, this weekend I was shocked to stroll up at 9:45 and find the door wide open.

This never happens. The door is always kept tightly sealed until 10:00 on the dot, guarded fiercely by a Friend of the Library while the line stirs restlessly outside and people try to act casual while pushing against each other and arguing in a loose sort of way about who arrived first. But no, the door was open and people were allowed to just sail in and stroll about, picking books out willy-nilly, so I did the same, only to discover that the book poachers had already picked the place clean.

This isn’t fair, I found myself thinking. I mean they say the thing starts at 10:00, if I’d known I could go in at 9:40, I would have been here earlier so that I could have gotten some books. It’s not fair that the damn book poachers get to go in and take whatever they like! There ought to be a limit! Or people at least ought to stick to schedule! I railed mentally at the injustice while I picked through the sorry remains of the once proudly-stocked tables. If I’d been into John Le Carre, Alan Furst, or Frank McCourt, it would have been a banner day for me.

I managed to find three books (one of which I had to ferociously retain while a book poacher looked on covetously), and I politely paid for them and ambled off, thinking about my tide of emotion surrounding the early opening. I was somewhat surprised, really, by how vehemently irritated I was, as the book sales usually create such a phlegmatic state that I sail along for several days afterwards in what other people might consider an almost good temper, for me, anyway.

It took me until Sunday morning to realize that I must be turning into one of them, the greedy, desperate book poachers, to get so riled up about the fact that they opened the door early. So they opened the door a little early? So what! Obviously I was just not meant to have any of the intriguing titles that the book poachers were squirreling away in their tottering stacks. Despite the allure of Artists and Warfare in the Renaissance and Better Mortuary Practice, Saturday was just not my day.

Just in case, though, next book sale, I am totally arriving at 9:30. It’s not that I want to get there first, you understand, it’s just that I like to be prepared for any eventuality. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let one of those noxious book poachers get away with taking all the good books next time. They don’t even read them, for Pete’s sake, they just sell them in an orgy of capitalist desire instead of getting real jobs, and it’s just not fair, I tell you.

*You know you want to hear the story. Come on. I mean, who wouldn’t? Maybe if you ask very nicely, I’ll tell you.

I am often overheard making the comment that I would kill for Indian food in this town.

Until October, at least, it looks like I won’t have to make good on my hyperbole, because there’s Indian food at the farmers’ market! And it’s vegan! And it’s pretty good!

I really don’t think that this day can get any better.

My friend Annie just got her first article in the New York Times national edition, which is pretty darn sweet, if you ask me. I might even say it’s totally awesome. I will admit that I’m a bit jealous, but also immensely proud of her. I guess that’s what a degree in journalism will get you. At any rate, the article is about the mill site, and an attempt to bioremediate the dioxins with mushrooms, so it’s not only cool, but also interesting.

So go read it!