Opinion

    When I look at a sheet of music the notes provide no clue to the melody. Once I could say, “I read music,” and my fingers would press the right keys on the piano interpreting the works of Mozart, Bach and Beethoven.

    Yet, as a high school freshman, I decided I no longer had a half-hour I could devote to practice. There was no time to play songs that had become familiar and so they were soon forgotten. The intention was not to let them slip away, but early mornings in front of a mirror putting on makeup; late nights practicing French for an oral test; poring over math equations; long chats with girlfriends; securing tickets to a rock concert; living out the details from the latest fashion magazine; dances; Friday night football games … “childish” pursuits were set aside.

  Have you ever been plugging along in life, footloose and fancy free, embarking on adventures just because you can, then going home at night, wondering what it’s all about?

  It was one of those evenings when I first decided to donate blood. I was living in Santa Barbara and happened to see a notice for a blood drive so I went in to donate.

  Once you’re in the system, there’s no escape. They’ve got your number: all of them. Every time you donate, they update your vital information to keep tabs for the next time they want to suck your blood.

  What would Plumas County look like without a fair, a library or a museum? Would we still want to live here?

  Thankfully, we won’t have to face that question – at least until next year.

  The prospect of losing those events and services was very real until last week. All of them were under the county budget microscope as the Board of Supervisors tried to find the final $150,000 of savings to balance the fiscal 2012-13 budget.

  Thanks to a last-minute discovery of about $150,000 in previously unaccounted-for revenue from the municipal courts, the budget was balanced.

  Crusty old Chester Cromberg was in his usual spot, crouched on the bank of the Middle Fork swishing muddy gravel in his rusted gold pan.

  “Howdy Mac!” barked the grimy weekend prospector as he spit the remains of a hand-rolled butt into the river.

  “How the hell are ya, Chet? Still searching for the Mother Lode, I see.”