According to our calculations, we need 3 cubic yards of top soil for our new garden boxes.  What’s a cubic yard look like?  I had no idea.  So we made a few calls, found a good deal and drove over to pick it up.

When the wizened garden lady at the nursery heard we needed 3 yards, she said “What type of car do you have?”  A mini truck.  To which she responded, “Dirt is heavy, you hear?” and walked off shaking her head at the pair of rural amateurs.

So we bought a yard and the cashier said, “Okay, the tractor will meet you in the back.”  I couldn’t help but exclaim, “The tractor!?”  And she nodded, as if to say hell yeah, of course we have a tractor.

I watched in awe as the tractor besieged the twenty foot pile of top soil.  The scooper went in part way, then the tractor popped a wheelie and the rear wheels spun and diesel fumes billowed as more soil went in.  Then it lifted its payload in victory and approached my Taco.

I told the driver everything:  Look, I have no idea what I’m doing.  I don’t know what my truck can handle.  Can you help?  He smiled and nodded.

The scoop lowered and a shower of dirt and rocks hit the bed.  My truck bounced up and down.  It looked so little, and there was so much dirt.  We barely got a scoop in before my rear suspension was slammed.  The driver said, “Eh, that’s about it.  How far you going?”  From McKinleyville to Eureka.  “Ah, okay.  Should be alright…”

My car had converted into a half lowrider.  The rear leaf springs were totally flat.  Help.

I was going to drive the 20 miles or so on surface streets only, but Beth convinced me to hit the highway and we were underway, bouncing and swaying like a waterbed teeter totter.  I lost a fair number of hit points, but we made it home without incident.

Today I single-handedly unloaded the dirt with our new wheelbarrow.  It was tough work, but novel.  There I was, swinging a shovel, hauling a barrow, getting dirty.  Moving mass around.  Changing the landscape.  Hauling earth!

Then I went back to get the other half and did it all again.  One cubic yard out of three.

We’re building a garden.  In further extension of our mini-quasi Northern Californian “back to the land” project, we’re constructing two 10×4 foot raised beds for the backyard.

We drove my minitruck into Pierson’s Lumber (site of the World’s Largest Hammer) and I was skeptical, I wanted to look at things and think about things, weigh all of the options, but they were full service, hands on; no time to look, no time to speculate, just give ‘em the specs and they’ll load you up.

So we bought a backyard full of lumber, and I spent the day staining it Sierra Gold.  When night fell, it became time to investigate a new portion of Eureka, the divey pizzeria across from the Grocery Outlet, Angelo’s with the 60’s medieval billboard, glowing Old English lettering, and faux brick facade.  I was curious.

Inside it was a true dive, but in a nice way.  A family establishment, with a large arcade and washed out big screen tv’s displaying sports.  There were checkerboard tablecloths and twelve taps, though four or five were taken up by swill.  But they had 1554 on draft, 6R IPA, Steelhead Pale and Sierra ESB–that’s a solid parlor collection.

Quite a few of the employees were wearing camo, and some were missing teeth, but the pizza area looked clean, even if there was a bottle of Lawrey’s Taco Seasoning on the center island.  We ordered a pie and a pitcher of Steelhead and took a booth to wait for the rest of our dinner.

I’d been home all day, so I was feeling particularly wide-eyed.  I couldn’t stop looking at the man in the next booth with the silverhaired mullet, or the hunters with their mustaches, or the uptight drunk guy txting in his swim trunks with the really cool faded t-shirt that read, “Patrick’s Point Fire Department.”  It reminds me of a proclamation Matt made back in college, whereas he said it was more than likely I’d meet my premature end due to staring too long at the wrong guy.  I tried to tone it down.

But then a pair of hunters took center stage, depositing coins into the 1975 Gremlin “Trapshoot” wall game.  I’d been eyeing it since we walked in; it was a primitive video game in a huge wall mounted light box, with animation achieved by bulbs switching on and off behind static images.  The game was super cool, and I was watching them play, smiling, happy, chuckling a little–”Hey, that guy’s laughing at us!” one of them proclaimed.  They were smiling, I was smiling, I looked away to give them some space as Beth’s eyes met mine with the look of what the heck are you doing, man?

Our pizza arrived and it was good.  The situation gradually calmed over at the Trapshoot.  I poured Beth another Steelhead.  During Happy Hour, from 11am to 6, they have $2 pints.  Angelo’s Pizza Parlor, the oldest pizza joint in Humboldt County–I think I’d like to become a regular.

These days the family pizza parlor is a rare phenomenon in the big city.  They’re all wood fired, with fancy toppings and waiters with ties.  Italian food in all of its fashions has grown up.  But I’m glad that here on the periphery, we still have places like Angelo’s.  And Angelo I’m not staring at you because I’m trying to start a culture war–I’m staring because I’m fascinated, and friendly.  I’m drunk on all of your details.

Last weekend we went down to the Humboldt Grange Hall to check out the annual flea market.  As we cautiously approached, an over-friendly old man mentioned, “They’re selling fleas in there!  Actual fleas!”  Beth looked at me with panic in her eyes and I whispered, “Act natural!”

There were tables up and down the hall with chatty old people selling knickknacks.  They were so nice!  They wanted to learn everything about us, then sell us dusty talismans for twenty five cents.  Beth bought a steel flamingo for $2 as we smiled and chuckled and greeted the fraternal members of the Grange Society.

I started going through a box of records as Beth attacked a pile of books.  I found a pristine old Merle Haggard album I don’t have for 25 cents, and Beth found a useful gardening book for a quarter, as well as three antique etiquette guides for girls.  Hot dog!  I dug through a box of old hats in the corner and tried a few on in jest, but one stuck.  It was a bright red trucker with the words ALTO BROS TRUCKING — EUREKA, CA.  It also cost 25 cents.  Then I went big and dropped a dollar on a slice of lemon jell-o cake from the bakesale in the corner and I was in business.

Yeah, the cake was exceptionally moist.

I didn’t really think I’d wear the hat much, but it’s turning out to be a great adventurer’s hat.  As well as helping me blend in with the locals, it helps to shield my temples from the northern wind, my eyes from the western sun, and my face from the early morning rain.  Furthermore, it reminds me of my dad.  I have fond memories of being five and going birdwatching while swapping a camouflage KALO AG trucker hat between us.  I have history with swap meet hats.

This week I wore my ALTO BROS on a beach agate expedition to Dry Lagoon where I found a magic orange jellybean stone that I gave to Beth for good luck.  Today I went birdwatching on the Hookton Slough and sure was glad I had it.

The sun was blazing bright, and I was peering through my binoculators at birds.  Humboldt is an amazing place for birdwatching; the Humboldt bay is a huge spot for migratory birds.  Today I sat in the trail for thirty minutes trying to tell whether that chatty yet secretive bird in the reeds was a wren or a gnatcatcher.  Since there was nobody around I felt okay sprawling in the trail for the sake of birds.  I was hot on the trail of this bird when I spotted a leisure walker in the distance.  I was too much in the zone to relent however, and was still seated in the trail when he strolled by in his Jack Daniels free giveaway hat.  Turns out it was a Marsh Wren.  I think.

The most exciting part came after I’d hit the end of the trail and turned back.  I spotted what I thought was a Northern Harrier flying toward me, flapping low across the marshlands.  I trained my binocs on it to discover a round face and big eyes:  there were a pair of Short-eared Owls out for some sunset hunting!

I grew so excited I was skipping along the trail, thumbing through my bird book, glancing through my glasses.  I’ve been talking about owlwatching for the last five years at least, and I’ve only seen Barn Owls and Great Horned Owls.  But here I was on the Hookton Slough making a new identification!

I watched the pair of owls soar through the grasslands, pouncing occassionally for prey.  They worked a lot like Northern Harriers, which are beautiful, captivating birds, but the owls were somewhat more thuggish.  Brute force.  The harriers are lighter than air, acrobatic, they flip and dive at their prey, whereas these owls just brandished their talons and bombed, body slam style.

The climax of my birdwalk came when the Short-eared Owls met the Nothern Harriers.  They were both hunting in the same pasture, which resulted in some bloodcurdling cackles and warning swoops.  A harrier was down in the grass, examining its catch or just hanging out, when one of the owls began a long, sweeping divebomb, aimed right for the hawk!  The owl was dropping and I was exclaiming, its talons came out and at the last moment the harrier made a jedi move, a leaping barrel roll, brandishing its claws upside down at the attacker, and the owl relented and pulled up as I was left wide-eyed in the marsh with my new hat.