An Open Letter to Florida

Dear Florida,

I owe you an apology.  I've been bad-mouthing you behind your back.  I may have even called you the worst state in the Union once.  Man, was I wrong.  You're pretty cool.  You're shaped weird, but I won't nitpick.  Plus, you have to admit, you do have a public image problem.  Have you Googled yourself?  Don't.  It's embarrassing.  Retirement community STD outbreaks, bath-salts fueled cannibalism, 2 Live Crew ... and those are your fun headlines.  I won't go into the really horrible stuff. You know, like Pitbull's rapping.  I'm just throwing this out so you can work on it.

We took the kids on a 9-day spring break extravaganza and I wasn't too confident Florida would pull through for us.  When I told people our plans they said things like, "Florida, in Mexico?" or, "That's nice."  We woke our kids us at 2:00 AM and told them, surprise!, we're going on vacation.  We might not have gotten the enthusiastic reception that we anticipated, and the look on their faces was just ... sleepy.  But 12 hours later when we loaded up into the biggest pickup Enterprise owned, they started to pep up.


First stop, Disney World.  Not just Disney World, Disney World during spring break.  I expected it to be a lot like the theme-park scene in Zombieland.  It was everything I dreaded: crowded, hot, and princess-y.  But, it was also (ug, the cliche) magical.  Disney employees do not half-ass anything and their positive energy is contagious.

The next stop was my biggest fear: Daytona Beach.  I've seen MTV Spring Break specials.  I expected mobs of wasted college students beer bonging off the balconies of their hotels as Vanilla Ice jet skied by.  Ok, I haven't watched tv in a while.  The only mobs we ran into were kids from a cheer competition practicing their routines on the beach.  And mobs of dolphins.  And mobs of fun.  Oh, stop it.

So we did everything we thought tourists in Florida should do (read: everything from the opening credits of Miami Vice). We took the kids to the dog races, we ripped around the everglades on an airboat, we petted gators, we wore white linen suits with turquoise undershirts and no socks with our loafers, we ate too many Cuban sandwiches, we crashed a Cigarette boat into a manatee, and we blew past toll booths in our Silverado. Yeah, about that, Florida. You need to get your act together on that one. $1.25 toll in coins ONLY? Who carries that many coins? No one.

We were also fortunate enough to have a couple of reprieves from toursit-ville.  An afternoon with our cousins in Orlando and some time with an old friend of Regina's who just happened to move to Daytona was just icing on the cake.

But we had a blast.  Florida, I'll say it: you're great.  Just lay off the bath-salts for a while and update your toll road system to 1990 levels, and we promise we'll be back.  You can even keep Pitbull.  Seriously, keep him there.

Kind Regards,

The Eastside Gang

Tupac, Biggie, and the Happiness Machine

The first time Tupac got his head stuck in the fence, Dylan told me that she prayed to God about it and pretty soon he got unstuck.  He's gotten his head jammed between the heavy gauge wires of the stock panel fence five times since then -- mostly because of his lust for fresh grass -- and today I had to use a hacksaw to get him out.  Dylan worries to the point of tears about Tupac, but Biggie just stands back and watches.  I'm sure he thinks Tupac is a dumbass.

I'll explain.  Dylan's been feeding three bottle calves all winter.  The orphans -- Biggie, Tupac, and Timmy -- came to us under different sad circumstances and Dylan has logged hours and hours taking care of her boys.  She and Grady hand-feed fresh grass to them daily and Dylan can now lead Biggie (the friendliest) around with a halter and twice she's climbed on his back.  Orphan calves, we call them leppys, are pretty common on ranches and usually resemble pregnant dwarves.  Their growth is stunted a little and they get big bellies.  But Dylan dotes on her babies and these calves look the opposite of pregnant dwarves.  Sterile giants?  Maybe.

While Grady's eyes light up when he gets to run the levers on the backhoe, Dylan's heart is belongs to animals.  Odd for a child whose first
three years were spent tormenting our cats so badly that she looked like she'd been tossed into a blackberry bramble.  She still has a decent scar from one especially pissed off cat.  Somehow that crazed toddler affection has turned into genuine care.

Dylan's love of animals and Grady's love of heavy equipment somehow comes together in the form of  our newest pet, Lardo, a St. Bernard puppy I got Regina and the kids for Christmas.  Last fall, when Regina told me that "someday, maybe in a couple of years" she'd like another St. Bernard, all I heard was, "Go buy one now, please and thank you."  Lardo is, essentially, a happiness machine.  He puts on more weight than a feedlot steer and takes about nine naps a day.  When he runs at full speed it looks like he's in super slow-motion.  He brings us nothing but joy.  And slobber.  And sometimes rotting squirrels.  The kids beg me to let them bring him into the school nearly every day, and it's hard to say no.  Who doesn't want to see a puppy?  I have a theory that if you aren't interested in, at a minimum, petting him, then you're an alien.  Or a psychopath.  Or an asshole.

We seem to be in the business of acquiring ride-able pets.  If you're cruising Eastside this fall, don't be surprised to see Dylan riding a calf, Grady riding a puppy, and, for once, Tupac and Biggie living together in perfect harmony.

And I Would Walk 585 Miles ...

It took us 8 years to return, but this winter Regina and I loaded up the kids in the truck and drove the (nearly) 1200 miles to our favorite spot in Baja.  I hate to tell you exactly where, because what once was grueling 16 hour trek through the desert is now an easy 2 hours and can be done in a Prius with bald tires.  Such is progress.

It was a perfect trip.  The kids fell in love with a stretch of beach I've been going to since I was an infant and Regina has already started her list of things to bring when we return.  I couldn't of been happier.

So, when you spend that much time in close quarters in the Baja desert, you learn a few things.  I learned that the kids can manage the 2400 mile drive, especially with screens for them to gape at; that Grady can eat beans and rice 3 meals a day and be perfectly happy; that Dylan's terrified of Trigger Fish; that we need a bigger boat; that even without maps, Regina is a great navigator; that military checkpoint stops are a great time for the kids to run around and stretch their legs; that Highway 3, the "wine and cheese" road, while a beautiful drive, is more of an "occasionally you'll see a vineyard and dairy, but mostly you'll see interesting road-kill" drive; that I sunburn while the locals are wearing beanies and down jackets; that adventure-drives through the desert in search of abandoned gold mines are best left to 4-wheelers and jeeps; that a Christmas tree in Baja can be just as great as a silver-tip here; and that Santa can still deliver internationally.

And I would walk 585 miles more.

Sometimes the best vacations don't need a lot of explanation.  Enjoy the photos.

Nothing Says Christmas Like Rifle Fire

Part of the fun in having children is resurrecting Christmas traditions from your childhood.  Loading up the kids and driving random logging roads in search of a Christmas tree, NOT opening gifts until Christmas morning, mistletoe belt buckles, these are the traditions that Regina and I grew up with, or at least we agree on (okay, maybe I made up the belt buckle one, but it ought to be everyone's tradition).  Part of the fun of Christmas is creating new traditions with your kids.  After we had kids,  we started going to the Ft. Jones Christmas Parade and the Callahan Christmas, and they've become part of our Christmas routine.  Also, part of the fun of having children is you can blame your farts on them, but that's neither Christmas-y nor relevant.

A few years ago we started going to the Ft. Jones Christmas Parade because Dylan was in it.  I had no idea what a big deal it was.  People pack the sidewalks and lately I've heard stories about guys riding their horses into the bar after the parade and fistfights.  Ah, Christmas.  I've really only been to the elementary school's Halloween parade, which is fifteen minutes of cuteness, or the rodeo parade, which mainly is a lot of people on horseback.  The Christmas parade has everything.  From bagpipers to backcountry horsemen, from renaissance nerds to Harley badasses.

My favorite entry is the Mountain Men.  I think I include them every year in my Christmas blog, and they deserve the attention.  They seem to be a loosely formed group of men and women who dress in pelts and wear moccasins.  They pack black-powder rifles and fire them off as they walk down the parade route.  The gunfire gets pretty loud and all of the mounted entries have to follow them, or there would be a lot of runaway horses and general carnage.  It's hilarious (to me) and terrifying (to Grady).  For some reason, watching the kids flinch every four seconds when a rifle goes off has become my favorite Christmas tradition.

In the 90s, Mike Tyson hired a guy, Crocodile, as a hype-man.  He'd walk next to Mike and motivate him by yelling odd phrases like, "Guerrilla warfare!" and, "Bring the noise!"  Last night, at Callahan Christmas, I was Crocodile and Grady was Mike Tyson.  I wanted Grady to get over his Santa-terrors and so I talked up the big guy.  I started up the hype machine right after dinner.  "Santa's coming, buddy, are you ready?  Yeah, you're ready, he's nice.  He has presents.  Let's get ready to rumble."  Sometimes I say the wrong thing.  Grady's spent the last three Christmases looking at St. Nick like he was John Wayne Gacy in a Santa suit.  No way, no how was he going near that red-clad freak.  But this year, my Crocodile impression worked and pretty soon Grady was sitting on Santa's lap and shaking his hand like a gentleman.  We couldn't believe it.

So, while most kids have sugar-plum fairies dancing in their heads around Christmas time, ours hear the sharp crack of rifle fire and the soothing shouts of, "It's fight time!" in their ears and can only dream of Christmas.

Eastside Bellagio

Ahh, fall.  If it weren't for that smug look on Martha Stewart's face whenever she tries to get me to make pumpkin spiced ... everything, it'd be my favorite season.  The kids are back in school, baby calves are hitting the ground, and the layer of Halloween candy blubber I put on is easily disguised by a terrible beard and heavy vests.

As the daughter of two English majors, Dylan is following her nerdy parents' footsteps.  Along with baby calves and fuzzy cats, she loves reading and writing.  I've caught her, more than once, standing at her bedside, reading a dictionary.  She reads to her brother at night, and whenever I'm on the computer, she tries to read everything that pops up.  When I wanted to figure out what Elmer Fudd's daughter was trying to sing in "All About That Bass," she tried to read along.  "It's aww about dat bass, no tweble."  "What's it mean?" she asked.  Nobody knows.

And when Dylan's not reading, she loves to write essays about the cool things she's done, like cow feeding and buck hunting.  She was my official "meat package marker," for a buck that I processed.  I let her have free-rein on the butcher paper, so the packages are marked in second-grade phonics (Rost.  Meet), with drawings of flowers and rainbows.  It'll make dinner prep a lot more exciting.

Grady seems to be in school mostly for the social aspect.  Kindergarten has been awesome for him and every day is a big party.  This year was his first for soccer.  Somehow, the Tigers ended up with the fewest number of players, and since it's a team of four and five-year olds, those players are often drifting on and off the field during the match.  The games I saw looked like cute versions of the movie 300, with a small handful of kids in orange getting overwhelmed by hoards of opposing players.

Here's something I probably shouldn't tell you, but I will anyway.  We have a bidet.  No, not in the "fancy French separate appliance that's 60 feet from the toilet" way, but in the "attached to the toilet, utilitarian, Brasilian" way.  And here's why I'm telling you: 1) it's awesome, go get one.  It's better than sliding up the the jacuzzi jets at the Hilton's spa, and 2) it's not a toy.  Our kids know the latter well.  In fact, I've cranked it on when they've sat on our toilet (for laughs), and they hate it.  The look on their faces alone is worth getting one.  But say you have a few five-year old boys over at your house for a post-season soccer party.  That knob on the side of toilet?  Yeah, it's a fountain machine.  And, after our end-of-year soccer party, Regina came out of our bathroom with a horrified look on her face.  She told me that little boys are disgusting creatures and have terrible aim when they pee.  I investigated.  It wasn't a misdirected stream that soaked our tile floor, but a bidet that must have put on a water show that rivaled the Bellagio's in Vegas.

As long as Regina and I can raid the kids' Halloween bags and listen to the soothing sounds of a child reading a dictionary, we'll cozy up to the fire and enjoy the season.  And if you happen to swing by the Eastside, pause in front of our house, every fifteen minutes we have a spectacular water show.

7-minute Summer

The raid on bin Laden's compound.  The Mars Exploration Rover mission.  Madonna's "Who's That Girl?" World Tour.  I used to think the man hours involved in planning those events was beyond anything I could imagine.  Since I've had kids, I think I could strap the boob cones on Madonna with one hand, operated the Rover remote with the other, and repel into Abbottabad by my feet, and still have plenty of free limbs for hay season and kid shuttling.  In other words, parenting sure makes you get your shit together.

Needless to say, we're no busier than any other family.  And the upside to our hectic schedule is that the kids have spent a lot of time working with me this summer.  Dylan, the animal lover, used to get bored quickly on the swather.  Now, she plays the "Let's Count Bugs" game.  It's exactly as it sounds.  Thousands of ladybugs, aphids, caterpillars, and spiders accumulate on the header of the swather and Dylan tries to inventory them all.  If it's a slow day, she'll keep track of the mice and squirrels I mow over.  If it's a really slow day, she'll start asking questions.  "Why are our legs longer than our arms?" was a fun one to answer.  When she stated, "I have all sorts of questions about my body," I replied, "Oh look, a ladybug!"

Grady's my tractor man.  Sure, he likes being horseback, and his asthma can withstand a few hours on the baler, but his absolute favorite thing to do is ride along on our oldest, most beat up county-auction rig: The Scoopmobile.  It's a big orange beast that's difficult to steer, the cab is full of contusion-causing edges, it's deafening, and it often dies in the middle of a job.  Basically, it's awesome.  He rides shotgun as we turn big piles of dirt into small piles.  Sometimes we do that for no reason other than it's manly and fun.

We can't breath, but the sunsets sure are pretty.

Sure, there were quite a few things that our schedule, or nature, wouldn't allow for this summer.  Our annual lake adventure got buried in smoke by the local wildfires.  I missed a trip to Pismo Beach with the gang because we were cutting our first crop.  And my goal of trying to stay fit was fulfilled by finishing the 7-minute workout exactly twice.  But we did some great things too.  We drove to lookouts, we made it to the Oregon coast, the kids had swimming and horseback riding lessons (although not at the same time), we rodeoed, and we started an evening tradition called "Grab a beer, load the kids and dogs, we're cruising the gulch in the Ranger." I know, the name needs work, but it's a fun outing.

Someone recently asked me how my summer was going.  I surprised myself when I replied, "Fun!"  It feels masochistic to stack a full load of kid activities on top of work, but the greatest thing about being a rancher (aside from the lavish lifestyle), is spending work time with Regina and the kids.  A few hours cutting hay with Grady and Dylan (and Buster and Scout), or a cattle drive up Miner's Creek with the family makes the long hours and hectic schedule all worthwhile, and feels better than that one hand on Madonna's boob cone.

Fuzzy Armadillos

Unless you've been avoiding all social media, or haven't seen the 30-minute Hanna-family infomercial I directed for OWN, the Oprah channel, you already know that the Eastside Gang had a pretty great Siskiyou Golden Fair.

We kicked off fair-season a day early and Dylan and I went over for the officially-unofficial heifer, steer, goat, and lamb weigh in.  This is the day when all the livestock exhibitors bring in their animals and get a sense of how many marshmallows they'll need to feed Daisy that night so it'll make weight the next day.  It's a lot like a MMA weigh-in, with fewer men in chonies and more fights.  Dylan got the job of reading off the digital scales to the contestants (or, usually, their mothers).  It was great watching her be a part of the fair machine.  I shoved, tugged, and begged the livestock into the scales and Dylan (with the help from another board member) quietly read off the weights.  Emphasis on quietly.  There was a lot of 1 ... 3 ... 2 ... ... ... 2?  And a lot of, "What did she say?"

The evening shows are what our kids love because they get to stay out past their bedtime and they get shaved ice for dinner.  Grady got a one-day stomach flu and had to miss the rodeo (more on that later), but was there for his favorite events: Tractor Pulls and the Destruction Derby.  The Tractor Pulls were new this year and are exactly as they sound.  Tractors and trucks pull a lot of weight across the arena.  Some make it all the way, most don't, and some break down somewhere in between.  To make this event, um, more exciting, there are motorcycles doing stunts.  Grady's mind was blown at the first flip and he didn't stop grinning until we had to leave to avoid suffering permanent hearing damage.

Regina took the monkeys over early on one day to see the sights and let the kids go nuts in the carnival.  We somehow talked Dylan into not playing the goldfish game by reminding her of the pile of dead goldfish the last 3 fairs have yielded.  Besides, her Sea Monkeys are alive and growing, and pet-competition would be unhealthy.  When I showed up that afternoon the kids, and Regina, were very excited about the Exotic Animal Petting Zoo.  They even got to pet a fuzzy armadillo.  I questioned Regina and she just shrugged, "That's what the lady said it was."  I had to see this, so we went back.  Of course, there was no fuzzy armadillo to be found.  There was a real one, you know, with a hard shell, but nothing else.  Did it escape? I asked.  We pondered this as we checked out the monkeys, snakes, lizards, and, oddly, a possum. (In an exotic petting zoo?  Welcome to county fairs.) Regina started laughing.  There it was: the fuzzy armadillo.  Someone, maybe she didn't even work there, or maybe she was bored, convinced my family that a common possum was an exotic fuzzy armadillo.  I love that person.

The highlight was, of course, that Dylan won the Siskiyou County Mutton Busting Championship!  You can get the entire 3-hour story if you happen to wander within earshot of me.  I've been boring everyone with it, but I can't help it.  We were so proud.  The short version is that Dylan qualified as an alternate, got the chance to ride, stuck to her mutton, and came home with a buckle and a black eye.  The eye has healed and she wears her buckle proudly, even with outfits that don't have belt loops.  We'd been listening to Tanya Tucker's, "Rodeo Girls Don't Cry," in the truck all summer and afterward, as she was trying hard to wave to her grandparents in the grandstands and to not cry, she told me, "I just kept thinking, rodeo girls don't cry, dad."  So badass.

Our local fair is a great one and this year it gave us so much: a new appreciation of possums, a champion rodeo buckle, and even a second-hand high in the Winema Hall men's room.  We'll hang this one up as great and will cherish the memories, unless we wander back into that men's room, then we won't remember a thing.


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