tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84041596903316766322011-09-30T10:08:00.924-07:00Rural life in the Sierra foothills of Northern California.Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.comBlogger151100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-79359769681838031342011-01-01T07:08:00.000-08:002011-01-01T07:11:07.524-08:00I Hereby Resolve?<br /><br /> Most folks pick the first part of the year to make resolutions -- short-lived pacts with themselves about self-improvement, usually revolving around dietary discipline or exercise regimens requiring perspiration. Frankly, I don't know where they find the time.<br /><br /> In January my writing hand is still too cramped from all those Christmas cards I signed and thank you notes I wrote in December to be of any use at all. Besides, the memories of yuletide gastronomic excesses and other failures in moderation are still too fresh in my mind for me to attempt any serious improvement.<br /><br /> February is about the time all the January resolutions are broken. "Well, I lasted a month," people say, as if that were quite an achievement. It seems hardly sporting for me to try to duplicate their feat during the shortest month of the year.<br /><br /> I am sorry. I respectfully refuse to make resolutions in any month whose name sounds like a military command, SIR! Yes SIR! I concede that March owes its name to the mythological god of war, and that dieting can be war, but, SIR, I will burn my meal ticket before I knuckle under to any new attempts at discipline this month.<br /><br /> April? Come on! Lent is over, the Easter Bunny is about to visit . . . and we have a weakness for chocolate bunnies here at Clear Creek Ranch.<br /><br /> Springtime is in full bloom in May. A time of rebirth. A time to smell the roses, and the coffee . . . and shouldn't we stop by that new bakery in town and sample one of each? We need our strength to dance around the May Pole.<br /><br /> For sixteen of my summers, school let out in June. That month has always signified freedom, cutting loose, a time to unwind. Hardly a time to begin disciplining myself.<br /><br /> Independence Day falls in July -- beer and hot dogs (tofu pups now). Four days into the month and I'd be off my diet. It is also the month for vacations, travel, schedule disruptions, fast food on the run, and quaint gourmet restaurants that really depend on our tourist business to survive.<br /><br /> August is county fair month where I live, and I attend all five days. I need that much time to work my way through all the service club-sponsored food booths. I'm very public spirited.<br /><br /> School starts in September -- new school clothes, new teachers, new pencils (update that to floppy disks or whatever kids get now). This would seem to be the ideal month to make resolutions and start anew. But I must be a contrarian, I really hate to be one of the crowd.<br /><br /> And what use is it to start a diet in October? It's the only month of the year guaranteed to end with heaps of candy and sweets all over the house.<br /><br /> November is even worse. There is a traditional government-sponsored gastronomic booby-trap programmed into the fourth Thursday of this month. And then there is the added stress of last minute Christmas shopping.<br /><br /> Obviously December is too late in the year to begin a personal reform movement. Santa needs a longer pattern of good behavior than the three and one-half weeks I have until Christmas. Besides, there is that office party we have to go to. And it wouldn't be polite not to eat, especially after all the trouble someone went to.<br /><br /> Maybe next year . . .<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-7935976968183803134?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-55806247940095892972010-08-10T16:22:00.000-07:002010-08-12T14:58:26.272-07:00[This is an old one. Early to mid 1990s. Read it as the historical artifact that it is. It was published on opening day of the Nevada County Fair, the first year the newspaper handed out free copies to everyone at the main gates. The next day the publisher called to let me know he, and dozens of county fair patrons didn't share my point of view.]<br /><br /> Everyone in my neck of the woods has been talking about the county fair for months. It is the social event of the year for many of my neighbors. I like the fair too. In fact it would be perfect if I could avoid a sunburned nose and the parking lot dust -- and a couple of other things. <br /> Last year I followed my sunscreened but otherwise functional nose to the area where the livestock was kept before it was auctioned off and became deadstock. I got to witness an event called Musical Pigs sponsored by one of the local Multiple-Letter Club. <br /> This competition was patterned after the children's game, musical chairs, except a pig was removed after each round instead of a chair. No one actually sat on a pig, of course, and no pigs were permitted to sit. Disoriented, squealing, 200-pound pigs were herded into the arena and the Multiple-Letter kids "helped" them to run around. <br /> I am no swine expert, but from what I saw it seems that most pigs do not run of their own free will. The average pig must be coaxed into a trot by pounding on its rump with a balled fist or with a heavy wooden cane, or by grabbing its ears and twisting as hard as possible. Many of the pigs had long welts and cuts on their shoulders and rumps -- either from the kids' encouragements, or from other anxious pigs when they were jammed into the smaller holding pens. Many of the handlers used the curved end of the cane to hook an animal's snout, often jabbing the pig's eye in the process. <br /> The music was blaring hard-rock-blues, and the lyrics delved into such swine-related topics as "Let Me Be Your Hog", "Bad To The Bone", and a little ditty about a pig falling off a truck. When all but one of the pigs had been removed from the arena, the two remaining human contestants had a foot race across the arena to see who could tag (read: club) the animal first with a cane.<br /> This contest went on for several rounds including an adult division where most of the human contestants far outweighed the pigs, and waddled around looking like they were the ones who had been fattened up for market. Grand prize: one box of fudge (to the human entrant, of course). The porcine contestants were herded back to their stalls to await the Sunday slave auction.<br /> The pudgy crowd of spectators squealed with delight throughout, and the Multiple-Letter Club children learned something valuable about animal husbandry -- or did they? I mean, I was taught not to play with my food. Never thought to beat it up!<br /> Equally remarkable, although I missed it myself, was the rodeo. I can't believe there are really that many working cowpersons left. The rodeo circuit acts like a government subsidy to keep this "endangered species" alive and kicking. The one animal who won't be kicking anymore is a little barrel-racing pony who snapped a leg bone while performing before a sell-out crowd. Permanently "retired."<br /> I wisely wore earplugs for the Logger's Olympics where the revving nitro-powered chainsaws were louder than the starting line at a drag race. Some of these gigantic chainsaw engines were big enough to power a small car. The chainbars were as big as ironing boards. Contestants performed such useful tasks as scaling a telephone poll to ring a little bell on top, slicing a hundred-year-old tree into wafer-thin disks, wacking logs into a pile of wood chips, and throwing battle axes at beer cans. The crowd roared its approval each time a contestant connected and drew foam. <br /> Which leads me to my personal favorite fair-time activity: sitting in the shade in sweltering heat with a carbonated refreshment in one hand watching the fashion show parade by. The subtle engineering that goes into summer clothing ventilation and moisture evaporation technology is truly amazing, as is the mind-boggling variety and placement of tan lines and body tattoos. <br /> Every year I am fairly impressed.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-5580624794009589297?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-67083314806209426722010-02-05T09:45:00.001-08:002010-03-04T07:11:51.681-08:00Boomer Era Western TV Shows <br /> <br />1947 1960 Howdy Doody / Buffalo Bob Smith<br />1949 1951 Cyclone Malone / Ross Jones<br />1949 1957 Lone Ranger / Clayton Moore, Jay Silverheels, John Hart<br />1950 1956 Cisco Kid / Duncan Renaldo, Leo Carrillo<br />1950 1955 Gene Autry / Gene Autry, Champion<br />1950 1950 Marshall of Gunsight Pass / Eddie Dean<br />1951 1955 Kit Carson / Bill Williams, Don Diamond<br />1951 1953 Range Rider / Jock Mahoney, Dickie Jones<br />1951 1956 Red Ryder / Allan Lane, Louis Lettieri<br />1951 1957 Roy Rogers / Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, Pat Brady, Trigger, Bullet<br />1951 1962 Sky King / Kirby Grant, Gloria Winters<br />1951 1958 Wild Bill Hickock / Guy Madison, Andy Devine<br />1952 1952 Cowboy G-Men / Russell Hayden, Jackie Coogan<br />1952 1975 Death Valley Days / Stanley Andrews, Robert Taylor<br />1952 1954 Hopalong Cassidy / William Boyd, Topper, Edgar Buchanan, Andy Clyde<br />1953 1953 Action in the Afternoon / Jack Valentine<br />1954 1957 Annie Oakley / Gail Davis<br />1954 1959 Rin Tin Tin / Rin Tin Tin, Lee Aaker, James Brown, Joe Sawyer<br />1955 1956 Adventures of Champion / Gene Autry's Champion<br />1955 1956 Brave Eagle / Keith Larsen<br />1955 1956 Buffalo Bill, Jr / Dickie Jones, Nancy Gilbert<br />1955 1963 Cheyenne / Clint Walker<br />1955 1956 Davy Crockett / Fess Parker, Buddy Ebsen<br />1955 1956 Frontier / Walter Coy<br />1955 1960 Fury / Peter Graves, Bobby Diamond<br />1955 1975 Gunsmoke /James Arness, Milburn Stone, Amanda Blake, Dennis Weaver, Ken Curtis<br />1955 1958 Sergeant Preston of the Yukon / Dick Simmons, Yukon King<br />1955 1955 Spin and Marty / Tim Considine, David Stollery<br />1955 1956 Steve Donovan, Western Marshall / Douglas Kennedy, Eddy Waller<br />1955 1959 Tales of the Texas Rangers / Willard Parker, Harry Lauter<br />1955 1961 Wyatt Earp / Hugh O'Brian<br />1956 1960 Broken Arrow / John Lupton, Michael Ansara<br />1956 1958 Circus Boy / Micky Dolenz, Noah Beery Jr<br />1956 1958 Flicka (My Friend) / Johnny Washbrook<br />1956 1958 Jim Bowie / Scott Forbes<br />1956 1957 Judge Roy Bean / Edgar Buchanan, X Brands<br />1956 1958 Sheriff of Cochise / John Bromfield<br />1956 1961 Zane Grey Theater / Dick Powell<br />1957 1957 Boots and Saddles / John Pickard, Gardner McKay<br />1957 1959 Californians (The) / Richard Coogan<br />1957 1957 Casey Jones / Alan Hale Jr, Bobby Clark<br />1957 1960 Colt .45 / Wayde Preston<br />1957 1963 Have Gun, Will Travel / Richard Boone, Kam Tong<br />1957 1957 Hawkeye & the Last of the Mohicans / John Hart, Lon Chaney Jr<br />1957 1959 Man without a Gun / Rex Reason<br />1957 1962 Maverick / Jack Kelly, James Garner, Roger Moore<br />1957 1959 Restless Gun / John Payne<br />1957 1961 Sugarfoot / Will Hutchins<br />1957 1962 Tales of Wells Fargo / Dale Robertson<br />1957 1960 Tombstone Territory / Pat Conway, Richard Eastham<br />1957 1959 Trackdown / Robert Culp<br />1957 1959 Twenty-Six Men / Tristam Coffin, Kelo Henderson<br />1957 1965 Wagon Train / Ward Bond, John McIntire, Robert Horton, Frank McGrath<br />1957 1959 Zorro / Guy Williams, Henry Calvin<br />1958 1961 Bat Masterson / Gene Barry<br />1958 1962 Bronco / Ty Hardin<br />1958 1959 Buckskin / Tom Nolan, Sally Brophy<br />1958 1960 Cimarron City / George Montgomery, Audrey Totter<br />1958 1959 Frontier Doctor / Rex Allen<br />1958 1961 Frontier Justice / Lew Ayres, Melvyn Douglas, Ralph Bellamy<br />1958 1962 Lawman / John Russell, Peter Brown<br />1958 1959 Mackenzie's Raiders / Richard Carlson, Art Gilmore<br />1958 1959 Northwest Passage / Keith Larsen, Buddy Ebsen, Don Burnett<br />1958 1963 Rifleman (The) / Chuck Connors, Johnny Crawford, Paul Fix<br />1958 1959 Rough Riders / Kent Taylor, Jan Merlin, Peter Whitney<br />1958 1958 Union Pacific / Jeff Morrow, Judson Pratt<br />1958 1961 Wanted - Dead or Alive / Steve McQueen<br />1958 1959 Yancy Derringer / Jock Mahoney, X Brands<br />1959 1960 Alaskans (The) / Roger Moore, Dorothy Provine<br />1959 1960 Black Saddle / Peter Breck<br />1959 1973 Bonanza / Loren Greene, Michael Landon, Dan Blocker, Pernell Roberts, Victor Sen Yung<br />1959 1960 Hotel de Paree / Earl Holliman, Jeanette Nolan, Strother Martin<br />1959 1960 Jefferson Drum / Jeff Richards<br />1959 1960 Johnny Ringo / Don Durant, Mark Goddard<br />1959 1963 Laramie / Robert Fuller, John Smith, Spring Byington<br />1959 1960 Law of the Plainsman / Michael Ansara<br />1959 1960 Man from Blackhawk (The) / Sam Logan<br />1959 1959 Pony Express / Grant Sullivan, Don Dorrell<br />1959 1966 Rawhide / Clint Eastwood, Eric Fleming, Paul Brinegar<br />1959 1961 Rebel (The) / Nick Adams<br />1959 1961 Riverboat / Darren McGavin, Dick Wessel, Burt Reynolds<br />1959 1961 Shotgun Slade / Scott Brady<br />1959 1961 The Deputy / Henry Fonda, Allen Case<br />1959 1960 Wichita Town / Joel McCrea, Jody McCrea<br />1960 1962 Outlaws / Don Collier, Barton MacLane<br />1960 1960 Overland Trail / William Bendix, Doug McClure, Harry Guardino<br />1960 1961 Stagecoach West / Robert Bray, Wayne Rogers<br />1960 1962 Tall Man / Barry Sullivan, Clu Gulager<br />1960 1960 Two Faces West / Charles Bateman<br />1960 1960 Westerner (The) / Brian Keith<br />1960 1960 Whiplash / Peter Graves, Bobby Diamond<br />1960 1960 Wrangler / Jason Evers, Eli Boraks<br />1961 1962 Frontier Circus / Chill Wills, Richard Jaeckel, John Derek<br />1961 1961 Gunslinger / Tony Young, Preston Foster<br />1961 1961 Whispering Smith / Audie Murphy<br />1962 1964 Empire / Richard Egan, Charles Bronson, Ryan O'Neal<br />1962 1963 Stoney Burke / Jack Lord<br />1962 1971 Virginian (The) / James Drury, Doug McClure, Lee J. Cobb, Clu Gulager<br />1962 1963 Wide Country (The) / Earl Holliman, Andrew Prine<br />1963 1963 Dakotas (The) / Larry Ward, Jack Elam, Chad Everett<br />1963 1963 Redigo / Richard Egan, Don Diamond<br />1963 1964 Temple Houston / Jeffery Hunter, Jack Elam<br />1963 1964 Travels of Jaimie McPheeters / Kurt Russell, Dan O'Herlihy, Charles Bronson<br />1964 1970 Daniel Boone / Fess Parker, Ed Ames<br />1964 1964 Destry / John Gavin<br />1965 1969 Big Valley / Barbara Stanwyck, Richard Long, Lee Majors, Linda Evans<br />1965 1966 Branded / Chuck Connors<br />1965 1967 F Troop / Forrest Tucker, Ken Berry, Larry Storch<br />1965 1967 Laredo / Neville Brand, Peter Brown, William Smith<br />1965 1966 Legend of Jesse James / Allen Case, Christopher Jones<br />1965 1966 Loner (The) / Lloyd Bridges<br />1965 1966 Man Called Shenandoah (A) / Robert Horton<br />1965 1969 Wild Wild West / Robert Conrad, Ross Martin<br />1966 1968 Iron Horse / Dale Robertson<br />1966 1967 Monroes / Barbara Hershey, Michael Anderson, Ben Johnson<br />1966 1967 Pistols and Petticoats / Ann Sheridan, Gary Vinson<br />1966 1967 Road West / Rex Holman, Barbara Anderson<br />1966 1967 Rounders (The) / Ron Hayes, Patrick Wayne, Chill Wills<br />1966 1966 Shane / David Carridine, Jill Ireland, Tom Tully<br />1967 1968 Cimarron Strip / Stuart Whitman, Randy Boone<br />1967 1967 Custer / Wayne Maunder<br />1967 1967 Dundee and the Culhane / John Mills, Sean Garrison<br />1967 1969 Guns of Will Sonnett / Walter Brennan, Dack Rambo<br />1967 1971 High Chaparral / Lief Erickson, Cameron Mitchell, Henry Darrow, Linda Cristal<br />1967 1967 Hondo / Ralph Taeger, Noah Beery Jr<br />1967 1967 Rango / Tim Conway<br />1968 1970 Here Come the Brides / Robert Brown, Bobby Sherman, David Soul<br />1968 1970 Lancer / James Stacy, Wayne Maunder, Andrwe Duggan<br />1968 1969 Outcasts / Don Murray, Otis Young<br />1971 1973 Alias Smith and Jones / Ben Murphy, Peter Duel<br />1971 1972 Cade's County / Glenn Ford, Edgar Buchanan<br />1971 1972 Nichols / James Garner<br />1972 1974 Hec Ramsey / Richard Boone<br />1972 1975 Kung Fu / David Carridine, Keye Luke<br />1973 1973 Dusty's Trail / Bob Denver, Forrest Tucker<br />1974 1974 Dirty Sally / Jeanette Nolan<br />1974 1983 Little House on the Prairie / Michael Landon, Karen Grassle, Melissa Gilbert, Melissa Anderson<br />1975 1976 Barbary Coast / William Shatner, Doug McClure<br />1976 1976 Quest (The) / Kurt Russell, Tim Matheson, Brian Keith<br />1976 1976 Sara / Brenda Vaccaro, Jerry Hardin<br />1977 1978 Life and Times of Grizzly Adams / Dan Haggerty, Denver Pyle<br />1977 1977 Oregon Trail / Rod Taylor<br />1978 1978 Young Pioneers (The) / Linda Purl, David Beaton<br />1979 1980 Young Maverick / Charles Frank<br />1980 1980 Chisolms (The) / Robert Preston<br />1981 1981 Best of the West / Joel Higgins<br />1981 1983 Father Murphy / Merlin Olsen<br />1983 1983 Zorro and Son / Henry Darrow, Paul Regina<br />1985 1985 Wildside / William Smith, J.Eddie Peck, Meg Ryan<br />1989 1991 Bordertown / Richard Comar<br />1989 1992 Young Riders (The) / Stephen Baldwin, Josh Brolin, Anthony Zerbe<br />1993 1994 Adventures of Brisco County Jr / Bruce Campbell<br />1993 1998 Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman / Jane Seymour<br />1993 1994 Harts of the West / Beau Bridges<br />1995 1995 Legend / Richard Dean Anderson<br />1996 1996 The Lazarus Man / Robert Urich<br />1998 2000 Magnificent Seven (The) / Michael Biehn, Eric Close, Ron Perlman<br />2001 2002 Ponderosa / Drew Powell, Matt Carmody, Daniel H.Kelly, Jared Daperis<br />2004 2006 Deadwood / Ian McShane<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-6708331480620942672?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-3232365969844067472010-02-05T09:41:00.001-08:002010-03-04T07:31:14.673-08:00Boomer Era Western TV Shows <br />(Alphabetical Order) <br /> <br />Name of Show /Selected Stars<br /> <br />Action in the Afternoon / Jack Valentine<br />Adventures of Brisco County Jr / Bruce Campbell<br />Adventures of Champion / Gene Autry's Champion<br />Alaskans (The) / Roger Moore, Dorothy Provine<br />Alias Smith and Jones / Ben Murphy, Peter Duel<br />Annie Oakley / Gail Davis<br />Barbary Coast / William Shatner, Doug McClure<br />Bat Masterson / Gene Barry<br />Best of the West / Joel Higgins<br />Big Valley / Barbara Stanwyck, Richard Long, Lee Majors, Linda Evans<br />Black Saddle / Peter Breck<br />Bonanza / Loren Greene, Michael Landon, Dan Blocker, Pernell Roberts, Victor Sen Yung<br />Boots and Saddles / John Pickard, Gardner McKay<br />Bordertown / Richard Comar<br />Branded / Chuck Connors<br />Brave Eagle / Keith Larsen<br />Broken Arrow / John Lupton, Michael Ansara<br />Bronco / Ty Hardin<br />Buckskin / Tom Nolan, Sally Brophy<br />Buffalo Bill, Jr / Dickie Jones, Nancy Gilbert<br />Cade's County / Glenn Ford, Edgar Buchanan<br />Californians (The) / Richard Coogan<br />Casey Jones / Alan Hale Jr, Bobby Clark<br />Cheyenne / Clint Walker<br />Chisolms (The) / Robert Preston<br />Cimarron City / George Montgomery, Audrey Totter<br />Cimarron Strip / Stuart Whitman, Randy Boone<br />Circus Boy / Micky Dolenz, Noah Beery Jr<br />Cisco Kid / Duncan Renaldo, Leo Carrillo<br />Colt .45 / Wayde Preston<br />Cowboy G-Men / Russell Hayden, Jackie Coogan<br />Custer / Wayne Maunder<br />Cyclone Malone / Ross Jones<br />Dakotas (The) / Larry Ward, Jack Elam, Chad Everett<br />Daniel Boone / Fess Parker, Ed Ames<br />Davy Crockett / Fess Parker, Buddy Ebsen<br />Deadwood / Ian McShane<br />Death Valley Days / Stanley Andrews, Robert Taylor<br />Destry / John Gavin<br />Dirty Sally / Jeanette Nolan<br />Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman / Jane Seymour<br />Dundee and the Culhane / John Mills, Sean Garrison<br />Dusty's Trail / Bob Denver, Forrest Tucker<br />Empire / Richard Egan, Charles Bronson, Ryan O'Neal<br />F Troop / Forrest Tucker, Ken Berry, Larry Storch<br />Father Murphy / Merlin Olsen<br />Flicka (My Friend) / Johnny Washbrook<br />Frontier / Walter Coy<br />Frontier Circus / Chill Wills, Richard Jaeckel, John Derek<br />Frontier Doctor / Rex Allen<br />Frontier Justice / Lew Ayres, Melvyn Douglas, Ralph Bellamy<br />Fury / Peter Graves, Bobby Diamond<br />Gene Autry / Gene Autry, Champion<br />Guns of Will Sonnett / Walter Brennan, Dack Rambo<br />Gunslinger / Tony Young, Preston Foster<br />Gunsmoke / James Arness, Milburn Stone, Amanda Blake, Dennis Weaver, Ken Curtis<br />Harts of the West / Beau Bridges<br />Have Gun, Will Travel / Richard Boone, Kam Tong<br />Hawkeye & the Last of the Mohicans / John Hart, Lon Chaney Jr<br />Hec Ramsey / Richard Boone<br />Here Come the Brides / Robert Brown, Bobby Sherman, David Soul<br />High Chaparral / Lief Erickson, Cameron Mitchell, Henry Darrow, Linda Cristal<br />Hondo / Ralph Taeger, Noah Beery Jr<br />Hopalong Cassidy / William Boyd, Topper, Edgar Buchanan, Andy Clyde<br />Hotel de Paree / Earl Holliman, Jeanette Nolan, Strother Martin<br />Howdy Doody / Buffalo Bob Smith<br />Iron Horse / Dale Robertson<br />Jefferson Drum / Jeff Richards<br />Jim Bowie / Scott Forbes<br />Johnny Ringo / Don Durant, Mark Goddard<br />Judge Roy Bean / Edgar Buchanan, X Brands<br />Kit Carson / Bill Williams, Don Diamond<br />Kung Fu / David Carridine, Keye Luke<br />Lancer / James Stacy, Wayne Maunder, Andrwe Duggan<br />Laramie / Robert Fuller, John Smith, Spring Byington<br />Laredo / Neville Brand, Peter Brown, William Smith<br />Law of the Plainsman / Michael Ansara<br />Lawman / John Russell, Peter Brown<br />Legend / Richard Dean Anderson<br />Legend of Jesse James / Allen Case, Christopher Jones<br />Life and Times of Grizzly Adams / Dan Haggerty, Denver Pyle<br />Little House on the Prairie / Michael Landon, Karen Grassle, Melissa Gilbert, Melissa Anderson<br />Lone Ranger / Clayton Moore, Jay Silverheels, John Hart<br />Loner (The) / Lloyd Bridges<br />Mackenzie's Raiders / Richard Carlson, Art Gilmore<br />Magnificent Seven (The) / Michael Biehn, Eric Close, Ron Perlman<br />Man Called Shenandoah (A) / Robert Horton<br />Man from Blackhawk (The) / Sam Logan<br />Man without a Gun / Rex Reason<br />Marshall of Gunsight Pass / Eddie Dean<br />Maverick / Jack Kelly, James Garner, Roger Moore<br />Monroes / Barbara Hershey, Michael Anderson, Ben Johnson<br />Nichols / James Garner<br />Northwest Passage / Keith Larsen, Buddy Ebsen, Don Burnett<br />Oregon Trail / Rod Taylor<br />Outcasts / Don Murray, Otis Young<br />Outlaws / Don Collier, Barton MacLane<br />Overland Trail / William Bendix, Doug McClure, Harry Guardino<br />Pistols and Petticoats / Ann Sheridan, Gary Vinson<br />Ponderosa / Drew Powell, Matt Carmody, Daniel H.Kelly, Jared Daperis<br />Pony Express / Grant Sullivan, Don Dorrell<br />Quest (The) / Kurt Russell, Tim Matheson, Brian Keith<br />Range Rider / Jock Mahoney, Dickie Jones<br />Rango / Tim Conway<br />Rawhide / Clint Eastwood, Eric Fleming, Paul Brinegar<br />Rebel (The) / Nick Adams<br />Red Ryder / Allan Lane, Louis Lettieri<br />Redigo / Richard Egan, Don Diamond<br />Restless Gun / John Payne<br />Rifleman (The) / Chuck Connors, Johnny Crawford, Paul Fix<br />Rin Tin Tin (Adventures of) / Rin Tin Tin, Lee Aaker, James Brown, Joe Sawyer<br />Riverboat / Darren McGavin, Dick Wessel, Burt Reynolds<br />Road West / Rex Holman, Barbara Anderson<br />Rough Riders / Kent Taylor, Jan Merlin, Peter Whitney<br />Rounders (The) / Ron Hayes, Patrick Wayne, Chill Wills<br />Roy Rogers / Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, Pat Brady, Trigger, Bullet<br />Sara / Brenda Vaccaro, Jerry Hardin<br />Sergeant Preston of the Yukon / Dick Simmons, Yukon King<br />Shane / David Carridine, Jill Ireland, Tom Tully<br />Sheriff of Cochise / John Bromfield<br />Shotgun Slade / Scott Brady<br />Sky King / Kirby Grant, Gloria Winters<br />Spin and Marty / Tim Considine, David Stollery<br />Stagecoach West / Robert Bray, Wayne Rogers<br />Steve Donovan, Western Marshall / Douglas Kennedy, Eddy Waller<br />Stoney Burke / Jack Lord<br />Sugarfoot / Will Hutchins<br />Tales of the Texas Rangers / Willard Parker, Harry Lauter<br />Tales of Wells Fargo / Dale Robertson<br />Tall Man / Barry Sullivan, Clu Gulager<br />Temple Houston / Jeffery Hunter, Jack Elam<br />The Deputy / Henry Fonda, Allen Case<br />The Lazarus Man / Robert Urich<br />Tombstone Territory / Pat Conway, Richard Eastham<br />Trackdown / Robert Culp<br />Travels of Jaimie McPheeters / Kurt Russell, Dan O'Herlihy, Charles Bronson<br />Twenty-Six Men / Tristam Coffin, Kelo Henderson<br />Two Faces West / Charles Bateman<br />Union Pacific / Jeff Morrow, Judson Pratt<br />Virginian (The) / James Drury, Doug McClure, Lee J. Cobb, Clu Gulager<br />Wagon Train / Ward Bond, John McIntire, Robert Horton, Frank McGrath<br />Wanted - Dead or Alive / Steve McQueen<br />Westerner (The) / Brian Keith<br />Whiplash / Peter Graves, Bobby Diamond<br />Whispering Smith / Audie Murphy<br />Wichita Town / Joel McCrea, Jody McCrea<br />Wide Country (The) / Earl Holliman, Andrew Prine<br />Wild Bill Hickock / Guy Madison, Andy Devine<br />Wild Wild West / Robert Conrad, Ross Martin<br />Wildside / William Smith, J.Eddie Peck, Meg Ryan<br />Wrangler / Jason Evers, Eli Boraks<br />Wyatt Earp / Hugh O'Brian<br />Yancy Derringer / Jock Mahoney, X Brands<br />Young Maverick / Charles Frank<br />Young Pioneers (The) / Linda Purl, David Beaton<br />Young Riders (The) / Stephen Baldwin, Josh Brolin, Anthony Zerbe<br />Zane Grey Theater / Dick Powell<br />Zorro / Guy Williams, Henry Calvin<br />Zorro and Son / Henry Darrow, Paul Regina<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-323236596984406747?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-28603597778791236492009-11-27T10:16:00.000-08:002009-11-27T10:20:01.934-08:00Here at Clear Creek Ranch we are realists. While we grow our own vegetables and bake our own bread, there are some things we know from experience we are just not destined to do. Like bake an edible pumpkin pie. This small flaw can be overlooked 51 weeks of the year, but come late November, I start scouting the town bakeries and other spots where pastry sightings have been reported. <br /> I really should go shopping more often . . . or maybe less.<br /> I successfully dodged the dozen towering teenaged skateboarders who apparently are required to live as vagrants on the sidewalks near all supermarkets, where they practice 360s until they lose consciousness and their skateboards careen wildly into the unsuspecting anklebones of innocent bystanders.<br /> I quadruple-bypassed, without surgery or insurance, the gauntlet of obscenely overweight sample-servers, each clad incongruously in running shoes and jogging outfits, and who offered me skewered tidbits of dietetic cheese-food, meat-food, fruit-food, and cola-food. <br /> I chided myself for thinking of all the laws I'd like to pass to make my visits to town more enjoyable and aesthetically pleasing. Laws that don't exist, but maybe should? Can etiquette or good taste be legislated? <br /> For example: Should all men, regardless of stomach size, be required to wear their belt horizontal to the ground and finally admit they don't still have the 30-inch waist they once had in high school? Should skin-tight jeans be banned on most women over age 18 who weigh more than 120 pounds? Should all restaurant diners have their 49er baseball caps lopped from their heads by roving bands of machete-wielding hat police? <br /> Ah, perhaps I expect too much of people. <br /> I found my pumpkin pie neatly sealed in plastic and held in a disposable tinfoil pan (just like the Pilgrims!) and headed for the checkout counter. Against my better judgment I chose the shortest line. <br /> The only customer ahead of me was a grizzled cowboy with a belt buckle the size of a hubcap. His shopping cart was filled with beef jerky strips and cigarettes. The clerk was a trainee and having trouble with the bar code scanner. While I waited patiently, the cowboy repeatedly whistled an absentminded, tunelessly annoying few bars of whatever notes he remembered of Johnny Cash's old hit "Folsom Prison Blues." <br /> Meanwhile behind me at knee-level, I heard what sounded like silverware being dropped down the garbage disposal. I looked down to see a small sniffling urchin loudly inhaling his own mucus while his mother changed his baby sister's diaper in the shopping cart. She scolded the boy in high-decibel babytalk and handed the soiled diaper to the novice clerk, who ran it over the scanner. Then, using the same hand, she fished a tissue from somewhere and held it to the young boy's nose. He obligingly repeated his incredible noise while disgorging several gallons of vile slime into her hand. She handed that to the clerk too. I made a mental note when my turn came to run the pie over the scanner myself.<br /> The whistling cowboy wanted to pay for his purchase using a combination of out-of-state checks, postage stamps, pesos, and what he claimed was the dried ear of a bull. While the clerk got the manager's approval on this bit of international finance, the cowboy continued his tune, consistently missing the same notes, over and over. My pupils dilated and my pulse began to race.<br /> "I shot a man in Safeway just to watch him die," I sang in perfect time to the cowboy's music. "When all I really wanted was to buy a pumpkin pie."<br /> While others stared, the little coughing mucus machine was unimpressed. "I gotta go potty now," he announced to everyone.<br /> I realized I did too. But I was able to hold it (and my pie) until I got back to Clear Creek Ranch. And for that I'm very thankful.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-2860359777879123649?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-25668972720300718962009-07-02T15:53:00.000-07:002009-07-02T15:59:37.663-07:00Sales fizzled again last year here at the Clear Creek Ranch fireworks stand. The new pre-purchase screening protocol I imposed may be to blame. Between the written and oral tests, plus the background and liability insurance checks, the compulsory safety video, and the implantation of GPS satellite tracking devices, it is a good two days before a patriotic pyromaniac can even get close to an M-80 around here. <br /> Still, it seems a small price to pay to be able to blow something up to celebrate our declaration of independence from England, AND support a worthy cause (me) at the same time.<br /> Perhaps the test was too hard. Some examples: How many future U.S. presidents signed the declaration? Name the signers whose faces currently appear on our paper currency. Who REALLY wrote the declaration, Thomas Jefferson or Thomas Paine? How many years did the revolutionary war last? What Indians can we thank for distracting the British and keeping the war from lasting even longer?<br /> And the essay question: Just how independent are we? The majority in both the U.S.A. and England speak English, (although I DO require subtitles and a glossary when viewing British films or American hip-hop videos). Both countries have red, white and blue flags and both enjoy ongoing political intrigues around the world.<br /> The Brits once burned Washington D.C. to the ground, yet we bailed them out of TWO world wars, AND took over several of their botched diplomatic operations in the Middle East, including the deadly and unsolvable Gordian knot that is Arab/Israeli politics.<br /> They gave us Russell Brand and Eddie Izzard. We MUST do something about that exchange rate.<br /> Their dysfunctional royal family is OUR dysfunctional royal family. A royal ex-wife does American television info-mercials for weight loss schemes. The media keeps us better informed on the comings and goings of the royal grandkids than we are of our own.<br /> Independent or not, July 4th is a day for making loud noises and exploding things. Too bad the founding fathers didn't take into account how tinder box dry things are this time of year. If only they signed their petition during the rainy season! But then they were NOT "safe and sane," they were revolutionaries.<br /> As parched as things are right now, one stray bottle rocket and there goes the neighborhood, up in smoke. The same is true in the towns near Clear Creek Ranch. Chock full of picturesque 125 year old Victorians, aka expensive stacks of kindling. Yet each year, fundraisers in town flog explosives in the name of charity AND patriotism. It is hard to argue against, and hard to understand at the same time.<br /> Which is why, here at the ranch fireworks stand, we only sell to folks with working VCRs. Our fireworks displays are on VHS or DVD only. No need to huddle outside in the dark, nursing that holiday sunburn and being eaten alive by mosquitoes, on the off chance of seeing the neighborhood in flames. <br /> Just slip into something red, white and blue and douse the house lights. We've compiled a two hour assortment of the best fireworks displays ever taped "off the air." Replay that quintuple starburst with the cherry bomb punctuation as many times as you want and fast-forward through the commercials.<br /> And if you really want to be patriotic, splurge on the largest big-screen, flat screen, high definition TV you can find. Because if there are two things that make America great, they are blowing up things and throwing money around. And when you can combine the two, well, that is revolutionary. Or is it revolting?<br /> Perhaps this 4th is the day to find out.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-2566897272030071896?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-65448286010841676042009-07-02T15:46:00.000-07:002009-07-02T15:53:15.036-07:00"That light is burned out in the cellar again," my wife announced brightly.<br /> "And which cellar would that be?" I asked. "Our root cellar -- home to grotesque semi-comatose vegetable species not normally found in nature? Or our wine cellar -- final resting place to several vintages of home-bottled Chateau de Clear Creek wine in various shades of murky brown or gray (the contents, not the glass)?The glass is dark green to obscure the floating chunks. Or our brick-lined combination mildew farm/frog grotto -- the one with the seasonally-submerged chandelier?"<br /> "You aren't going to start singing 'Sump-where Under The Rainbow' again, are you? That always scares the cats."<br /> By the way, we have only one cellar, but it has served all the above-mentioned purposes over the years. I hand-dug it during my "Voluntary Simplicity" phase. (Voluntary Stupidity, perhaps?) Its sole function is as a reliable gauge for the level of the local water table. Just check the high water marks, when the light isn't burned out or submerged.<br /> "Let's convert the cellar to a darkroom," I said.<br /> "What's to convert?" my wife said dimly. "With the bulb burned out, it's as dark as it gets in there."<br /> "I mean a photography darkroom. I can develop prints documenting the quaint aspects our rustic lifestyle."<br /> "Tell me, Prints Charming, how much will this cost?"<br /> I gave her a dollars-and-cents answer, but forgot to include the sense, ie the emotional wear-and-tear factor. She agreed, but thought it was an elaborate way to avoid changing a light bulb. <br /> I had a new focus in life and couldn't wait to see what developed. There were things to buy and plans to make. I pictured a pleasant pastime zooming into a new career. Perhaps I could produce a slick coffee table book of poignant black-and-white photographs.<br /> My wife reminded me of my tendency to flit from one project to next, rarely completing any of them. <br /> "You could write an autobiography," she said. "Call it 'The Great Gadfly."<br /> "I prefer the lens-name F-stop FitzDrummond." Literary critics are everywhere.<br /> I did not buy a point-and-shoot, automatic-everything camera. They are fine for tourist snapshots, but not for the epic volume I had in mind. And there is something macho about owning a telephoto lens so big it needs straps and a tripod to support it. <br /> I took a crash course in photography: shutter speeds, diaphragms, lenses, aperture settings, emulsions, chemistry, physics, light meters, enlargers, tripod etiquette, and more. And acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of cheese names, as in "say cheese," "edam and weep," etc., depending on the mood required. <br /> Soon I was a vision in my photographer's vest, festooned with film cans, spare lenses, camera straps, pouches, filters, and more straps. <br /> But no one told me about the Rule of Thumb. Mine is always there in the foreground of every print, out of focus, somewhere between the lens and the subject. Giving new meaning to the term camera obscura. <br /> As my wife had predicted, F-stop FitzDrummond's darkroom soon reverted to its more primitive nature -- home to stalagmite and stalactite wannabees. (No, I do not know which is which).<br /> And at the risk of being charged with Polonius assault, I've finally learned a lesson from Shakespeare's Hamlet, "Neither a burrower nor a lenser be."<br /> Or for you Latin lovers, "Caveat Snaptor."<br /><br />(Note: this was composed in my pre-digital daze.)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-6544828601084167604?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-64669277206671943092009-06-16T06:52:00.001-07:002009-06-16T06:52:51.646-07:00This is the first year I will appear on stage at the Clear Creek Ranch Blues Festival as a performer. My internet harmonica lessons are going well, although musician friends warn me there is a difference between "virtual" and "reality" when it comes to live audiences.<br /> I am sure my new "blues guy" wardrobe will more than offset my musical shortcomings. I've studied the sartorial content on old blues album covers and I have the "look" down. Somewhere between Lightnin' Hopkins, the Blues Brothers, and the Harmoni-Cats. <br /> The harmonica is part of my genetic heritage. The diatonic harmonica (aka the harp) was developed to accompany Bavarian folk tunes, and while my ancestors aren't 100% German, genetically I am only a few steins short of an Oktoberfest pitcher when it comes to qualifying.<br /> I have a custom-built twelve pocket vest to hold a complete set of harps in every key. The vest doesn't really go with the lederhosen, but my little tyrolean hat, when worn with wrap-around shades, comes close to duplicating the "blues guy" look in those grainy old photos from the Mississippi delta or Chicago or where ever.<br /> I am working on my stage name. Blues musicians have nicknames that describe a physical attribute, like Slim, Fats, Shakey, or Big Mama. When my wife caught my act, just as I caught my moustache in the harmonica and almost tore my own lip off, she suggested Howlin' Tone-Deaf White Boy. I like it. <br /> This wasn't my first altercation with a harmonica. In high school, during folksinging's 1960's heyday, I got one hooked on my braces for a week. Didn't need one of those goofy bent-coathanger things around my neck to simultaneously strum my guitar, toot my harmonica and bleat an excellent imitation of Bob Dylan. Peanut butter sandwiches, however, were a big problem.<br /> Anyway, the internet music lessons are going great -- although my teacher can't actually hear my efforts. But I've learned all about tremolo, bending notes, and more than necessary about scales. Yesterday I discovered that vibrato is not just a marital aid, it has its place right there on stage as well.<br /> My harmonicas work no matter which direction the hot air is flowing -- out or in. Here is some harp terminology for you. "Out" is called blowing, but "in," I learned, is not called sucking. The proper gerund is "drawing."<br /> I once relegated the harmonica to the musical backwater next to the kazoos, but I now think it has more in common, tonally, with gargling next to a microphone, and/or amplifier feedback. <br /> My harmonicas are certainly more portable than the average tuba or piano. Many is the time I've sidled up to a street corner jam session, whipped out one (or more) of my ten-holed Hohners, and literally stopped the show. One stunned musician asked to see my concealed musical instrument permit. He looked awfully serious. <br /> On another occasion, a street musician asked if I could define "perfect pitch". "No," I shrugged. By way of an answer, my interrogator grabbed the harmonica from my hand, and in a single fluid motion lobbed it across four lanes of traffic where it landed dead center in a trash can.<br /> Instead of becoming angry and saying something like, "Hey man, that draws!", I stayed positive. He did have impressive technique. I emptied nine of my vest pockets before I hit a ringer myself. My dark glasses may have been a handicap. <br /> Which way is Chicago, anyway? Tell 'em "Tone-Deaf" is coming to their town. Or better yet, don't. Let me surprise them.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-6466927720667194309?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-86989134603541466642009-06-16T06:47:00.000-07:002009-06-16T06:50:36.548-07:00Nature can be very wasteful. Take blackberries for example. We've got about an acre of them growing in a thick tangle downhill from our spring here at Clear Creek Ranch. In season they produce thousands, perhaps millions of juicy, sweet, blue-black berry clusters. <br /> When we first purchased our property we didn't know what to do with such a bonanza, but the local wildlife did. The deer browsed as high as they could reach on the outer edges of the patch. When those canes were bare, they moved on to easier pickings -- in our erstwhile rose garden. <br /> The sweetest berries, of course, were in the impenetrable interior of the patch, where each cluster was protected by a phalanx of bloodthirsty thorns. Having torn myself to shreds in a futile quest after these succulent beauties, I forfeited all future rights to the airborne division: the neighborhood birds. <br /> The ease with which they feasted upon their bounty irked me. Some perched on the very thorns that still bore traces of my shirt threads and dried blood. And the feathered freeloaders were so reckless and wasteful. A single peck at each berry cluster and then on to the next. Most of the fruit rotted where it hung. Things had to change.<br /> That autumn I rented a brush clearing machine and mowed a a maze-like series of intersecting rows through the patch so I'd have access to the next summer's crop. To thwart the deer, who would have treated these new rows like additional aisles at the open air grocery store, I mowed a single entrance to the maze and secured it with an eight foot high wire gate.<br /> This system worked great, as long as I remembered to close the gate. Soon we were feasting on bucketsful of the luscious berries. But even a steady diet of caviar and champagne gets old, I am told. (I've never had a first hand opportunity to research this, but I will consider any offers in this direction.) <br /> Our berry-lust was sated long before the bushes quit producing, so we hunted for new outlets for our harvest. Unfortunately, the few neighbors who would admit to eating anything that didn't start out with hooves, fur, and/or feathers were already inundated with their own berry crops.<br /> "How about a roadside stand," my wife suggested.<br /> I told her of my bitter disappointment as a youthful lemonade entrepreneur on a lightly-traveled cul-de-sac somewhere deep within a bland tract development in outer-suburbia. My only sale had been to the neighborhood mailman. And even those sales figures were artifically inflated. (Mom, if you're reading, I've never mentioned this, but I saw you hand him that dime when he dropped off our mail just before he stopped at my stand).<br /> Still, we had bushels of berries rotting on our screen porch and one of our neighbors had an abandoned vegetable stand out by the county road. It was a ramshackle affair, with sagging roof and peeling paint and had belonged to someone named Chuck, because "Chuck's" was scrawled in large free-hand letters on both sides. According to my neighbor, weekend traffic on the road was brisk, and chockful of rich foreigners from the city.<br /> That weekend I carted my berries to the stand, hand painted my own addendum to Chuck's magnificent work: "berry's." I know that's the wrong spelling. But a dyslexic haze shrouded my brain as soon as I picked up the paintbrush. In addition to the Y' where the IE should have been, the first R was flipped backwards so its little leg pointed to the left. I adjusted my overalls, settled down with my crossword puzzle and nibbled on berries while I waited for my public to discover me. <br /> Several hours later, when most of the berries were gone, they did. By then my hands, lips, and shirtfront were stained blue with berry juice. A carload of little kids stared at me like I was the tattooed carnival man. Their mother asked if I had restroom facilities for her squirming urchins. I pointed a blue finger toward the the bushes behind the shed, and even offered my crossword puzzle if she was in need of paper products. <br /> "Give me a map back to civilization, you blue-faced yahoo!" she screeched. I extracted a waterlogged map from my truck glove box and she flipped me a $10 bill, not waiting for change. <br /> Slight variations on this scenario repeated themselves throughout the day. A little "idea light" twinkled in my brain.<br /> The roadside stand is now fruitless, but fruitful, despite an irate visit from the local chapter of the Apostrophe Abuse Council. Chuck's Berry's now houses a road map vending machine and two pay toilets. Business is brisk, and I don't even have to be there. <br /> The outhouse, of course, is known as the Johnny B Goode.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-8698913460354146664?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-7544975400843475192009-06-16T06:46:00.000-07:002009-06-16T06:47:09.144-07:00Our strawberry patch doubles in size every year. What was once a manageable 10' x 10' square, is now threatening to overrun the east end of our garden. This is fine with me -- there is nothing like a bowlful of freshly-picked, juicy strawberries to start off the day. <br /> The only problem is that "the yield" is way down. Healthy plants cover five times as much ground as when we started, but only produce twice as many berries. The latent cost-accountant inside me was worried. My know-it-all neighbor agreed.<br /> "Looks like you'll have to pollinate them flowers yourself," he said with a suggestive leer. He paused long enough for my active imagination to envision a pre-dawn raid by the SWAT team from the unnatural-acts-to-the-plants division of the Department of Agriculture.<br /> "Or," he continued, "you could get yourself some bees."<br /> I knew that most beekeepers move their hives around to take advantage of a variety of blossoms and I knew my neighbor had some hives on his place. But I also knew my neighbor's ironclad reluctance to lend anything to a fellow neighbor, especially one in need. Clearly a case of the hives and the hive-nots. <br /> At the time I wasn't in a position to make a major investment in hives, smokers, and other equipment. Luckily, the local phone book listed a Apiarian Society and I gave them a call.<br /> "How many do you need?" the friendly voice asked.<br /> "I don't know."<br /> "Fair enough. The Society is having a demonstration this afternoon. Buzz on by and we'll talk about it."<br /> How many bees would it take to pollinate a 10' x 50' berry patch? I'd seen bees in the garden before and they only spent a few seconds at any one flower. Each plant was about a foot apart, so I had 500 plants. If each plant had ten flowers, that was 5,000 flowers that needed pollinating.<br /> When I allowed for travel time between flowers, nectar breaks, lunch hours and hallway gossip, I came up with an estimated 5,000 bee-minutes worth of work. My strawberry patch offered one bee about two weeks of steady employment, or if they preferred to work in teams (I didn't know) a two-bee team might finish in a week.<br /> "There has got to be a Shakespeare pun in here somewhere," I droned as I dressed for the meeting, "Two bees or not two bees . . ."<br /> I'd seen pictures of beekeepers before: pith helmet, veil, white coveralls, and gloves. I didn't have these things, and the lack reminded me of Thoreau's words, "Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes." <br /> I wasn't setting myself up in the bee business, I just wanted to employ a few of them part-time. I threw together my own outfit from things in the closet -- trying to make a fashion statement. White was too bland. Black was better, more mysterious. The bees would keep their distance, I thought. I donned my black sweatsuit, tightened the hood drawstrings around my chin, strapped on my safety goggles, grabbed a match box to hold my bees, and headed for the door.<br /> "Bruce Lee film retrospective in town?" my wife laughed.<br /> Five seconds after I arrived at the Apiarian Society I sensed that few successful ninjas keep bees. It was a stinging sensation. Agitated bees hurled themselves at my goggles until their numbers blinded me. I fell to the floor under the weight of thousands of bees as they attacked my flailing arms. It seemed like forever before I was rescued in a billowing cloud of smoke that calmed my assailants.<br /> When I came to and the swelling went down enough for me to hear someone else over the sound of my own screams, I was told that bees tend to sting dark objects. Reminds them of bears and other honey-stealers in the wild.<br /> Which is why pollinating time at the Clear Creek Ranch strawberry patch will be calculated in knee-minutes and not bee-minutes. I bought an artist's brush and I'm working my way up and down the rows hunkered over on my knees, pollinating one tingling flower at a time.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-754497540084347519?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-87250886084360265712009-06-16T06:43:00.000-07:002009-06-16T06:45:30.838-07:00One evening my wife mentioned that the bats weren't flying around our yard eating insects like they once did; and wouldn't it be nice if I built a bat house like the one she had clipped out of a magazine. <br /> When I agreed without argument, she eyed me suspiciously.<br /> Naturally, my first order of business was to fire off a mail order for more power tools. As a veteran home handyman, I knew if I had the right tool for the job, anything was possible. I also found it a lot easier to hand that "right tool" to the repairman when he arrived to un-do my initial handiwork.<br /> A week later, the entire contents of several pages of the Sears tool catalog appeared on my doorstep. Now I was prepared to handle anything that required cutting, drilling, nailing, smoothing, or shaping wood. In theory, anyway, and providing nobody at the power company accidentally unplugged the frayed extension cord that serves our rural neighborhood.<br /> I was adjusting the bright red suspenders that supported my new fifty pound tool belt when a booklet that came with the tools caught my eye: "What Every Novice Handyman Should Know." Well I was no novice, but I picked it up, hoping there was a chapter entitled "Overcoming Spousal Power Tool Resistance." There wasn't. The book's author kept harping on things like planning, safety precautions, and reading directions. Well, I didn't want to waste time on stuff like that! <br /> I drove my sports car to the lumberyard to get some wood for my project. A burly lumberjack-type employee was lounging near a pile of sawdust when I arrived. He smiled at me and I noticed that he had about as many teeth left as he had fingers. Seven or eight of each, I think. I didn't want to stare, even though he was taking a good long look at my new suspenders and tool belt. <br /> "I need some wood," I said forcefully.<br /> "Can you be a little more specific, Chief?" <br /> "Not really. Just wood. I need some regular wood."<br /> "That's different from the unleaded kind, right?"<br /> "Look, I'm building a bat house . . ."<br /> "Quite a project, a bath house. Sure you don't mean a bath room?"<br /> "No, no, a bat house for flying bats. You know . . ." And I began flapping my arms and baring my teeth, presumably looking like a 150 pound bat wearing a plaid shirt and fifty pound tool belt. <br /> "You know sir," he said as he backed away, "I just spotted a whole stack of regular wood over there." <br /> I must have made a bat impression on him. <br /> The construction itself went smoothly, if I ignore the times when some stray parts were accidentally glued or nailed to the workbench. <br /> A bat house is kind of like a bird house, except there is no door and no floor. The floor is the door. The bats fly in the open bottom and fall asleep while they hang upside down by their rear claws. <br /> I painted the bat abode to match our house and proudly mounted the thing up above our front door and under the eaves. It was a neighborhood conversation piece. Soon everyone was pointing at it and whispering to each other. <br /> The thing I liked about the project was that it was simple. For example, bats don't need indoor plumbing. With the open floor arrangement they use a primitive gravity flow system for eliminating wastes: everything drops straight down. The porch, however, is quite a mess most mornings.<br /> My wife insists that the instructions warned about that.<br /> "Why won't men ever use directions?" she asked.<br /> "But I did use them," I insisted.<br /> And I did, several times . . . to wipe glue off my hands and to mop up paint spills.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-8725088608436026571?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-82315783279462697012009-05-10T16:19:00.000-07:002009-05-10T16:21:08.900-07:00When homegrown terrorists gave militia-types a bad name a few years ago, we almost disbanded the neighborhood militia out here at Clear Creek Ranch. But with all this Osama drama, we may reactivate -- the discussion process anyway. Decisions are never easy or unanimous with our group. We are always tightly wound-up, but never tightly banded together. <br /> How could we be? These are the same guys that make up our road association. You remember that story (or have lived your own version): the pavers versus the non-pavers, and the payers versus the non-payers, and splinter groups demanding speed bumps, curbs, and armed crossing guards. The neighborhood divided itself into separate seething camps of hostility. <br /> Anyway, a few of us who get along and can read have been studying internet sites that predict natural disasters for California during the next few years: earthquakes, tsunamis, mudslides, volcanic activity, pandemic bad hair days, not to mention all this Osama/anthrax/global warming stuff. Any cataclysmic event will send waves of ravenous refugees fleeing to the hills. Our hills, not theirs. <br /> As if we weren't recent urban transplants ourselves. And hardly superior. No discernible superfluous IQ points clutter up our meetings. Take the simple matter of naming our militia unit. The rag-tag dress of our motley crew ranged from a jogging outfit tie-dyed in camouflage earth tones, to a lure-bristling fly-fisherman, to some sort of 21st Century electronic virtual reality-viking warlord. <br /> Given this uniform lack of uniformity, I suggested "Clear Creek Irregulars." Which, I admit, sounds like we are in dire need of oat bran infusions. It certainly sparked a number of tasteless (but very funny) jokes about troop movements. <br /> Everyone present had other, "better" names in mind, and the debate dragged on for hours. Nothing takes just a minute for these minutemen. It was a hopeless twelve-way deadlock tie, each name got one vote. So we moved onto the next order of business: maneuvers. <br /> Most of our maneuvering consists of parallel parking all our SUVs along one side of my neighbor's driveway for a demonstration of his homemade cannon. It lobs bowling balls about 50 yards with reasonable accuracy, accompanied by a great deal of noise. Other than recoiling ten feet with each shot, the cannon is not highly mobile, being a tube mounted on a truck axle with two flat tires. <br /> So unless we can persuade Osama to hide in the crater the bowling balls have formed, we may have to fall back on our armored division -- an ancient backhoe -- or our air force -- a small squadron (squab-dron?) of homing pigeon/bombers. <br /> Our first line of defense calls for chainsawing down trees to disable easy access to our private road. The member living out nearest the country road is the logical choice to head up that project, but he only has a dinky electric chainsaw and his extension cord wouldn't quite reach. We fell to bickering about whether or not to appropriate the funds to buy him a longer cord. He was lobbying for a portable generator too, in case "they" cut our power.<br /> Of course that "they" is PG&E, and right now they have their own band of slow-motion tree trimmers prowling around in those generic-looking "Utility Tree Service" trucks. <br /> Is another conspiracy afoot? Can the black heliocopters be far behind? Our militia will be scouring the Web for clues.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-8231578327946269701?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-16879291912119235432009-05-07T06:53:00.000-07:002009-05-07T06:56:45.060-07:00When we first moved out to the country I bought a chainsaw to take advantage of the "free" firewood growing on our property. <br /> Well actually, I bought a chainsaw, an extra chain, a scabbard to protect the chain on the saw, an electric saw sharpener, heavy gloves, orange hardhat, safety goggles, ear plugs, fuel and a fuel can, two kinds of oil, and this heavy apron/chaps thing to protect my legs. My squire helped me up onto my sawhorse and I was ready to joust with the trees in my quest for the lost cord.<br /> As a novice lumberperson, I only picked on fallen trees. I figured it was pretty hard to get squashed by something that is already laying on the ground. Soon I was surrounded by stack after stack of neatly sawn 16-inch logs.<br /> At the end of the day, when my saw and I were both out of gas, one of my neighbors came over to see what all the noise was about. When he saw my woodpile, he smirked.<br /> "That's no way to stack wood," he laughed, and gave the nearest pile a nudge with his boot. It was a domino effect. Logs toppled, hitting the second pile, which toppled into the third. Logs were rolling everywhere. I suddenly realized that I own very little level land. <br /> "You need criss-cross cribbing on the ends for stability," he said. "Take a look at one of my piles next time you drive by."<br /> As I rounded up my stray logs I thought about kicking his pile over, but quickly reconsidered. Who knew where a rural log-kicking feud might lead these days. So I inspected his arrow-straight rows of precisely stacked oak. When I nudged the pile, it felt like it was nailed together.<br /> Criss-cross cribbing is hard to stack without splitting the logs, they keep rolling away. So I bought a maul, which is like an axe, but it has a heavy wedge-shaped head that makes log splitting easier. A vicious circle swirled in my brain: I wanted dry firewood. I had green, wet logs. Split wood dries faster than whole logs. But green wood is harder to split than bone-dry wood, which if I had, I wouldn't need to split.<br /> My wrists and lower back gave out about the time the blisters on my palms broke, which was right after I split my last cribbing log. Three days later, when I regained some use of my back and hands, I dialed up my neighborhood expert to keep him current on the firewood situation.<br /> "Get yourself a hydraulic splitter, sport," he drawled. "I'd lend you mine, but you know how it is with lending tools to neighbors."<br /> I had ten times more wood left to split and no energetic teenaged son to send out there to do it. So I went shopping for a log splitter. <br /> I found that for the cost of a dozen cords of seasoned oak, delivered, split, and stacked at my door step, I could purchase a light-weight log splitter. It came with a lifetime guarantee, which gave me or the splitter at least a ten year life span just to break even at the rate we burn firewood. <br /> He wanted me to consider a small tractor to haul the splitter to job sites on my property, and a trailer to haul the finished product back to the house. I would need to pay extra for warranties, insurance on everything, and maintenance agreements since I'm not mechanically inclined. Oh, and I'd need a new $50 trailer hitch assembly for my truck to haul all my new toys home, where I knew I'd need a new storage shed to house all this labor-saving stuff. Suddenly firewood preparation was going to cost me more than an Ivy League education. Dazed and babbling, I begged the salesman for moment alone with my checkbook. <br /> Well, following much soul-searching and gnashing of teeth, I finally did it. I wrote him a check . . . for a whopping $50. <br /> Then I swung by the local rental yard, and towed home a rented log splitter on my brand new trailer hitch.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-1687929191211923543?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-54977972364179321332009-05-07T06:47:00.000-07:002009-05-07T06:57:31.429-07:00On his best day Tiger Woods could not break par here at the Rancho Clear Creeko Golf Course and Country Club. This is a moot point since our membership committee won't allow Tiger on the course. We have a strict colored policy. <br /> No matter how coordinated the clothing colors are, anything bearing promotional sports equipment logos is forbidden. Segregated colors, such as all-denim or all-kevlar are okay. And both provide better protection against chaparral than those eye-blinding double knits ever will.<br /> Matched sets of clubs aren't outlawed, but they are impractical. A sparkling set of niblicks, mashies, spoons, cleeks, flanges, spanners, and wedges wouldn't stay that way for long with all the boulders and debris on the fairways here. Mashies soon look exactly like their name sounds. <br /> Instead of the usual 14 regulation clubs, most players opt for a cheap thrift store 7 or 9 iron and a putter. The rest of the space in the golf bag is needed for a compass, flares, insect repellant, snake bite kit, safety glasses, small chain saw. And extra balls -- lots of 'em!<br /> Losing one's balls is a fact of life on this course. The hilly, heavily wooded terrain rarely permits a player to see where his shot lands. And we're talking about the fairways! Balls occasionally disappear from the relatively flat, totally grassless putting surfaces we laughingly call greens. Don't ask us about the rough. Call 911.<br /> The Rancho Clear Creeko course is laid out on an L-shaped parcel of land. In golf terms, it is an extreme dogleg to either the left or right, depending on your disorientation at the moment. More than one contestant has been heard to mutter, as he thrashed about in a field of mountain misery, "Where in the L am I?"<br /> Mercifully, the course is only three holes long. In theory one could play six rounds to get in the traditional 18 holes. But one round usually packs in as many strokes of the non-cardiac kind as any "regulation" course. Par on each hole is 24 strokes, for a total of 72. The terms "birdie," "bogey," and "eagle" are meaningless. On this course, "ace" always refers to the bandage. <br /> Here at Rancho Clear Creeko GC &amp; CC we have unisex teeing areas. One sighs fits all. Half way through the first hole sex will be the farthest thing from your mind, as survival instincts and unwritten will codicils begin to dominate your thoughts.<br /> The first hole is 2,725 yards long, a sharp dogleg to the left beginning about 1,400 yards out. Tee and green are at the same elevation, but along the fairway several altitude swings of ± 200 feet are encountered. <br /> Cutting corners through the dogleg shortens the length of the hole to 1,950 yards, in theory. It's hard to reach the green in one shot with a bent 7 iron. This bold move usually brings into play formidable barbed wire fences, rock outcroppings loaded with rattlesnake dens, ant hills, hornet nests, and a passel of the neighbor's guard dogs.<br /> The second hole is only 75 yards long, but every one of those yards is vertical. Straight up a granite cliff face. The hole itself is an Amerind artifact -- a depression in the granite slab left by Indians who ground acorns into paste centuries ago. By the time I hole-out here, my own body is doing a close approximation of an extinct relic.<br /> The third hole is really a repeat, in reverse, of the first hole. A 2,725 dogleg, to the right this time. Most players who opted for the short cut on hole #1 take the long route this time. Barking and rattling can still be heard in the wooded hollows below. As well as the screams from the next foursome back. Then there is that pesky residual bleeding and all the unexplained swelling.<br /> We don't use scorecards here at Rancho Clear Creeko GC &amp; CC. Each shot is harrowing enough to be permanently burned into the players memory. As they recuperate on the third and final green one of our local New Age seance guides conducts the tattered linksters on a sort of "Past Hour's Regression" in search of their "inner hacker," while the resident paramedic charts the volatility of their blood pressure reading. Anyone who makes it through an entire round without spiking completely off the chart has had a respectable round.<br /> So swing on by when you are in the neighborhood for a spot of tee. If you are game, that is. <br /> And if you have the balls.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-5497797236417932133?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404159690331676632.post-41850295627954052622008-06-15T15:21:00.000-07:002009-05-07T06:58:33.313-07:00For years I've hiked up to a small granite outcropping on a hill to get away from it all here at Clear Creek Ranch. The view goes on for miles, it is a wonderful unspoiled retreat. At first I sat directly on the cold, hard stone. But soon I brought a plastic-covered cushion to pad my uninsulated backside, and after dutifully carting it back and forth on several occasions, I left it there.<br /> Eventually the cushion cracked, the victim of broiling sun and freezing winters. I replaced it with a low-slung beach chair covered in plastic webbing. And attached a little umbrella onto the chair to shield my bald spot from the harmful UV rays.<br /> Sometimes my wife and I used this retreat together. But there was only one chair and no level space for a second. On those occasions, while my wife rested in the chair, I stood about chivalrously rather than risk sitting shiverously on the ice-cold stone.<br /> We discussed a bench large enough for both of us, but the rounded nature of the rock provided a problem. Unless I built a small platform to support it. The prospect seemed daunting, but not impossible. Over the next several months I lugged lumber, dug footings, and pounded nails. The result was a sturdy 12'x12' redwood deck, roomy enough for the wrought iron park bench we hauled up there in pieces and reassembled.<br /> The little umbrella seemed inadequate, so I erected posts and cross beams and rigged up a shade cloth canopy. This was fine in the summer, but it provided no shelter from the rain. That autumn I added a shingled roof.<br /> At times we slept up there in the open air, not quite under the stars, and we needed a dependable light source. The Coleman lantern hissed too much, and an oil lamp seemed dangerous. I strung together some heavy duty extension cords and although it was a bit of an eyesore snaking its way up the hillside, we were able to power a small table lamp. I dragged a small table up there to set it on, right next to the roll-away double bed.<br /> A light bulb shining in the middle of nowhere attracts bugs, even those yellow "bug lights." Insect repellant worked against the mosquitos, but it was useless against the moths. Screens were the answer. And, of course a screen door. And then some glass for the two windward sides so the view wouldn't be obstructed, and sudden gusts wouldn't blow our blankets off.<br /> Then one night I had to wait down at the house for an important phone call. As you know, we don't have cell phones out here. So I strung telephone wire from tree to tree and laid down some water pipe too. My wife sometimes likes to have a drink of water in the middle of the night.<br /> That winter we replaced the screen walls with cedar siding and insulation, and hauled a little woodstove up there. And put down carpeting to cover the original redwood deck.<br /> It's hard to get into a proper meditative state up there now, with the phone ringing and the water faucet dripping. So the other day, I climbed up on the roof. The view is still great. And from that new vantage point I noticed a little rock outcropping nearby, so obscured by brush that I'd never seen it before.<br /> Tomorrow I think I'll go over there, maybe take an old cushion to sit on. You know, one that I can leave there.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8404159690331676632-4185029562795405262?l=clearcreekrancher.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mike Drummondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12842368299853241387noreply@blogger.com0