Rain, rain, go away—and take the phlegm with you

Dating back to my childhood, when, as Republican vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin can attest, dinosaurs still roamed the earth, two things have traditionally happened each year before—or for some reason, more typically on—my birthday: It has rained, and I have been sick, usually with my first cold of the season.

Moving to Redding hasn't done much to help the precipitation predicament, since three of the 36 inches of rain we receive in an average year typically fall during October. But frankly, it's never seemed to matter where I've resided. Regardless of their location, the clouds have seemed determined each year to gift me with their liquid bounty. Even when Kelly and I lived in Southern California, we could be smack-dab in the middle of a mid-fall heat wave, and poof, it would rain completely out of the blue on my birthday. It’s been uncanny, really. As a result, I’ve just come to expect that I will get wet when venturing outside on any day when I'm turning a year older.

This birthday may be an exception. I selfishly hesitate to say so for fear of jinxing things, although the fact is, we desperately need the rainfall. Already in the midst of a severe, two-year drought, this season we're standing at a piddly 0.72 inches to date, while in an average year, we'd already have logged twice as much. Does it make me a bad person if I'm hoping, should the desire hit me, to extinguish the candles on my cake outdoors without nature's sprinklers dousing them for me? I hope not. I just want to be able to go outside and play on my big day. And with a forecast calling for a high of 89 and a zero percent chance of precipitation, it looks like I’ll get my wish.

By contrast, the recurring rhinovirus routine is looking far less promising. Since bringing home this week what is already our second family cold since school began just two months ago, Zoë has gone from bad to worse, waking up yesterday morning—perhaps in an empathetic effort to bond with her ailing cousin Aidan 669 miles away—with croup. Along the way, she's managed to share the love with Zienna, whose nose has been gushing green goo for a few days now, and, by the looks of things, Zach, who woke this morning clogged and sniffling.

And, though I'm hoping like heck that it's just allergies, I, too, began yesterday to recognize those all-too-familiar harbingers of the birthday bug—stuffy head, sore throat, and burning nostrils. I am presently popping Echinacea and knocking—no, pounding—on everything that even appears to have come from a tree in an effort to avoid my annual affliction. Heck, I'm just glad I got a flu shot several weeks ago, since the birthday I spent four years ago fighting influenza and a resulting partially-collapsed lung was, in a word, hell.

So, apparently able to forget about my umbrella, I'd also like to spend the first day of my forty-sixth year without a box of tissue at my side. Is that too much to ask? I guess I’ll know tomorrow.

As an excuse to reschedule fireworks, fire works

When the wildfire smoke that blanketed our area all summer prompted the cancellation of Redding’s annual "Lights of Liberty" Fourth of July fireworks, city officials immediately rescheduled them—for October. At the time, it seemed a fairly odd idea. But when the sky dimmed after last night’s out-of-season display, it had proven to be a welcome change of pace.

Fireworks are a big deal in these parts. While the North State has embarrassing riches of tourist-drawing natural beauty and recreational opportunities, Redding itself has by comparison very little to offer. There's Turtle Bay Exploration Park, the adjoining Sundial Bridge, and Big League Dreams Sports Park. That's about it.

With mid-priced hotels, restaurants, and gas stations situated along Interstate 5 and rundown motels inhabiting a downtown trying to reinvent itself, Redding is struggling to become more than a "gas station stop," as a well-traveled friend of mine referred to it shortly after we moved here. At that time, real estate was booming, businesses were arriving in droves, and the city was undergoing a transformation that hinted at a Renaissance. But when the housing market collapsed and new construction came to a screeching halt, the effects rippled through Redding like dominoes of doom.

Unemployment, at 9.5% last month, has skyrocketed. Underemployment has followed suit, with adults working in low-paying service and retail jobs out of desperation. Meanwhile, businesses are folding left and right, foreclosures and personal bankruptcies are epidemic, and the sales tax that is such an important component of the city's revenues has eroded horribly as a result of all this.

But like many mid-sized, economically-challenged cities, Redding, with an estimated population of 90,000 and a median household income around $40,000, is a proud community. High school sports make the evening news. Parades and other civic events are frequent and well-attended. And the fireworks—the largest display in Northern California—give the city bragging rights. Ask Reddingites what they like about living here, and fireworks inevitably make the short list.

Last night was typical of the event. Consisting of 3,500 shells with a price tag of $90,000—funded fully by the same non-profit foundation that paid for the bridge and the arboretum at Turtle Bay—the show, choreographed to patriotic music on the local college radio station, ran just under half an hour. If that doesn't sound big, it is. By the time the grand finale rolls around, you're left feeling impressed, satisfied, and in awe.

We seized upon the opportunity to throw together an impromptu block party, and while it wasn’t the success we’d hoped—in part because so many locals make plans far in advance for the event—the chance to set aside economic and political worries and just hang out was like a breath of fresh air. We ate, we talked, and we let the kids go wild. It was wonderful.

Perched on the hillside patio of neighbors who’d been kind enough to share their perfect view of the city, Kelly and I sat back and took it all in as soon as the explosions began, and the kids followed suit. Zach, normally indifferent about fireworks, reported having a great time. Zoë, wiped out by then, ignored her friends and cuddled next to me. And Zienna, for the first time seeing fireworks she was old enough to appreciate, repeatedly exclaimed, “Oh, how BOOTiful!”

These were simple pleasures and perfectly timed. As we parted, there were comments that this should be a new tradition. It was hard to argue. With earlier darkness, we were back home by 9:00 rather than 10:30. With temperatures in the 60s, we weren’t sweating or being devoured by mosquitoes. And without the pressure to celebrate an official holiday, things were a whole lot more relaxing.

Fourth of July in October? Yeah, I could go for that.

Living in the wild, wild west

Growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, my concept of "wildlife" was pretty tame, along the lines of the neighbors' dog chasing me as I rode my bike. When Kelly and I moved to Orange County, I had to expand my definition, as oh-so-cuddly raccoons on our porch sometimes ended up as dinner for not-so-cuddly coyotes on the pool deck below us. And, after moving back to the Bay Area, our biggest animal concerns were squirrels stealing tomatoes from my garden and the mouse family that died in and stunk up our heater ducts.

So, when we moved to Redding, nothing had prepared me for the wildlife encounters we'd have here. At times, I've felt like Marlin Perkins on the episodes of Wild Kingdom I used to watch with my grandfather—only without his calm and cool.

Just a few months after we arrived, a bear was discovered in a backyard less than half of a mile from where we were living. For a city slicker like me, that was one heck of a wakeup call.

Just a few days later, I saw an honest-to-goodness bald eagle in front of our post office. How cute, I thought, even if its talons could easily rip my eyes out. I admired its majesty at a respectful distance, ever more aware that up here, nature knows no boundaries.

Just a few days after that, Fish and Game officials were summoned when a mountain lion was found in a backyard two miles from us. At that point, I was prepared to pack up and move to a high-rise in the city, even though I hate high-rises and cities

But then, things got relatively quiet. Yes, I discovered that Redding apparently holds claim to the largest black widow spiders on earth and that mice had invaded our garage. But living on the fringes of wilderness, it wasn't surprising we'd have such pests.

And, there have been attractive aspects to living among local wildlife. We've witnessed graceful deer wandering about with adorable fawns in tow. And huge flocks of wild turkeys offer an amusing delay as they dawdle and block the street.

But it wasn't long before we spotted our first rattlesnake. And on the scale of things I fear, spiders may be a nine, but snakes are a definite ten.

The first sighting came almost immediately—a baby near the mailboxes down the block. And though I wasn't sure if the legend that infant rattlers are more toxic—a fact I've since confirmed—I was plenty scared.

During the ensuing two years, we've spotted a few more rattlesnakes and heard of neighbors doing the same. Then last week, nature encroached a bit too much when Zach was playing on our driveway and came within inches of stepping on yet another baby rattler.

Too chicken to capture it, we watched until it slithered off. But doing so made me think twice about leaving our garage door open for hours on end when the kids are outside.

Having woken with a snake in my bed once before—though it was a harmless garter snake and this was years ago, shortly after Zach was born—I sometimes bolt awake, fearful the tag or whatever else rubbing against my foot is a rattler. And knowing Zane was bitten on the face by a gopher earlier this summer, I didn't hesitate to invest in a series of rattlesnake vaccines for him.

Scared as I am, I suppose I'll just have to be content with having my guard up and my fingers crossed. Because the fact is, while I’d prefer wildlife were a little more out in the wild, that’s pretty much where I find myself. And the reality is, I’m no Marlin Perkins.

Anyone happen to know of a high-rise apartment available in the city, cheap, by chance?

UPDATE: The day after I posted this entry, we had yet another wildlife encounter nearby—only this one wasn't quite so menacing, at least not initially. As the headline on our local paper's web site proclaimed, "Flaming squirrel started spot fire." It seems the critter chewed through a high-voltage line across the street from Zoë's school, ignited, and fell to the dry grass below. It ultimately took 18 firefighters and six engines to contain the blaze. I kid you not, even if it sounds like a deleted scene from Caddyshack.