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Second of a three-part series.

PREVIOUSLY:

• MUSICAL MEMOIR: When Sunnyland Slim Tells You to Take Route 66, You Should Take Route 66

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The great blues guitarist Mike Bloomfield called me one morning at the hotel where I was staying in San Francisco.

“Paul, how many gigs have you played in your life?” Bloomfield asked. “Probably seven.” I said.

The night before I’d played drums with Bloomfield and the Chicago blues pianist and singer Sunnyland Slim at the Lion’s Share Club in San Anselmo. It was the second stop for the Sunnyland Slim Band on a 30-day Bay Area tour with Bloomfield. It was November 1972. I was 21, a recent dropout from the University of Wisconsin, Madison.

“Well, it sounds like it,” Bloomfield said. “I can tell you have talent but you don’t have the experience to be playing with me and Sunnyland. I called Sunnyland and told him that you weren’t ready to play with us. I said I could get the best blues drummer in the San Francisco area to finish the tour.”

My heart sank. I felt devastated. Was I going to get fired and sent home, a total failure in the eyes of my family and friends in Wisconsin? At the same time, I knew he was right. I was in way over my head. He was considered the best white blues guitarist in the country at that time. I was a total rookie.

Bloomfield said, “Sunnyland’s answer was, ‘I brought the man all the way from Wisconsin. He stays but we are going to teach him how to play the drums.’”

Bloomfield then invited me, Sunnyland and Harry Duncan, our harmonica player and road manager, to his house for dinner that night. “Bring your snare drum and sticks,” he said. “After dinner you’ll ride with me to the show at the Keystone in Palo Alto and we’ll talk.”

Bloomfield lived in a house atop a hill in Mill Valley. In his living room, casually strewn with records, I set up my snare on a stand and placed the sticks across the drum.

Sunnyland took them and said, “Paul, you’ve got to learn how to play a backbeat like Dogman,” a blues drummer I’d never heard of. With a drum stick in his hand, he hit my Ludwig silver chrome snare hard. Then he hit the outer metal rim of the drum and the snare head at the same time, called a rimshot. It made a louder back beat with a sharper tone.

‘You’ve got to get a backbeat with a rimshot like Kansas City Red,” he said, another drummer I’d never heard of. “You can’t just be bullshittin’ tapping that ride cymbal like you’re playin’ jazz with Count Basie. You’ve got to DRIVE a blues singer with a backbeat!”

After dinner, I rode with Bloomfield in his car for the 75-minute ride to Palo Alto.

“Paul, I know you have talent and good ears for the music, you just need experience,” he said while driving south on Highway 101. “To become an excellent drummer, you need to study the origins of the blues and whatever music genre you want to play. You are what you listen to.

“If you want to play Chicago blues, you need to go back and listen to Count Basie’s Kansas City big band. Chicago blues musicians like Sunnyland play a lot of swing music. The harmonica player is taking the place of the horn section in a swing big band.”

That was a revelation. He told me to listen to the best studio bands and their drummers, like Al Jackson of Booker T. and the MGs and Stax Records, Roger Hawkins of Muscle Shoals recording studio, and Fred Below, the great Chess Records drummer in Chicago.

“Get the records of the seminal artists and drummers of the genres you want to play,” he said. “Go out and see great drummers.”

In 75 minutes he gave me a detailed road map of what I needed to do to become a professional drummer. He was generous and compassionate, something my damaged pride needed.

We still had another dozen shows to play with Bloomfield in the San Francisco Bay Area. Later that day, our bassist Joe Harper was sent home to Chicago because he was too sick to play. Bloomfield hired bassist Kip Maercklein, who had recently toured and recorded with Elvin Bishop

At the show that night in Palo Alto, I faced a different Sunnyland. He was impatient, sometimes even stopping in the middle of a song, glaring at me and counting out the time in front of the audience. He often did this when he drank too much whiskey.

It was beyond humiliating to me, more like excruciating.

The tour continued. I remember playing the Inn of the Beginning in Cotati and the rustic Town and Country Lodge in the Santa Cruz Mountains, a hippie haven.

Off stage, I experienced a fascinating adventure exploring San Francisco for the first time. During the day, Sunnyland, Harry Duncan and I would drive around the city with Slim. We’d visit record stores to see if they carried his records.

One afternoon, driving down the steep hill of San Francisco’s Gough Street. Sunnyland said, “There’s too many hills here! And there are too many Sans – San Francisco, San Jose, San Anselmo!”

I remember eating Chinese food for the first time in my life in Chinatown with them. I was 21, lean and had a speedy metabolism. I’d easily devour appetizers and two or more dishes.

“Paul,” Sunnyland said to Harry, “the man’s got more food on his plate than a greyhound can jump over.”

I hung in there playing show after show, with Slim occasionally glaring at me with disgust. I was having no fun, just surviving.

Finally, the last day of the tour arrived. We were set to play a gymnasium concert at the University of California in Santa Cruz, November 30, 1972. That morning Harry got a call from Bloomfield saying he was sick. Mike had already called his friend Elvin Bishop who agreed to play the show.

I remember a large university gym with about 3,000 people. While the band set up, Elvin introduced himself. I set up my drums in the center of the stage with bassist Kip Maercklein to my immediate left and Sunnyland to his left. Before the show, I noticed Sunnyland drinking whiskey. He kept sipping throughout the show. At one point he stopped playing, looked at me and started counting time on top of his piano with his right hand and shaking his head while the audience and Elvin Bishop watched.

I wished I was anywhere but there.

Kip whispered in my ear, “Your time is fine. He’s drunk. Just keep playing with me.” I was so thankful to the late Kip Maercklein for his immense kindness in that moment.

When we finished the show, I was thrilled the month-long ordeal was over.

Who Stole Sunnyland’s Money?

After the show Harry paid everyone, including Bishop. On the drive back to Mill Valley, where Sunnyland was staying with the great Chicago blues guitarist Luther Tucker, Harry drove Sunnyland’s car. Harry and my friend from Wisconsin, Carol Little (now Murray), were in the front. I was alone in the back.

The very-drunk Sunnyland was trying to count the money he was paid. It was spread across his lap. After we crossed the Golden State bridge, Sunnyland told Harry to pull over off Highway 101 near Sausalito. In a low, dark voice, Sunnyland said, “Someone stole my money.”

“Did you pay Elvin Bishop’s manager an extra deposit before the show?” Harry asked.

In his low, whispered voice, Sunnyland said, “I know who stole my money. Paul stole my money.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I angrily told Sunnyland. “I would never do that.”

“I brought the man out all the way out here from Wisconsin. I don’t know why, but Paul stole my money,” Sunnyland said.

“Paul didn’t steal your money,” Harry said. “Let’s get you home and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

On the way back to our hotel in San Francisco, I told Harry that we were going to drive back to Mill Valley first thing in the morning.

“If he doesn’t apologize to me, I won’t ever play with him again,” I said. “I’ll never speak to him. I don’t care who he is. I’ve had enough!”

The next day we got up and drove to Luther Tucker’s in Mill Valley.

I knocked on the door. When Luther opened it, I saw Sunnyland walking across the living room toward me waving his hands above his head.

“Paul, I was wrong,” he said with a sheepish smile. “I was drunk and when I saw all those white people there, I started thinking, ‘Someone’s going to steal my money.’

“I thought about Kansas City Red and his hos. When they were afraid of some white man stealing their money, they’d put it in their pussies. So I put $50 in my shoe. When I woke up this morning, there it was.”

Sunnyland was born in Vance, Mississippi in 1907. He played his piano and sang at Southern lumber camps while white men drank and ate. He played music while traveling in the violently racist South in the ’20s and ’30s. I imagined he experienced many frightening things involving white men. Luckily, he was a strapping, six-foot-four man.

And I’m sure those Black Kansas City prostitutes had plenty of reasons to fear their white clients stealing their money.

In Luther Tucker’s living room, we laughed about it while drinking coffee. To say I was relieved is an understatement. I got my heart back relatively intact.

My relationship with him changed forever. He was never mean to me again on or off stage. He trusted me for the next 15 years that I played shows with him.

But it took three years before he trusted me musically. I had a lot of hard work to do to get good enough to play with him again.

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Next, Part Three, Redemption.

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Thanks to my editor, Pamela Long, and Julian DeMark for photo scanning. Find many more musical memories at my Substack.

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The Trump Administration is taking an axe to the Forest Service. They are “reorganizing” the Forest Service, eliminating Regional Offices and Research Stations. The National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA) is virtually gone — and with it opportunities for public engagement. And Trump is pushing to get out the cut, meaning bigger, more impactful projects. 

Kimberly Baker, Executive Director of the Klamath Forest Alliance, is a watchdog for over 5.3 million acres of Forest Service Land and have commented on virtually every timber sale for 25 years. She joins the program to discuss the damage being done to our public forests.

In the spring of 1941, my sophomore year at Humboldt State College, I applied for a surveying job as a “stake artist,” a euphemism for Under Engineering Aide, the lowest of all civil servants. Division 1 of the California Division of Highways (now Caltrans) covers the North Coast from south of Hopland to the Oregon Border.

When I applied, there were seventeen names ahead of mine. However, my girlfriend, Eris Green, told me her Daddy, Bill Green, the big boss of Division 1, had moved me to the top of the list.

On the Friday college was out I received a phone call telling me to hop on the southbound Greyhound on Monday morning and join a survey party working somewhere along Highway 101 north of Garberville. I spotted the “Men and Equipment Working” sign near Myers Flat and asked to get off the bus.

Joining the Party

The author, circa 1941. Photos via the Humboldt Historian.

This wouldn’t be my first job away from home. The two previous summers, I had managed the YMCA’s Camp Ravencliff at Redway, but this job was different. It would introduce me to the real world of working with a diverse group of professionals. Our survey party consisted of the chief-of-party, Eddie Dessinger; transitman Norris Rawles; head chainman “Barney” Barnwell; rear chainman Verne Cooperrider, an upper division civil engineering student from UC Berkeley and a close friend, also hired for the summer; and the “virgin” stake artist.

The stake artist carries a bag of wooden stakes and a hatchet. He marks his stakes “artistically” with a blue crayon, showing such calculations as the amount of cut or fill required, then drives the stakes into the ground.

Along California’s Redwood Highway, however, a stake artist spends most of his time out in front of the rest of the party with a bolo knife whacking limbs, bushes, high ferns and occasionally even a notch out of the side of a redwood tree, which may be obstructing the transit’s line of-sight.

Although my hiring was based strictly on inside pull, I did bring certain advantages to the job. My dad was a licensed civil engineer and surveyor, and I had some experience helping him on survey parties, which Mr. Green may well have taken into consideration.

Dad told me that the man out front with the bolo could favorably impress the crew by clearing ground cover around the stake where the next transit setup would be. That advice served me well with Norris and Eddie and the chainmen — and no doubt with Mr. Green, when Eddie Dessinger made his first report.

Eddie Dessinger

Whenever Norris was ready to move from one transit setup to the next, Eddie, also usually out in front of the chainmen, would bellow back to Norris, “COME AHEAD AND BRING YOUR PLUMB BOB.”

I wondered about those outbursts from our otherwise quiet leader, and when I asked him, he explained, “Plumb bobs cost seven-fifty each, and whenever we lose one, I have to write a requisition for a replacement. You’d be surprised how many bobs chainmen and transitmen leave lying on the ground when they move ahead and how much time is wasted going back and hunting for them and sometimes not finding them.”

I soon learned that Eddie Dessinger was no ordinary highway engineer. Fast and accurate in his note taking, he never held up the advancement of the party while he completed a diagram or other complicated entry in his field book. He was always ahead of the action.

He also followed the rules by turning in his field notebooks to the Division headquarters without making neater copies at night, as some of the party chiefs did, though this was strictly forbidden. Instead, he spent his evenings studying for a promotional examination. As I later learned, Eddie’s notebooks were still the neatest and most detailed of any in District 1.

Red Mountain

My baptism by fire was at Red Mountain in the notorious slide area south of Garberville and immediately north of the “Confusion Hill” tourist attraction. In the early days, this part of Highway 101 was a quarter-mile of two-lane road. Convict laborers took part in its construction, blasting rock from the near-vertical cliff that rises 900 feet from the South Fork Eel River.

The highway is about a third of the way up the cliff, so on average it was about 300 feet down to the riverbed and 600 feet up to the top. Our job was to survey cross-sections — horizontal and vertical profiles — at 50-foot intervals. An engineer in the Eureka office could then make a good estimate of the volume of rock and rubble higher up that would have to be removed to widen the highway by any specified amount. Today two bridges are being built on the west side of the river, completely bypassing the cliff at Red Mountain, but such a project was beyond serious consideration in 1941.

As the youngest, lowest-ranking, and lightest-weighing member of the party, it was my job to hold the front end of a cloth measuring tape as I was lowered down to the riverbed, and hoisted up the cliff above the road. I didn’t mention that I was deathly afraid of heights.

Norris, using a Rhodes arc to measure vertical angles, and Barney, who held the rear end of the tape, could see my hand holding the head end as big, strong Verne lowered me on a rope from one ledge to another.

Richardson Grove

After the Red Mountain job, we ran a quick survey through the giant redwoods of Richardson Grove where the campground held dances nightly on an open-air dance floor, and where Mrs. Green and the three Green daughters just happened to be camping. I took a little stuff from the rest of the crew about that, having already told them how I got the stake artist job so they wouldn’t learn about it from someone else.

One day a southbound semitrailer rig loaded with a single log perhaps seven feet in diameter lost its air brakes on the crooked downgrade approaching a combination soda fountain and souvenir shop. The driver saw some old folks crossing the two-lane highway ahead, and the quick-thinking hero aimed his tractor straight at a large redwood on the left side of the road. At the last moment he swerved the tractor to the right, barely missing the tree, and the momentum of the log carried it straight into the standing redwood. The rig was totaled, but the old folks were saved, and the driver survived.

Garberville Doings

While we were still working out of Garberville, another Under Engineering Aide, I’ll call him Pringle, joined the party as a second bushwhacker. At last I outranked someone.

Pringle was a bigot from Oklahoma who was continually volunteering his racist views and cracking racist jokes. This didn’t sit well with Barney, who was a licensed civil engineer and had held responsible assignments with the Division of Highways in earlier times. Barney’s defense of African Americans was as strong as Pringle’s castigation, and the verbal fur flew during lunch breaks.

Nor was Pringle above padding his expense account for his room and board after staying at Garberville’s Redwood Inn. By the time Eddie Dessinger heard of this, Pringle had already left the survey party because “the work was too hard and the pay not good enough.” None of us was sorry when Pringle departed. He hadn’t been much help with the bushwhacking either.

Working out of Ukiah, we softened and widened the tortuous, narrow curves up the long grade to Ridgewood Summit between Ukiah and Willits. Below was the Charles S. Howard ranch made famous by the Depression-era racehorse Seabiscuit.

On the way to work one morning we passed a one-car collision with an oak tree. Two young parents had dozed off and were killed instantly, but their infant sleeping in a padded wooden box behind the seat was uninjured.

Folly in Fort Bragg

From Ukiah we moved to the west over the Coast Range to Fort Bragg at the mouth of the Noyo River, where the action picked up again. Right away Norris started complaining of a toothache, so as soon as we all checked into the Windsor Hotel and had dinner, Verne and I rushed Norris to the bar to treat him to some painkiller. As Norris started feeling better, he suggested we move on to a nightclub where there was usually more action.

As we entered the more promising establishment, Norris said, “Hey guys, I’m in luck, there’s my dentist at the far end of the bar.”

Norris invited his friend to join us at an empty booth, ordered a round of drinks, and it was soon apparent that the dentist was already ahead of Norris. Even so, he readily agreed to relieve Norris of the troublesome tooth at his nearby office, and off they went.

Later, back at the Windsor, Norris came into our room and told Verne and me about his dental experience.

It seems that after his friendly dentist injected the Novocain and started to pull the tooth, Norris had said, “You’d better wait a bit, that Novocain hasn’t taken effect yet.”

The dentist had replied, “That’s strange, my hand is numb as a rock. I must have run the needle through your cheek into my thumb.”

He was more careful on the second try, and Norris told him when his jaw was sufficiently numb. The tooth was pulled, and as they were ready to leave the office Norris said, “Well, my jaw is almost awake now, but I still have a toothache.”

The dentist took a look and said, “Damn it, Norris, I pulled the wrong tooth. Now I’ll have to pull the one next to it.”

The Mendocino Coast

The coastline south of Fort Bragg is surely one of the most beautiful anywhere. Its most striking feature is the series of estuaries at the mouths of small streams flowing to the Pacific Ocean. These estuaries are carved into the coast bluffs for varying distances, and some are deep enough to accommodate small ocean-going craft.

The terrain is reasonably flat above the cliffs along the ocean, which had made for easy road building in the early days, except at the estuaries, where the highway was built to follow the existing trail around the head of each inlet.

In 1941 all America knew our entry in World War II was just a matter of time, and that the ability to move people and materials rapidly along the coast might be of critical military importance. The California Transportation Department now had ample reason to build the long, high bridges needed to speed traffic across the mouths of the estuaries.

The job of our survey party was to locate those bridges. They didn’t get built during the war but most of them did during the furious road building that followed the war nationwide.

Surveying the mouth of one of these inlets was in some ways more difficult than the Red Mountain job; it not only required climbing steep rocky bluffs, but also whacking our way through brush so dense that nothing larger than Br’er Rabbit could get through.

A Poor Exchange

When we finished surveying the estuary bridge sites and were starting a realignment job near Boonville, Eddie Dessinger was reassigned to lead another survey party that was having a personnel problem. An engineer named Burns was transferred from the troubled party to take over a party (ours) that was getting along fine. It didn’t take long to figure out why the other party was having a problem; the problem was Mr. Burns, as he insisted on being addressed.

Burns, who was sixty-five years old, had married a woman from Germany who was an outspoken Nazi sympathizer, and had converted her husband to her point of view. During lunch breaks, Burns regaled us with such opinions as, “If those Poles and Hungarians didn’t have the guts to stop Hitler, why shouldn’t he take over their countries and run them right. They will like butter on their tables, too.”

Bill Green, chief engineer of District 1 of the California Division of Highways in 1941.

We would listen to his Nazi wisdom without comment, but we figured Bill Green knew what was going on and had passed the word to the appropriate authorities. Later I learned from my mother, who was then the right hand to the Director of Civil Defense in Eureka, that they were keeping a sharp eye and a short leash on Burns’ wife throughout the war. Evidently Bill Green and the OSS had decided that the best way to handle the situation was to keep Burns working where his actions could be watched.

A Smooth Transition

As that wonderful summer came to an end, it was back-to-school time.

I had originally planned to transfer to the University of California for my upper division work, but the Friday before starting my summer job I had walked out of Founders Hall on one of those beautifully clear afternoons when you can actually see boats on the Pacific horizon, and decided to stay at Humboldt for another year. So when my summer of surveying was over, I was back in line for registration.

To follow up on the past summer’s enjoyment, I took Professor Homer Arnold’s wonderful surveying course, and it paid off big. The next spring the Army Corps of Engineers was starting to build the airport on Dows Prairie above McKinleyville. Captain Schultz, the project engineer, was hiring a civilian survey crew, and I applied for the transitman job. I was hired the next day, evidently on Professor Arnold’s recommendation.

Captain Schultz must have found my work satisfactory, because during that first month he offered me a job as a transitman on an airport survey in Juneau, Alaska, starting at the completion date of our airport in October 1942. At that time, Alaska was not yet a state. I was ready to go, but first I would have to get the approval of the draft board in Eureka. The draft board, however, said that if I accepted the offer they would have to draft me immediately, because if they let me leave the United States, they might never get me back.

I visualized the mud I would encounter in the Infantry and the salt spray in the Navy, and decided to enlist in the Army Air Corps, which I did on July 7, 1942. And that was before I had even seen the Air Corps pilot’s spiffy uniform of forest green blouse and “pink” cavalry twill slacks.

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Neb Roscoe went on to a long and distinguished career in aviation. Renowned in his field, he wrote many books and articles on aviation psychology. A native Humboldter, he also wrote about Humboldt County history. The above piece is one of Neb’s last completed writings.

It is with profound sadness that we announce the sudden passing of Neal Dean Ewald, age 70, on April 30, 2026, in Trinidad.

Born on May 20, 1955, in Santa Cruz, California, Neal lived each day with a spirit that was both gentle and vibrant, leaving a lasting mark on everyone fortunate enough to know him.

Neal had a remarkable way of making ordinary moments extraordinary — whether through a shared laugh, a thoughtful gesture, or the quiet strength he offered in times of need.

He was a graduate of Soquel High School, Class of 1973, earned a Bachelor of Science in Forest Management from the University of California, Berkeley in 1978, and later received his Master of Business Administration from Humboldt State University in 1990.

Originally from Santa Cruz County, Neal moved to Arcata in 1978 to begin his distinguished career in forestry before settling in Trinidad, where he met his wife and started a family. His 45-year career in forestry encompassed every aspect of timber harvesting and management, culminating in his retirement in 2022 as Chief Operating Officer of Green Diamond Resource Company.

Neal dedicated much of his life to his profession, where his integrity, leadership, and dedication inspired those around him. Beyond his deep love for the forest and his many professional accomplishments, he found great joy in the ocean, becoming a certified diver and traveling the world with his family to premier diving destinations. These passions were more than hobbies; they were reflections of his adventurous spirit, generosity and profound appreciation for life.

Family was at the heart of everything Neal did. He cherished being a father and, most recently, a grandfather. He was deeply loved and will be profoundly missed by his son and daughter-in-law, Zachary and Emily (Tomchak) Ewald, and grandson Liam Ewald of Shoreline, Washington; his daughter and son-in-law, Annie (Ewald) Cappon and Kevin Cappon, and granddaughter Quinn Cappon of Santa Barbara; his sister and brother-in-law, Jo Ann (Ewald) and Jon Allen of Santa Cruz; and his long-time companion Polly Endert of Trinidad; along with numerous nieces, nephews, great-nephews and countless friends who became family. Each carries treasured memories of shared adventures, quiet moments, and unconditional love.

Neal was preceded in death by his beloved wife, Wendy Steinkamp Ewald, with whom he is now reunited in peace.

A memorial gathering will be held on June 20, 2026, at 2 in the afternoon at the Trinidad Town Hall, where stories will be shared, tears and laughter will mingle, and the beauty of Neal’s life will be celebrated.

In lieu of flowers, the family encourages donations to Hospice of Humboldt County, honoring the compassion and generosity that defined his life.

Though his time here feels far too brief, Neal’s light will continue to shine in the hearts of all who loved him, and the depth of his impact will be felt for generations to come.

Jean Marie Hague was born July 24, 1941 in La Crosse, Wisconsin, to Jerome and Helen (Lepsch) Hundt. Jeanie had a younger brother, Stanley Hundt.

Jeanie and her family moved from La Crosse, after she finished kindergarten, to the Sun Valley neighborhood in the San Fernando Valley. She attended Our Lady of the Holy Rosary, and graduated from Polytechnic High School in 1959. During high school, Jeanie had a host of babysitting gigs and often boasted about her famous clientele. She was proud to buy her first car with babysitting income.

Upon graduation, she was employed at a savings and loan, and a high-end department store in SoCal, proud that she “ran the place for years.”

From 1968-1969 she lived on a sailboat in the Caribbean. She often told grand tales of this time, living mostly off of canned goods — she didn’t really like fish. Her favorite memories of the sailboat adventures were the people she met along the way.

After years of boating adventures in tropical places, Jeanie landed back in Sun Valley. In the late 1970s, Jeanie rode with a friend in their VW bus to Humboldt County. They lived modestly in Trinidad, where Jeanie cleaned houses for wealthy families in the neighborhood, and she formed relationships that lasted a lifetime. 

Eventually, Jeanie started to work at Humboldt Coffee Shop in Eureka, during which she bought a home in Cooper Gulch (Eureka), which was in poor condition, but Jeanie had a million friends that pitched in and offered their skillsets to fix it up. She created an artsy abode that she cherished for years to come, often wanting to drive by long after selling the place.

Jeanie met Jack Hague at the coffee shop — their first “date” was a trip to Pierson Building Center for supplies. Jack made Jeanie feel like a queen and they were deeply in love. They were married in 1989 and moved to McKinleyville, into a brand new house that Jack had built overlooking the 10th hole of Beau Pre Golf Course. 

Jack and Jeanie often travelled to their home in Rosarito, Baja California, Mexico. This was Jeanie’s happiest place. She LOVED Mexico. The sun, the people, her neighbors, the food, the lifestyle, and the language. Friends often visited and spent time there. 

In 2011, Jack died at home, cared for in his final days by Jeanie. He was the love of her life, but she put one foot in front of the other and kept seeing the beauty in life. 

Jeanie was not one to sit idle. She belonged to a McKinleyville book club, where she met her best friend Fran Armstrong, a companion for life. They stayed true to a 5 p.m. telephone wine date, right up until the last few months. She proudly volunteered in the Emergency Department (where she developed a friendship with Jen Foesig) and Chemotherapy Clinic at St. Joseph Hospital, poured wine at the Morris Graves Museum of Art, and spent 35 years with Ink People. She never met a stranger!

An avid reader of books, magazines, and newspapers, Jeanie also painted with watercolors, stayed current with world events, loved to walk around the neighborhood, putter in her garden, hold conversations with an open mind, play cribbage with her “clubhouse friends” on Friday nights, and listen to her favorite band, Pink Floyd. JEANIE WAS THE LIFE OF THE PARTY! As she slowed, she loved to sit in her recliner by the window, watching the golfers and Turner Classic Movies. 

We are grateful for the care received by the staff at Providence St. Joseph Hospital, PACE, and Hospice of Humboldt. She had a beautiful view of redwood trees and the best care team at the Ida Emmerson Hospice House, where she passed into her next adventure on April 13th, 2026. 

Jeanie enjoyed many regular visitors, including Jesus Toscano-Medina, Monica Topping-Adams, Amy Pollock, Carrie Badeaux, Don and Kathy Miller and LB, Carol Palmer, Naomi Abbot, Jim and Diane Ravelli, Chad Regan, Jill Spriggs, and regular phone calls from Fran. Always a collector of the best people, Jeanie was the center of a constellation of people, many of whom only got to know each other because of her.

Jeanie is survived by sister-in-law Sue Hundt; Jack’s grandchildren, to whom she became “grandma,” Justin (daughter Brisha and Brisha’s mom Cata), Brandon, and Tanya Hague; niece and nephew Heather Hundt (Sean Goodchild) and Tim (Ana, daughters Chanel and Katrina) Hundt.

Jeanie loved Humboldt County, her friends and family and felt she had a wonderful life, until the final days.

A Celebration of Life will take place on Saturday, July 18 from 1 to 4 p.m. at Beau Pre Golf Course in McKinleyville. Per Jeanie’s request, we will wear black attire (to coordinate with her final outfit in her favorite color), and enjoy some of her favorite refreshments and Mexican food. There will be an opportunity to share stories.

In lieu of flowers, please make a donation to your favorite nonprofit, or consider a gift to Hospice of Humboldt or the Ink People in Jeanie’s memory.

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The obituary above was submitted on behalf of Jean Hague’s family. The Lost Coast Outpost runs obituaries of Humboldt County residents at no charge. See guidelines here. Email news@lostcoastoutpost.com.

Mike passed away April 2026 peacefully in his recliner with his book on his lap in Eureka.

He was born in 1950 in Tacoma, Wash., then moved with his family to Cutten in 1954.

Mike was 76 years old.

He is survived by two daughters: Brandy (Alberto) and grandchildren Kianna, Kylie and Krista; Jennifer (Jeff) and grandchildren Dustin, Brittani and Charlie and great-granddaughter Lennox.

Mike was also survived by numerous nieces and nephews.

He was preceded in death by his parents Beverly and Edward Schmidt, and his great-granddaughter Natalia.

Mike was the fourth of seven children: Jo Anne Oliveira (Clarence), Bruce Heddinger (Margi), Diane Wolff (Steve), Carol, Edward Jr., Luanne (Matt) and half-brother James Heddinger (Lisa).

A 1968 graduate of Eureka High School, Mike played football, basketball and was the lead trumpet in the Logger Band. As a teenager he started pit crewing for his dad’s stock car at Redwood Acres, as well as Nyle Henderson and Dave Henderson later. He really enjoyed being in the pits and helped many race teams throughout the years.

Mike was very proud to serve his country. He was drafted into the United States Army in 1969, where he was assigned to the 101st Airborne Division. During the Vietnam War he was awarded the Army Commendation Medal and the Bronze Star.

He worked in several jobs as a mechanic and foreman. He advanced and then retired from Humboldt County Public Works Division after 30+ years. Mike also owned and operated Babe’s Pizza in Cutten.

Mike had a passion for hunting. Starting with bird hunting at Tule Lake/Lower Klamath as a boy and then deer hunting with his family. He also was a conservationist in the forest, as many would see him on his quad picking up discarded aluminum cans that others had left unattended.

As a very active member of Elks Lodge and the Moose Lodge, you would see him along with his brother and good friend Bruce, cooking crab for the fund-raising dinners. An example of this was with Boy Scout Troop 54 crab dinner that ensure the boys could attend summer camp.

He was always helping in the kitchen or wherever he was needed. He had a great sense of humor and helped “hold up the bar” with his friends. Mike was easy going, loved by many and will be missed

The family would like to thank his special friends Cheryl and Jan for their friendship and kind hearts.

Celebration of life will be held for Mike at the Elks Lodge on Saturday, October 24 at 2 p.m.

PREVIOUSLY:

• Eureka’s Lamplighter Inn Shuttered Indefinitely After Two Mysterious Deaths
• Police Say Excess Carbon Monoxide Levels Were Noted in Lamplighter Motel Deaths; Causes of Deaths Still ‘Pending Investigation’

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A wrongful death lawsuit has been filed against the owners of Eureka’s shuttered Lamplighter Inn, where two people died in the same room five days apart.

The father of the second person, who died from carbon monoxide poisoning, is pursuing a lawsuit, which alleges the owners were negligent in their “reckless and inexcusable failure to provide even the most basic life-safety protections for guests,” according to the complaint.

The lawsuit, first filed April 1 in Humboldt County’s Superior Court, points to the hotel’s lack of carbon monoxide detectors and the fact two motel guests died under shockingly similar circumstances just days apart.

Police responded to calls at the motel on the afternoons of Feb. 21 and Feb. 26.

In both cases, responding officers located two victims, one of whom was declared dead at the scene and one who was sent to the hospital for treatment.

The lawsuit names owners Harjinder and Surinder Heer as defendants, along with a group of unidentified people. It argues the property should not have remained open to the public after the first deaths, and alleges the defendants failed to remedy the condition to prevent further deaths.

Attempts to reach the Heers were unsuccessful. Calls to numbers associated with the pair listed online went unanswered or were no longer in service, including the now-closed motel.

As a result of what the lawsuit calls negligence, Humboldt County resident Samantha Hanna died while staying in the hotel. Her father’s attorney told the Outpost she was found with three times the lethal dose of carbon monoxide, the cause of her death.

The day she was found dead, fire personnel experienced mild symptoms of carbon monoxide exposure upon entering the room, according to Eureka Police Department.

The complaint cites health and safety codes that require carbon monoxide detectors, an alleged failure to inspect and repair the hotel, and failure to warn the victim of the dangerous condition.

It alleges the owners chose profits over the safety of their guests.

John Jon Davidi, trial attorney for Los Angeles-area personal injury law firm Panish | Shea | Ravipudi LLP, said the situation should not have happened.

Particularly unique about this case, he said, is that the woman’s death followed another similar death just days before.

“This was a recurring problem that the owners of the property knew about and did nothing to remediate,” alleged Davidi.

He said hotel owners have a duty to people on the property to make sure they stay safe, particularly in preventing carbon monoxide poising, which he said is easily preventable.

Detectors for the odorless gas are mandatory in California hotel units with gas appliances. The hotel violated city code by failing to have working detectors, according to a March 3 notice from city officials.

The lawsuit seeks a jury trial and monetary penalty, according to legal documents.

Davidi added her father wants justice for his daughter, and for the people responsible for her death to be held responsible.

Next up, the defendants must answer the complaint.

Separately from this civil lawsuit, the Eureka Police Department continues to investigate the deaths, according to a spokesperson, who declined to comment further on the case.

According to the Humboldt County Coroner’s office, toxicity results for the first person who died have yet to come through. 

The motel has been shuttered since the second death on Feb. 26. Eureka city officials notified owners of a code violation related to working carbon monoxide detectors, according to a notice the Outpost obtained through a public records act request.