Life in Lake County

 

Wherein an Emergency is faced with Calmness,

An ancient Bee Home destroyed

And George comes to the Rescue.

 

 

        Little did I suspect, when I moved here, how differently we live in this County.  That  was ten years ago.  That was when I moved from San Francisco to Lake County, California. 

        Having spent nearly my entire life in the City, I had a basic assumption that most other people think the same way as City people.  Little did I know. 

        I had spent nearly my entire life in the City, and had always wanted to escape.  In 1993 finally I had the chance, and took it.

        I moved out of the City, cutting nearly all ties, and established myself in Lake County.  For those not familiar with this place, I must describe:

        Lake County is different from anywhere else in California, and probably different from anywhere else in the world.  The Spanish missionaries never made it this far, nor did any railroad.  This fact is due to the range of mountains which entirely encircles our valley.  The same hills have always provided a geographical, political and social insulation which persists to this day.  

        The County is known for a large, dormant volcano, Mt Konocti, reputed to contain numerous undiscovered caverns and other mysteries.  We also have the oldest and largest lake in this State, Clear Lake.  We also have numerous natural springs, hot, cold and indifferent.  At one time Lake County was promoted as “the Switzerland of the West,” because the scenery is said to resemble that nation’s.  Personally I think it’s lovelier than Switzerland. 

        I moved here because it is the most beautiful place in the World.

 

        However, what I did not realize at the time is that when any human population exists for a long time in isolation, it’s bound to develop its own life style.  People here don’t think exactly the same way we think in the City.  They don’t do things exactly the same way. 

        Now, I had bought and moved into an old, rambling house that had a lot more space than anywhere I’d ever lived before.  It took me a couple years to fix the place up, working mostly on my own.  It was no palace, but it had space, air and light, and I could walk to the lake.  And I could look out the window at trees, instead of buildings. 

        One Sunday evening in June, I was in my “study,” a large room in back of the garage.  I was using my computer – I forget what for; maybe I was playing Doom, or surfing.  (This room was about 30 feet long and 10 wide.  At last, enough room for my books!)

        Whatever I was doing, I know I was intent on the bright little screen of my puter monitor.  I think it was around 7:00 P.M.  It was dark outside.  It got really dark at night because there were no street lights, and no neon signs or any of that junk they have in the City. 

        Suddenly – KABOOM!!

        Sound of tremendous explosion.  The lights went out, my puter went dead. 

        Always remain calm in an emergency, that was one thing I learned in the Army.  (Learned a lot of other stuff too, but that’s another story.)  Quite calmly, I decided to investigate the Nature of the Occurrence. 

        Calmly, I found my way to the main part of the house in the dark and located a flashlight.  From the window I could see other houses in the neighborhood that still had lights, from which I deduced there must be a problem with my own place. 

        Calmly, I proceeded to the front door, opened it, and observed that the power pole opposite my house was on fire.

 

        Here I must mention my next-door neighbor, Mrs Butler. 

        Mrs Butler was a tough old pioneer.  She told me she had moved here in 1936, when it was possible to stand in the middle of Highway 20 for an hour and never see a single car pass.  She still occupied what I believe was the first house in the neighborhood, a little farm dwelling that had windows all the way around. 

        Mrs Butler was getting too old to do much yard work, but her garden still looked a lot better than my own.  She had a big yard, at least an acre, part of what had once been a small ranch. 

        In the front part of her yard, near my house, was an old oak tree.  It was probably two hundred years old, judging by its size.  That’s not unusual up here; we still have a few ancient oaks, though much of the old oak forest has disappeared in face of what they call “progress.” 

        Now, this tree was on Mrs Butler’s side of the fence, but only about twenty feet from my house.  On summer afternoons I liked to look out my window and watch bees flying in and out of their hidey hole, far up on its side.  They would fly in and out, from dawn to dusk, all summer long. 

        What did I know about old oak trees?  I was from the City.  How was I supposed to suspect that the reason there were so many bees flying in and out, was that this tree was almost completely hollow?

       

        What I heard that Sunday evening, that loud KABOOM, was about half of the tree suddenly giving up from old age and falling down. 

        Maybe all the bees and their honeycombs had become too heavy for those elderly branches to bear.

        A huge limb had come crashing down across the fence, missing my roof and a window below it by inches.  On its way down, Old Tree had found my power line, TV cable, and telephone wire.  Maybe it was trying to save itself, by grabbing on to anything it could reach. 

        (Mrs Butler had also fallen down a few times in the recent past.  She was to outlive her tree by another two or three years.)

        I learned later that a neighbor down the street had actually seen the flash of light with its ball of fire and smoke, as the line came down.  He told me he had thought at first it was a dynamite explosion. 

 

        So there I stood on my front porch, watching the power pole burn.  I didn’t yet realize what had happened,  I thought maybe a PG&E [1] transformer had blown up.  It was dark out, I hadn’t yet noticed the tree.

        Remaining calm, however, in the face of emergency, I heroically reached for my phone to call 911.  The phone, of course, was dead. 

        At this point, I take my flashlight and go outside.  Being perceptive, I notice at once that most of the neighbors are outside staring at my house.  That was when I saw the tree.

        Someone had already called the Fire Department.  The fire house was only a block away, but it wasn’t manned all the time and most of the fire fighters were volunteers.  So it took them awhile to get there, but maybe not more than five minutes.  I was impressed. 

        An engine pulled up out front, a hose was hooked up, various firemen deployed to investigate damage.  One fireman held the end of the hose, standing in my front yard.  I suggested to him he might want to put some water on the burning telephone pole.  (By now, some of the grass was also on fire.)  I thought he seemed a bit annoyed at my suggestion, but he did turn on his nozzle and squirt the fire. 

        I noticed there were a couple firemen walking back and forth to the oak tree in Mrs Butler’s yard.  They were carrying buckets.  I went over to inquire what they were doing. 

        “Collecting honey combs,” one of them explained. 

       

        Well, finally the Fire Chief came over to talk to me.  He told me he didn’t think the Fire Department was needed any longer, but they had called the PG&E, who were on their way and would arrive shortly.  The fire engine would be departing as soon as they had all the honey they could carry.

        A few minutes later a panel truck from PG&E appeared as promised.  Once again I was impressed by the efficiency of public service in my community. 

        There was only one repair guy in the truck.  He glanced at the downed wire and assured me he would have my power back on in half an hour.  I said OK, I might as well meander down to the grocery store for a six pack of root beer and potato chips. 

        Which I proceeded to do.  By the way, our grocery was called Nylander’s Red and White Store.  It’s been there practically unchanged since the 1920’s, even before Mrs Butler arrived.  Back then it was also the Post Office.  But that piece of information is neither here nor there, and I hope it hasn’t slowed down this suspense-filled narrative because I’m sure you’re dying to hear the suspense- filled outcome of our tale. 

        It took me about twenty minutes to get to the store and back.  By then the fire engine was gone.  The PG&E guy was standing out in front waiting for me, looking somewhat dejected.

        “Sorry,” he told me.  “I can’t fix it.  When your power line came down, it took out your weather mast.  The breaker box is junk.  You need to hire an electrician.”

        “Oh,” I said.  “OK, thanks.”  What else could I say?

        The weather mast is the thingie that sticks up from the roof and holds the power lines.  This, I knew, was not something I could fix myself. 

        Remaining calm in the emergency, I said to myself, OK, I will deal with this.  Tonight I will line up all my candles and flashlights, read a good book, go to bed, and deal with this in the morning.  I will call an electrician ASAP.

        I had a regular job to go to on Monday morning, with an office and desk and phone and even an old Macintosh.  Next morning I got up at the usual time, shaved with my rechargeable shaver, ate some cereal and went to work.  I was glad I didn’t have a freezer full of meat. 

        At the office, I consulted a local phone book and found an electrician in the Yellow Pages.  I quickly realized that there was in fact only one electrician in the Yellow Pages.  I called him, got hold of him at once, and explained the problem.  He promised to go investigate at once.  While I was at it, I also called the phone company to request repair of the line. 

        But it was not to be so easy.  This was not the City.  Lake County was not like where I came from. 

        I had to leave the office for an hour or two to visit a client.  When I got back there was a message for me to call the electrician.  I did.

        “Sorry to have to tell you this,” he said.  “But I can’t work on your house.  I went over there and arrived just as the telephone repair man was leaving.  He was running.  He was being chased by a swarm of angry bees.”

       

        Ah well, I sighed to myself.  Remain calm in emergencies.  You gotta do what you gotta do…

        I told my boss I had a household emergency to deal with, and would need the afternoon off, using some vacation time.  No problem, he said.

        So I left the office and drove straight to the nearest hardware store.  Angry bees?  Obviously I would need something to commit genocide on bees.  (I think that would be called apicide.)  What did I know?  I was from the City.  Someone informed me later that I should have found a beekeeper and asked him to transfer the Queen to another location.  But I knew nothing of bees, to me a bug was a bug. 

        At the hardware store I purchased several spray cans of Wasp and Hornet Killer.  It came in black cans and looked really lethal.  That ought to do it, I figured. 

        I drove home, where the bees were still buzzing in and out of the fallen tree, futilely attempting repair of their ancient home.  I felt sorry for them, but it was me or them. 

        In the garage, among my painting equipment, I had a full-length blue denim coverall, the type commonly worn by mechanics and painters.  I put this on over my outer clothes and buttoned up the collar.  Next I slipped a painter’s hood over my head.  This was a cotton mask that covered my entire head except for a space for my eyes.  Plastic safety goggles and canvas gloves completed my costume. 

        Having asked Mrs Butler for permission, I next walked over to her property and proceeded to discharge all of my Wasp and Hornet Killer into the broken tree, where those poor bees were only trying to survive. 

        This operation seemed to make them extremely annoyed. 

        The only thing I accomplished was to further alienate the insects, as well as probably poisoning any honeycombs that might have remained. 

 

        After this experience, I was at a loss.  By then it was after 5:00 o’clock, so all the exterminators and other businesses were closed.  I proceeded to make some dinner.  Although my kitchen stove was electric, I was well supplied with camping equipment, including a propane stove.  I had already obtained ice from the Red and White store for my cooler.  I needed to sit down and think this out. 

        It was while I was dining that a knock came on the door.  It was George, [2] coming to my rescue. 

        When I opened the front door, I found a tall, gangling, rather rough looking individual.

        “Yes?” I said.  Being from the City, such individuals are always looked upon with some suspicion. 

        “Need any help?” he asked. 

        At first I didn’t understand what he was talking about.  It developed he was offering to fix my electric system.  He claimed he knew how to do this. 

        Later, I was to learn that this fellow was known among some quarters as “George, the Town Drunk.”  When I met him, though, he seemed to be making some effort to get sober.  At least he was looking for work.  Actually, he was one of those individuals who form the backbone of a vast, underground economy, an undocumented but indispensable work force.

        After some discussion, we came to an arrangement.  George would replace my breaker box and weather mast for a fee of one hundred dollars plus material cost, which would probably come to about fifty dollars.  I warned him about the bees, but he vowed the bees wouldn’t intimidate him.  (I also cautioned him against sampling the now-poisoned honeycombs.)  Having made the bargain, he promised to start first thing in the morning. 

        Later that evening I went outside and spliced the telephone wire myself, so at least I had that working.  I realized that bees don’t fly after dark. 

        Next day, Tuesday, I went to work as usual.  When I got home that evening, George showed up again.  He told me he could probably finish the next day, but it was going to cost a little more than he thought.  I said OK, figuring I didn’t have much choice.  He also asked if I would like him to remove the tree branch from my yard, at no cost to me.  Sure, I said.  George said he’d made a deal with Mrs Butler to carve up the old tree and sell it for firewood.  He thought he would get three or four cords out of it.  I made another deal, to buy one cord from him. 

        That evening, I noticed that my propane lamp was melting. 

        For those not familiar with this item, the propane lamp is an important piece of emergency equipment.  If you have ever tried to read a book by candle light, you have learned that candles suck.  Even one of those old-fashioned candlesticks with four or five tapers don’t put out enough light.  As my mother used to say, “You’ll ruin your eyes reading in the dark.”  Maybe she was right, since I do have poor eyesight.  (She used to tell me that when I had been reading in bed with a flashlight and the cover over my head, because I was supposed to be sleeping.)

        A little propane lamp, however, puts out as much light as a 100 watt bulb.  It hisses and gets real hot, but it’s bright.  With no computer or TV, I had fallen back on a more primitive technology, reading books with real pages you have to turn. 

        But my lamp, I noticed, was melting.  The little glass bulb at the top was warped and about to cave in.  I decided it would not do to be without a decent lamp. 

        Since it was still early, I got in my truck and drove all the way to the other side of the lake, to visit our friendly Kmart.  This was in the days before Walmart the Magnificent had moved to our County, so there wasn’t much choice in terms of shopping.  Kmart was all right, but it was on the other side of the lake.  I lived on the east side and shopped on the west side.  It was a fifty mile round trip.

        Nevertheless, I drove across, went to the camping section, and quickly found the item I wanted.  This was the very latest Coleman double-wick propane lamp, guaranteed for 90 days or life, whichever came first.  I quickly bought the item and drove home again, eager to try it out as soon as it got dark enough. 

        When I got home and opened the box, I discovered there was no wick inside.  It required a different type of wick than my old lamp. 

        I telephoned Kmart.  Got the camping department, asked if they had any wicks to fit the lamp.  No, I was told, that’s a radically new type of lamp wick.  They don’t have any, but they could order some, probably get here in a week or two. 

        Par for the course, I said to myself.  Remain calm in emergencies. 

        I think that was when I realized the probable origin of the custom of lighting candles for saints.  That was no doubt started by some medieval monk, required to copy out a lengthy vellum scroll, praying he wouldn’t go blind before morning.

       

        Ah well, I didn’t go blind, and this story does have a happy ending.  George was true to his word, getting the wiring panel installed by late Wednesday.  Then all I had to do was get the PG&E back to turn on the power.  Well, almost.  No one had mentioned that you’re supposed to get a building permit for that sort of thing.  They won’t turn your power on unless there’s a copy of the permit attached to the breaker box and signed off by a County inspector.  This, of course, is how the Government extorts more cash from us poor home owners. 

        That process occupied another day.  But finally, by Friday, I had blessed electricity again.  I was back in Modern Times.  I could get my e mail again.  I could play Doom.

        The only thing that remained was cable TV.  The repair guy came over on Friday afternoon.    He had to replace every cable.  He said he had never seen such a mess.  Every single cable was melted and fried.  Such is the power of Electricity.  But everything still worked – TV, stereo, computer: by some miracle the power surge had caused no damage.  That very weekend I would invest in a new surge arrestor. 

        George was to spend the next two or three weeks sawing apart the ancient tree and neatly stacking my cord of wood.  He even fixed free of charge the chain link fence the tree had fallen across. 

        On Monday I called my insurance company to find out if I could file a claim against Mrs Butler.  No, my agent informed me, this was considered an Act of God, so Mrs Butler was not liable.  I could file a damage claim on my own policy, but the annual deductible was $250.00.  Did I want to file?

        I added up my total expenses, including permit fee.  It came to $248.00.  I said no, I guess I won’t bother to file. 

        I never did find out what happened to the bees. 

 

                                                                                   ~~~Bart