Power Outages

With 5 different Edison meters for house and pumps, our mailbox has been full of these notices , one for each, for the past three weeks, usually two daily outages per week.  Edison has noticed us for two more outages within the next week as they replace power poles and wire on this five mile stretch of Dry Creek Road.  No power, no AC, no pumps and no water for man or beast during this “Heat Advisory” forecast near 110 degrees.

 

We grin and bear it and try to get along, which means pulling the refrigerator out of its cabinet, unplugging it, then after a few minutes, plugging it back in.  We’ve lost about $800 worth of food thus far, but the freezers have come back on without assistance.  I’ve learned to anticipate the timing of the outage to shut the water off to the house, which would be drained otherwise and filing with air to be compressed when the juice comes back on with pressures high enough to jeopardize our plumbing.

 

The contractors (ParWest) have been great, with the exception of an underground services employee who was driving our firebreaks after he left the gate open to the road for 46 first-calf heifers. He did get an earful.

 

Of course, all this concern comes after PG&E’s bankruptcy when its transmission lines ignited numerous fires in Northern California after which nearly half of the state became a high fire risk area.  Fire insurance doubled or tripled or left homes uninsurable.  Edison will probably lobby the PUC to raise its rates to pay for all this maintenance it should have doing all along.  C’est la vie.

Apologies

WordPress keeps trying to expand and improve their blogging template.  I think I’ve got it figured out now, but not after sending half-dozen email copies to followers that was not in the form I intended.

John

 

MY DROUGHT





           a gusher of poems
that poured out of the house
on Highland Street
and watered the town

- Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel (“The Gusher”)


They fall from the sky
like hawks at play
and dive into our poetry,

perfect words
we cannot claim, but do—
to hunt the periphery

for a place to light
to transform a poem
into something better.

I am reading Wilma
in Tulare next Saturday—
revisiting her real Okie poetry,

searching for the one
that breaks my drought
into a flood of verses,

a gusher of poems
that poured out of the house
on Highland Street
and watered the town






Weather Change

After a brutal summer, we are enjoying a major change in temperature: a high of 87 yesterday and 55 this morning as storms hit the northwest and Canada.

As I’ve posted before, my father’s model for predicting the weather was based on a 30-day cycle beginning with noticeable changes in the month of August. If these changes were confirmed in September, he would count on rain on those days in October and/or November. My brother and I still rely to some degree on his model, but with the volatility of the weather in recent years, it’s anyone’s guess.

We’ve begun feeding as we wait for our first calves to arrive. We’ve moved our calving date back two weeks, from the first to the fifteenth, in response to the trend of high temperatures in early September. Not only is the heat hard on calving cows, but often there’s always a couple of first-calf heifers that leave their newborns in a hundred degree sun.

September also brings the catalogs for bull sales in California that offer a wide array of Genomic Enhanced Expected Progeny Data as well as links to videos of the bulls. I still rely on my eye, but it’s a far cry from the old days when I was starting out.

As the days get shorter, we still expect the temperatures to return to the century mark, but for the moment it’s delightful.

For the Record

Only one day since the Solstice has the temperature been below 100 degrees, 54 days with a high over 116. Tough on man and beast. With a slight weather change, yesterday was 99. We’ve been rising early to feed the bulls and heifers and try to be done with our chores before 11:00 a.m.

HEAT WAVE

 

All the thirsty hearts

have sucked the dog dish down

beyond the reach of the panting Titmouse,

 

nervous little bastard bobbing

empty-beaked at his favorite waterhole

below the nozzle, hose and bib

 

during this two-week heat wave

of highs in the teens, like every summer here

in the San Joaquin.

 

 

 

 

OUTLAW FIREWORKS

We kids would perch upon the shingle shed roof where my grandfather would dry his few errant Tompson Seedless for raisins from his Emperor vineyard outside Exeter, California, careful not to snag our swim trunks on the nails to watch the July 4th fireworks show in town—a perfect ending to family picnics celebrating Independence Day after World War II, a time when our nation’s history was rich with common sense.  The lack of it today cannot be blamed on Climate Change.

The majority of California has been identified as a High Risk Fire Area while insurance companies have raised premiums to offset theirs, and PG&E’s, losses in Northern California during 2018’s continuous conflagrations. Today, fire insurance is either cost prohibitive or unavailable to homeowners and businesses that has impacted home loans and values, and subsequently the State’s economy.  While fire fighters risk their lives to keep wildfires contained to protect these interests, we’re still selling fireworks even though the State’s population has more than tripled since 1955 to a more urban population that has little hands-on experience. The Emergency Rooms are proof enough.

California has many problems as people and businesses leave the State—new taxation annually and a Governor who can’t decide what he stands for as he heads to Washington to bolster Biden’s nomination, and should he fail, make himself visible and available.

It’s time for the non-profit service organizations, churches, Boy Scouts, etc. to stop selling fireworks as fund raisers, stop adding to the costs of our communities and look into drone shows or other means to celebrate Independence Day, it’s time to outlaw fireworks.

Summer Solstice 2024

 

Around the corner

the future waits alignment

of the moons and stars.

 

 

HARMONIES

Before the day breaks over

the black silhouette of Sulphur Peak,

the Mourning Doves moan

 

from dreams and the quail beckon

broods with marching songs, while

Roadrunners call long distance—

 

rehearsing harmonies

humanity would do well

to learn and listen to.

 

 

Cuckoo Cuckcoo Coo

 

The same old song at dawn

remains unchanged at dark—

the Roadrunners’ refrain

 

                 across the pasture,

                 lest we forget

                world affairs…