The annual Thanksgiving Day dinner was a highlight in the lives of the enrollees of Company 5478, Civilian Conservation Corps at Camp Gasquet as an elaborate spread of turkey and all the trimmings was served to the 150 young men and officers at the camp.

Arriving at Gasquet about two years ago, the company, originally organized in 1936, has aided in organizing and reconditioning the territory surrounding this district. In the three years that the company has been in existence, it has contained from time to time members from every state in Dixie, with only a few members actually from California.

Digging wells

When I was a junior at Del Norte High School in 1949 Doris’s husband, Mike Whalen, joined the Warrior staff as a teacher and coach. At the same time, Doris joined the teaching staff at Crescent Elk, where she taught second, fifth and sixth grade for four years.

In 1953 Doris moved to the high school. It amazes me that she was teaching here when I was in school and was still teaching here when I came back in 1980. She was still teaching at the high school in 1992 when I retired.

She went on for seven more years before retiring in 1999. During my 33 years as a teacher, coach and school administrator I never met a more dedicated, more respected teacher than Doris.

She always made her English classroom a very special place. 

My new Blackberry Pearl came with all sorts of bells and whistles. I mean that literally. I have not had time to read the accompanying book or watch the instructional DVD, so I can’t take any credit for setting up the phone with custom profiles.

When I receive email sent to my Triplicate address, three gongs go off. Weeknights around midnight Loree at our Smith River printing plant sends me a report that tells me how well we met our page deadlines and if there were any press problems I should be aware of. The first night I had my new phone Rick sat up in bed when the gongs went off. He said it sounded like Buddhist monks were gathering in our room. I figured out how to change the mode to vibrate only, but that makes the phone dance noisily across the nightstand, still waking us up.

When someone sends a text message my phone plays a tune. It’s “The Entertainer,” the theme song from the movie “The Sting.” It’s a snappy tune that evokes happy memories of that fun movie with handsome duo Paul Newman and Robert Redford. Can you believe that was 36 years ago?

We’ve gotten quite a bit of response, mostly positive and some amounting to high praise. While much of it arrived in the form of emails or phone calls rather than letters to the editor, I’m going to share a bit.

Gopher Gulch columnist Inez Castor copied me on a congratulatory note she sent to reporter Nick Grube and said of the series, “It was community building at its best — not to mention damned good storytelling.”

She added: “This is the sort of writing I think readers of a local paper want to see. We want to care about people, and this story makes those of us who never knew them care about Mari, Peter and their lives, as well as the Alexandres and their struggle to deal with this.”

A family friend wrote to say that she has “never once seen Mari without a smile and only God can understand why someone so amazing would have to endure this.”

My friend Claire, who lives near Sacramento and swelters miserably in crowded commuter trains all summer, bursts into joyful song as leaves fall and autumn brings a nip to the air. She says the trains and their occupants smell much better in October than in August.

I’m a summer critter, and can be found pleading with the cottonwood tree to hang onto its leaves in early September. Arms wrapped as far around his trunk as I can reach, I feel each falling leaf as if it were a wound. I try to avoid the inevitable signs of autumn, like school starting and geese heading south.

But somehow, reaching the first of November makes a big difference. Denial behind me, I settle into winter as happy as if I had sense. I make soup, stuff squash, and replace the phony summer flowers in the front room with equally phony fall leaves. Just give me bright and shiny.

Ironically, while I hate to see leaves fall, I love naked limbs. My decor includes corkscrew willow, dry grasses, cones and feathers bestowed upon me by moulting hawks, gulls and corvids.

Del Norte County sheriff’s deputies “cracked” an egg case with the apprehension of one of the persons involved with the theft of some 104 dozen eggs taken from Bay City Market on Northcrest Drive on Oct. 30.

Deputies, who did not immediately make known the 18-year-old male involved, said that because of Friday night being Halloween night, “field justice was meted out in which the youth was given until sundown to round up the remaining eggs or else.”

The sheriff’s department, whose primary interest was in getting the eggs “rounded up” before they became “ammunition for Halloween trick or treaters,” said that the youth would be formally charged at a later date.

Trees discovery honored

I still remember well putting on the new blue and gold uniforms for the first time. This was the year the Warriors changed from red and white to the present blue and gold. It was also great because for the first time since I started high school we had the same head coach for a second season.

Chuck DeAutremont was back for year two and he was joined by two new assistants, Tex Gatlin and Mike Whalen. Tex had been a teammate of Chuck’s at Southern Oregon and Mike had been a standout at Humboldt State.

This was a group that had our total respect. Wins on the playing field were something that were hard to come by during my first two football seasons. Final scores were not always as close as we would like. While we did not produce a lot of victories score-wise, we played everybody  close.

We went over to Cave Junction to meet their squad in what was a very interesting experience. They had a new field that instead of grass was covered in saw dust. It was a hot day and it was amazing how uncomfortable sawdust can be under your pads. We came away with the biggest win of my high school career. We won 40-0.

Mari’s Climb, a three-part series running Thursday through Saturday about a lo­cal wom­an who was par­­alyzed after contracting a food-borne illness, is notable in several re­gards.

Most im­portantly, it couldn’t have been done without the willingness of Mari Tardiff and her husband, Peter, to totally open up about the ordeal that has turned their lives upside down for the past 17 months. They granted Triplicate reporter Nick Grube incredible access into their minds, their hearts and their home.

As a result, Nick’s articles will go beyond recounting what transpired — even though that account is riveting and will be told in detail for the first time. You’ll also know what the Tardiff family was thinking and feeling before and after Mari got sick. This affords a deep understanding of the challenges they have wrestled with ever since the fateful day when Mari opened her refrigerator and found catastrophe.

Interwoven with the Tardiffs’ story will be a broader look at the issues raised by Mari’s illness.

At bigger newspapers, rep­orters would be able to focus all their efforts on a project such as this. That’s not possible at a paper our size; Nick has continued to cover city and county government and myriad other stories while working on this series. Occasionally colleagues have pinch-hit for him, but the fact remains that he has accomplished something noteworthy because of his dedication and his willingness to sweat.

He’s known for months that the Tardiffs deserve nothing less than that.

Dear K., it is nearly midnight, but I can’t sleep. I am wide-awake thinking about tomorrow being the day that I’ve been expecting to see you. I understand if you are late since I’m sure you’re quite content and comfortable where you’re at now.

In February your parents told me to prepare for your arrival October 26. As the date grew nearer, the more nervous energy I’ve had. In the past few weeks I’ve filled the freezer with soups I’ve made and bread I’ve baked to take up to Salem. I know you won’t have an appetite for these things, but I’m thinking more about the rest of the family and the visitors who will be coming to see you.

I’ve been contemplating what I should say to you when we finally meet. I know it doesn’t really matter much to you since you probably won’t remember our first meeting. But for me it’s important that I choose my words carefully and set the tone for our future relationship. I know I will tell you that you are beautiful and that I love you now and will always love you, more than you can imagine, no matter what.

In the years ahead, you can trust me to keep your secrets, share your joys and protect you. You can borrow my lipstick, try on my shoes and take the pearls out of my jewelry box and wrap them around your neck whenever you like! I promise to take lots of pictures of you and place them on the mantle, on the refrigerator, on my desk and email them to all my friends.

We’ve all known for years that ideally, domestic cats should stay indoors, both for their safety and that of songbirds and other small prey.

Like most of us, my actions usually take some time to catch up to my awareness. It’s not that we don’t know better, but we already have cats that are accustomed to spending at least daylight hours outdoors. Confining them is traumatic for all concerned.

Shadow spent his first few years living in the woods, until I trapped him and took him to Dr. Mark for the fateful surgery. His outrage was such that the clinic reeked a block away and staff were weepy and miserable. When hurt and frightened, a cat can put a skunk to shame.

I was grateful he didn’t do it in the car, and I returned him safely to his woods. It took over a year of coaxing before he let me touch him. Since old Phydeaux wouldn’t let him in the house and he wouldn’t challenge her, I fed him on the back porch, where we had heavy petting sessions.

When Phydeaux died, Shadow began coming in to eat, explore the house, and generally make it his own. The pet door remained open, and he came and went as he pleased. Gradually, he began to spend nights indoors.