After we drove away from the adoption agency with an emptiness and sadness bigger than we could ever imagine, we parked our car on the street in Newport Beach. The homes around us were littered with twinkling Christmas cheer, but our home remained bleak and dark against the night sky, already blanketed with salty sea-fog. I didn’t want to leave the warmth of our car to step into our small home. I didn’t want to move forward and leave Matthew behind. I felt like I was stuck in the middle of the Red Sea — unsure what the other side would look like now I was changed by becoming a mom, but knowing I couldn’t go back to who I was when I wasn’t a mom. I felt stuck in the middle. Was I a mom, still, or not? I was certainly not who I once was, but wasn’t sure who I was now.

I felt glued to the grey upholstery in my red Honda Civic, experiencing an identity crisis like I never had before. Even with my naturally positive personality and ability to see the good in all situations, I felt depleted of those resources, unable to find a silver lining. I wondered if my propensity for positivity was a lie. I began to question my purpose and existence, since my entire life goal was to be a mom. Peeling myself from the car, I wondered what life would look like after mothering Matthew. We ambled up the walkway and unlocked our front door, greeted by the darkness. Even with its small size, our bungalow felt empty and cold when we walked in without our son. Our lives had forever been changed in that past month and our home housed those reminders within its walls.

I went back to work as a server at a local restaurant within a few days, trying to disengage from the pain and distract myself with being busy. I was someone who had no career aspirations beyond mothering, so working as a server was a fine fit. What I realized later was how fulfilling this job truly was, providing customers the best form of service and hospitality. It wasn’t merely a job. Caring for people was a calling, in the form of iced tea refills and extra Ranch dressing. Just maybe not forever.

My co-workers were gracious and kind and my bosses re-hired me immediately. The structure this work provided, and the uplifting atmosphere, allowed me to slip comfortably into routine again. Unfortunately, I primarily worked lunch shifts. This forced me to serve mamas holding and rocking and nursing their babies. Every table with an infant felt like a punch of sadness and jealousy to my gut, while my womb and arms remained empty.

In those days that followed giving Matthew back, I would drive home from work to a dark and cold house. The distractions of my day — taking orders, bussing tables, and greeting guests — were left in the break room, alongside my apron. Everything around me was decorated for Christmas, from the restaurants to the lamp posts. Surfing Santa and lit-up Duffy Boats in the harbor made it difficult to avoid how unprepared I was for this season. It was hard to think about Christmas when my world had been pulled out from under me. Twinkly lights and Christmas cheer bombarded me, and I couldn’t begin to think about how to celebrate. How could I celebrate the birth of my Savior when I felt like God had abandoned me? How could I decorate for the new Christ-Child when my child was gone? I quickly began to wallow and spiral into a space of bitter sadness, feeling utterly alone and unseen.

Christmas can be hard for so many people. Underneath the shiny bows, the perfectly placed tinsel and the Christmas party smiles, there is great loss, drowning grief, overwhelming anxiety and fear. There are chairs around tables left bare and empty because of death or estrangement or illness. My pain was my own, but I was not alone in grief; grief surrounds holidays. It feels difficult to live in the pain and brokenness this life brings our way while Jingle Bells and Christmas cheer batter our senses. We are either Scrooge by seeing everything as sadness, loneliness and fear, or we are shiny, happy people without a care in the world.

I found it strenuous, living in the paradox of both. Was I allowed to feel great loss while also celebrating the great joy of Christmas? Could I embrace the beauty and light of anticipating Christmas while admitting the fear and darkness of pain and loss?

The season of Advent is truly a paradox. I can imagine those last few weeks before the birth of Christ and Mary feeling unsettled. The church tends to gift-wrap Advent with words like hope, joy, peace and love. The minute December hits we light up the sky, sing “O Come All Ye Faithful” and put baby Jesus in the manger throughout the month. But traditionally Advent wasn’t bright Target ads and sparkly Christmas parties. Advent was dark and reflective, creating rising anticipation of Christ’s birth, with every Sunday bringing a little more light through each candle lit until the brightest Christ candle declared Joy to the World.

Within the Christmas story and within all of life, we live in paradox. We are people who can see the good within the bad, who can claim the joy within the grief, who make brave choices in the midst of being scared. The Christmas story is just that. It’s a paradox. It’s God putting on skin to live with God’s creation. It’s all things holy and glorious being born out of blood and sweat and feces into the messiness of life.

It’s chaos and peace.

My husband and I came home from work a week after we placed Matthew into the social worker’s arms to find our home had been decorated for us. Instead of a dark shack, we arrived at a warm bungalow. Instead of our home blending into the background, fading from sight, it was lit with joy and comfort. My sister Annalisa, who was working at Starbucks and barely had enough to pay her own bills, had gone to Target. She purchased Christmas lights, a tree for our home, a wreath for our door, stockings to be hung. She had done something for us that we couldn’t have done for ourselves. She saw a need in our lives because she was paying attention. She didn’t try to fix our pain or tell us everything was going to be okay. She simply showed up. She became God’s love for us.

Our lives are a paradox, and it’s when we allow our hearts to be open to giving thanks, to being thankful, we can begin to see joy in the midst of grief. We live in paradox through gratitude.

So may you give thanks and claim the good even when everything seems unbearable. May you trust God is with you in your hardship, and may you know you are loved. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you.

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Bethany Cseh is a pastor at Arcata United Methodist Church and Catalyst Church. 

This last year I went to Mexico over President’s Week with my oldest daughter. A group of us went down and had the privilege of serving at a few orphanages.

One of the men we met ran transitional housing for young men in their late teens. He grew up in rural Mexico, moved to the States in his teenage years — didn’t make good choices as a young man, but eventually got married and had a successful career. While he gave us a tour of the buildings, he emphasized how he could have golfed his way through retirement in Southern California, but felt called to return to his community in Mexico to serve. I’m sure he still likes to golf; nothing wrong with that. But his life became about more than accumulation and recreation.

His story reminded me of one of the things we say at Johnson Wealth Management: we aim to help people live and leave a legacy. This is because we believe that investing is never meant to be just about yourself.

Building wealth is not a bad thing; it’s a good thing. But when it’s an end in itself it can be meaningless. Money — like life — can go poof and be gone in an instant. All of us live and leave something. Even if you never give away a dime in your lifetime, you will when you die.

Investing, financial planning, and wealth building needs a “why.” It’s too easy to get stuck on what to invest in and how to implement a strategy, but the why should guide it all.

So, what’s the why behind your wealth?

Far too often wealth-building can be used as a means to withdraw from the world. To avoid the hard things. To insulate ourselves from human suffering. Paradoxically, we become less human when we ignore or avoid human weakness. True wealth — holistic wealth — is meant to engage with needs like human poverty, suffering and brokenness.

Our trip reminded me of something else too. When you are surrounded by those with great needs — physical, relational and financial — and when you are looking to actively fill those needs with presence and service, you tend to not get so caught up with what someone said on social media about the latest daily outrage, or who might be predicting the next market crash, or whether interest rates change at the next Fed meeting, or the latest political soap opera.

The news wants to sell you more news, not make you a wiser person and investor. Some of the things we get caught up on in our dopamine-driven, attention-economy take our attention away from the things that matter most — the people and needs right in front of you.

The seventeenth-century French philosopher and mathematician, Blaise Pascal, said it best: “Man’s sensitivity to little things and insensitivity to the greatest things are marks of a strange disorder.”¹ To put it plainly, we should spend the most time, energy, and resources on things that matter most.

This season of Christmas reminds us that giving is better than receiving. Joy is not found in money alone but in sharing wealth.

Warren Buffett himself understands some of this. In a recent shareholder letter, he wrote,

I am also lucky that my philanthropic philosophy has been enthusiastically embraced – and widened – by both of my wives. Neither I, Susie Sr. nor Astrid, who succeeded her, believed in dynastic wealth …

It also has been a particular pleasure to me that so many early Berkshire shareholders have independently arrived at a similar view. They have saved — lived well — taken good care of their families — and by extended compounding of their savings passed along large, sometimes huge, sums back into their society …

[My kids] have each spent far more time directly helping others than I have. They enjoy being comfortable financially, but they are not preoccupied with wealth.²

Preoccupation with money is poison. Get to the bottom of how to use the money and time you’ve been given as an intentional tool for the greatest things in life.

“I’m not Warren Buffett,” you might say. Few people are. The size of the gift is not what matters.

Jesus of Nazareth pointed that out a long time ago when drawing attention to the gift of a poor widow that outdid the rich: “this poor widow has put in more than all of them, for all of them have contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty has put in all she had to live on” (Luke 21:3-4, NRSV).

You can give a ton and it means nothing.

You can give nearly nothing and it means everything.

Poverty of pocketbook and poverty of heart are two different things.

Don’t get me wrong. Doing great things isn’t always going on a trip to serve communities affected by various kinds of poverty (though I encourage it!). Nor does it need to be writing a massive check to an institution, church, hospital or nonprofit (though I encourage that too!). Greatness can be doing seemingly small things over and over again. Sometimes those things, those needs, and those people are right in front of you.

Look.

Then give.

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Sources:

1. Pensées, Penguin Classics, p. 237.

2. November 25, 2024. Accessed online.

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Brandon Stockman has been a Wealth Advisor licensed with the Series 7 and 66 since the Great Financial Crisis of 2008. He has the privilege of helping manage accounts throughout the United States and works in the Fortuna office of Johnson Wealth Management. You can sign up for his weekly newsletter on investing and financial education or subscribe to his YouTube channel. Securities and advisory services offered through Prospera Financial Services, Inc. | Member FINRA, SIPC. This should not be considered tax, legal, or investment advice. Past performance is no guarantee of future results.

A bird’s eye view of “Sand Island” from Google Earth.

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Have you ever noticed that little island out in the middle of Arcata Bay? At just 1.8 acres, it’s pretty easy to miss — only visible from the water’s edge when the sea lions sprawl on its shores. 

For decades, local fishermen and hunters have referred to the small swath of land as “Sand Island,” but no one ever bothered to have the name added to the national Geographic Names Information System. A proposal submitted to the U.S. Board on Geographic Names earlier this year seeks to replace the unofficial name with “Skate Island” after the “skates that reside in Humboldt Bay surrounding the island,” the proposal states. (In this case, “skate” refers to a flat-bodied, cartilaginous fish, similar to a ray.)

The proposal, submitted by Blue Lake resident Jack Malast, asserts that most Humboldt County residents are oblivious to the island’s existence. “I believe it requires a name because it is a relatively untainted area of wilderness on the Humboldt Bay,” Malast wrote in the proposal. “Having a name would give people a little bit more of a reason to remember it, and to consider its existence.”

Renaming a geographical feature is a lengthy process. Before the proposal is submitted to the U.S. Board on Geographic Names for review, a federal employee has to get feedback from local stakeholders.

“Basically everyone I received feedback from thought the naming proposal should be denied,” Jeffrey Ferguson, a navigation manager with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Office of Coast Survey, wrote in an email to the Outpost. “That is the recommendation I made to the NOAA rep to the U.S. Board on Geographic Names.”

As you might guess, most of the people Ferguson spoke with said the little patch of land has always been referred to as Sand Island and felt it should stay that way. 

“I’m not particularly supportive of the idea,” longtime fisherman Ken Bates wrote in an emailed statement to Ferguson. “The Sand Island that we are referring to in North Humboldt Bay, is a human-constructed artifact of sand and small gravels dredged from the channel adjacent to the Arcata Long Wharf back in the 1800s. … All of the oyster companies have referred to this artifact as ‘Sand Island’ and … [it] is also the name used by the duck hunting community.”

Bates added that “skates are a rarity” in Humboldt Bay, noting, “I don’t see how the name ‘Skate Island’ would be particularly descriptive of this place … why don’t we just keep the local name and call it Sand Island?”

Humboldt Harbor Safety Committee Chair Leroy Zerlang agreed, adding that fishermen, oystermen, hunters, bird watchers and even the Humboldt County Sheriff’s Office have called the bit of land Sand Island “for a very long time.”

“The little island is known as Sand Island and has been … as long as I can remember, and I’m old,” Zerlang wrote in an emailed statement to NOAA. “I would say it is Sand Island and should remain Sand Island.”

Ferguson made a recommendation to deny the proposal to the California Advisory Committee on Geographic Names, which met for its quarterly meeting on Dec. 13. The committee agreed to forward Ferguson’s recommendation to the U.S. Board on Geographic Names for a final decision, though it’s not likely to pass.

“[H]owever, the official board could decide not to take my recommendation,” Ferguson noted. “I believe at this point, it still sits at the national level, and would be passed to the California Advisory Committee on Geographic Names for agreement or for the CA Board to argue they want to override the National recommendation.”

I know what you’re thinking. Who cares about naming a patch of sand in the middle of the bay? Most people don’t even know it’s there! I can’t even see it from the shore! Well, it’s mostly for the seafaring folk.

“NOAA typically cares most about names that appear on our nautical charts,” Ferguson said. “We want to avoid a name change causing confusion to mariners.”

The proposal is en route to the U.S. Board on Geographic Names, though it’s not clear when the board will make a decision. We’ll report back when we know more.

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Environmentalists have a reputation for being a bit too doom-and-gloom. But what gives us hope?

Jen Kalt of Humboldt Waterkeeper, Alicia Hamann of Friends of the Eel River, Colin Fiske of the Coalition for Responsible Transportation Priorities and Tom Wheeler of the Environmental Protection Information Center join the show to discuss the things that give them hope.

Need a dose of hope?

• Public Transit Wins Big in Local Elections
• California’s Pace of Emissions Cuts Is Accelerating, Report Finds
• Eel River Fish Counts
• Digawututklh Returned

“The EcoNews Report,” Dec. 21, 2024

(Sorry, no transcript this week.)

My father always welcomed an opportunity to go back up into the hills of Showers Pass where he was born and raised, forty miles from our home in Eureka. The weekend before Christmas usually found us going there to cut a Christmas tree. Dad whistled a little tune as the car toiled up the mountain road in second gear, and in some steeper places, in first gear, while my sisters and I sat in the back seat and clung to each other and the hanging straps inside each door. The roads were mostly one lane, with occasional turnouts for passing. Drivers tooted their horns on curves to warn oncoming traffic. If two cars met on a steep part of the narrow mountain trace, the car coming downhill had to hack up to a wide spot to let the other car pass. When the road traversed a cliff on one side, high above the treetops, we girls shut our eyes tight until we had passed that part. Even so, we knew we were safe with our dad, who would never let anything harm us. Would our lives always be this secure? We thought so.

We traveled past Freshwater, where my father’s “little orchestra,” as he called his small band, played for grange dances. Then our car climbed up hairpin turns to Kneeland, and on up to the mountaintop where the road became more level and followed the ridge. Many of Dad’s childhood friends still lived up there. He always stopped at the different ranches to visit a few minutes or just say hello. Sometimes we went as far as the old Iaqua School house, another place where Dad’s musical group played for dances. On the west side of the ridge road, we passed hills covered in dry summer grass, dotted with an occasional spreading oak tree, the country my dad had grown up in and where he had learned to hunt. He was an outdoorsman who happened to have three daughters. No sons. At times friends would tease him about his lack of a son to go hunting with him, but my father always told them he was happy with his three girls. He would not trade us for boys.

We always wanted to take home some of the mistletoe that hung in clumps from the topmost branches of the oak trees, too high to reach. Dad would stop the car and take his twenty-two rifle from the trunk, load it, and shoot the mistletoe out of the trees. We took home the rubbery- leafed bunches trimmed with waxy, pearl-like berries, tied them with a red ribbon, and hung them in the doorways in case a prince charming should come along. We were such dreamers.

Douglas fir and redwood trees grew on the east exposure of the mountains. Maybe it rained more there, or there was less sunlight. This area seemed better suited to conifers. My older sister, Pat, was in charge of deciding which tree to cut. In her estimation, it had to touch the ceiling in the living room of our small 1920s-style bungalow on Harris Street. We found the perfect tree, sawed it down, and helped Dad tie it onto the top of the car for the trip home. There he built a stand from scraps of two by fours and carried the tree into the house. I always tried to help carry it, and he let me do that, although I was probably more hindrance than help. We set the tree beside the large front window in the living room.

My sisters and I decorated the tree. Pat knew exactly how to put on the colored lights: red, amber, blue, green. She draped ropes of silver tinsel from one branch to another. Then my little sister, Betty, and I could help with the ornaments our mother had wrapped carefully in tissue paper and saved from year to year; fragile, ornate tree baubles made from paper-thin glass in different shapes, and tinted in various colors. Betty and I each had a bell ornament made of the same thin material, that had been given to us by Amy Winston, who stayed with us on the rare occasions my parents needed to go somewhere without children. Betty’s glass bell was pink and mine was my favorite shade of soft green.

The final step in decorating our tree was to hang silvery icicles from all the branches, putting them on one at a time to be sure they would hang straight down and shimmer in the glow of the colored tree lights. This was a tedious job we soon tired of, but we kept at it, because icicles made the tree look so nice. Dad reached up to put on the top decoration — an ornament resembling the spires in Russian architecture: a round decorated glass ball with a tall point that touched the ceiling. Mother took a white sheet from her linen closet, shook it out and bunched it up around the base to simulate snow and to hide the wooden stand. Finally, our tree was decorated. We turned on the colored lights and stood back to admire our hard work. Beautiful. A Christmas tree out of a fairy tale.

There were not many presents under the tree during the 1930s, and we did not hang up our stockings to be filled, but Mother saw to it that everyone had something — all the aunts and uncles and grandparents — besides our own family of five. When we were very young, it was a tradition on Christmas Eve to go for a ride through the town after the dinner dishes were done and admire the outdoor lighting displays. Imagine our surprise when we came back home to find that Santa had been to our house while we were gone and had left gifts for my sisters and me under the tree. How could he have done that? How could we have missed him? It was a puzzle.

One year a few weeks before Christmas, our whole family dressed in our best clothes and went Christmas shopping in downtown Eureka. This was a rare occasion in the 1930s. At the Woolworth’s Five and Ten-Cent Store, we girls chose new ecru cotton stockings for Aunt Carrie, and a set of little juice glasses with oranges painted on them, and held in a green-painted wire rack, for our mother. A book for our father. Then we went to Lincoln’s Stationery Store on Fifth Street and climbed the steps to the toy balcony where Betty and I found large baby dolls with composition heads, arms and legs, and stuffed bodies. Their short, blonde hair was soft, and curly. Their eyes opened and closed, and they cried, “Mama,” when we tipped them back and forth. That Christmas, Santa left these baby dolls under the tree for us. Not until years later did I discover this was the very same store where my mother’s first doll had been purchased — her father’s hired man bought the doll for her, while she lay with a broken hip in the brand new Sequoia Hospital on Main Street.

We usually “had our tree” on Christmas Eve, because on Christmas morning, my mother was busy getting dinner ready in time to be served by two o’clock in the afternoon. After we had opened our gifts on Christmas Eve, Mother went back into the kitchen to chop prodigious amounts of celery and onion, ready to make stuffing for the turkey first thing in the morning. Pumpkin and mince pies had been baked that day with a tablespoon of spirits sprinkled over each mincemeat pie before the latticework crust went on.

In 1934, the Christmas I was seven years old, a Shirley Temple doll sat under the tree just for me, I loved Shirley Temple, read every book about her that I could get my hands on, and knew all about the playhouse in her back yard in Santa Monica, My doll sat under the Christmas tree with her curly top, her famous dimples, and her smile showing tiny white teeth. She was the most perfect doll a little girl could want — not too big, nor too small. She was just right. I carried her around with me all day. Eventually, walking by the dining room table, I noticed a box with my doll’s name printed on it. I ran to my mother and told her Santa forgot to take my doll’s box away with him. She laughed and hurried away with the box, but I knew right then who Santa Claus really was.

One Christmas, a few years later, Betty and I received special gifts from one of our father’s oldest friends, Clarence Haugen, whose children were grown and who lived alone. We included him in many family occasions. He was a sign painter by trade and had painted the sign with a huge fish — a steelhead — that could be seen for many years on Highway 101 going south near Loleta. That Christmas, he gave Betty and me art tablets of drawing paper, and boxes of water color paints, a thoughtful gift for children who liked to draw things.

As we girls grew older, Christmases changed, but the tree still always had to touch the ceiling. Pat always put on the tree lights. Dad always put on the top ornament. We discontinued the ride to view Christmas lights on Christmas Eve, as we all knew who Santa was. Besides, during the war years, outdoor lighting was kept to a minimum. But we still kept our tradition of singing Christmas carols. I loved the beautiful harmonies we sisters created when we blended our voices together. Although my father loved to play the violin while I played the piano, strangely enough, I do not recall that we ever played Christmas carols together.

Most of Dad’s time was spent earning a living for us in his gas station and auto repair shop, which was next door to our house. He usually went back out after dinner, and sometimes worked until two or three in the morning. He kept one of his violins out in his work shop, and sometimes, if he was working extra late to get a job out for somebody by the next day, he might stop, take the violin down from where it hung on the wall out of harm’s way, and play a little music to soothe his soul. On the evenings he did not have to go back out to the shop, he would play the violin he kept in the house. When Dad played his violin, it seemed that everything was all right. We were safe, wrapped in the soothing notes of his music.

A week before Christmas 1944, we had put up our tree once more. The tip touched the ceiling. The colored lights sent their rays reflecting from the silvery icicles in holiday splendor. My father had been ill for some months, although he still did his work. Mother spent more time in the shop helping where she could, not only keeping the books, but winding armatures for motors, and pumping gas for customers. The doctors had been treating Dad for stomach ulcers, but had finally decided it must be something else. He could not keep anything down. Everything he ate came right back up. Dad sat exhausted in the big overstuffed chair by the fireplace that day and admired our Christmas tree. He said he thought it was the prettiest tree we had ever had.

I never saw him again. Early the next morning. Mother took him to General Hospital, across Harris Street from our house. Exploratory surgery was done that day. Cancer was found choking off the colon. He was too weak to survive the surgery. My father didn’t like funerals. I had often heard him say after he had been to one, that he didn’t want everyone sad and carrying on when it was his time. No crying. He wanted some music and maybe even dancing to celebrate the wonderful life he had lived. He was only forty-six years old.

At the funeral the day before Christmas, I did not cry. My father had said not to cry, so I didn’t, although it was hard to keep back the tears. After the funeral we returned to our house that felt cold and empty without him. The prettiest tree we ever had stood in all its tinseled glory with packages underneath it.

Mother decided our father would have wanted us to open our gifts in his memory. I slowly opened my packages. The house was too still — too quiet. Where was the music he had wanted? There was no joy in the world without him.

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The story above is excerpted from the Winter 2009 issue of the Humboldt Historian, a journal of the Humboldt County Historical Society. It is reprinted here with permission. The Humboldt County Historical Society is a nonprofit organization devoted to archiving, preserving and sharing Humboldt County’s rich history. You can become a member and receive a year’s worth of new issues of The Humboldt Historian at this link.

Press release from the Humboldt County Department of Health and Human Services:

Wednesday, Dec. 18, was a day of long-awaited celebration, as staff from the Hoopa Valley Tribe’s Division of Human Services and the Humboldt County Department of Health & Human Services (DHHS) cut the ribbon on their new co-located space at 68 Orchard St. in Hoopa. 

Hoopa Valley Tribal Vice Chairman Jordan Hailey said it’s “exciting” that the county and tribe will be working more closely. “I believe better relationships, closer ties and collaboration will help to better serve the community as a whole as best as we can,” he said. “I am really excited to see what the future brings.” 

DHHS Director Connie Beck agreed and said the push to co-locate staff has been years in the making. “I first started working on this project with past Hoopa Human Services Director Millie Grant several years ago,” she said. “Seeing it come to fruition is absolutely amazing.
CWS Indian Child Welfare Act (ICWA) Program Manager Pamela Miller said, “The county and Tribe already work together and have a strong relationship, and this closeness in proximity will serve to make it stronger.” 

Prior to moving into the newly renovated facility, DHHS staff maintained an office at the K’ima:w Medical Center in Hoopa with one local employee. This move makes is possible for DHHS to have an Eligibility Specialist, Behavioral Health Clinician and four Social Workers, including two assigned to ICWA ongoing cases.  

Over the years, it has been challenging for DHHS to hire individuals who could move to the Hoopa-area to work at these jobs, or find people who were already residents, and for years, staff from Eureka took turns commuting to and from Hoopa to cover the vacancies. The travel time reducing the amount of time staff could provide services. Today, all six staff currently housed in the Hoopa office also live in the surrounding areas.  

Humboldt County Fifth District Supervisor Steve Madrone thanked the Hoopa community members, the Hoopa Tribal Council and all the staff involved. “What a beautiful day this is,” he said. “So many people have worked so hard to help make this happen. We at the county are honored to be part of this. Thank you for inviting us to be your partners.”

CWS Social Worker IV Ella Kane, who works out of the new Hoopa office on social worker recruitment and retention, is a lifelong resident of eastern Humboldt and a longtime social worker. “I see this co-location as a way to increase access to essential resources that are not always available when living in our rural community,” she said. “Hiring social workers who live in the community helps ensure they have an understanding of the unique needs and challenges the children and families experience.” 

CWS Director Amanda Winstead echoed Kane’s sentiments. “A space like this lets Tribal and county staff work side-by-side in new ways to support children to stay safe in their family and community. This is another step in our collaboration and partnership with the Hoopa Tribe—I am so grateful and appreciative of all the work and persistence both Tribal and county staff have put in to make this happen.”

Kane agreed, saying, “This new co-location has been a long time coming. I am so thankful it is finally here.”  

DHHS services available at the new Hoopa location include Child Welfare Services, Behavioral Health and assistance with CalWORKs, CalFresh, Medi-Cal and General Relief and Transportation Assistance programs.

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Press release from the California Highway Patrol:

SACRAMENTO – As families prepare to celebrate the holidays, the California Highway Patrol (CHP) reminds everyone to prioritize safety on the road. To keep travelers safe throughout the busy holiday season, the CHP is initiating the first of two statewide Maximum Enforcement Periods (MEP) this month to reduce traffic incidents by targeting unsafe driving behaviors and assisting motorists.

The CHP’s Christmas MEP begins at 6:01 p.m. on Tuesday, December 24, and continues until 11:59 p.m. on Wednesday, December 25. During this period, the CHP will increase patrols throughout the state to deter dangerous driving behaviors, including impaired driving, speeding, distracted driving and seat belt violations. The CHP also encourages the public to report unsafe drivers by calling 9-1-1.
 
“This time of year is about celebrating with family and friends, but it’s also a time when traffic incidents increase due to poor driving decisions,” said CHP Commissioner Sean Duryee. “Each of us has a role in making California’s roads safer. Let’s work together to keep this holiday season free of tragedy.” Last year, during the 78-hour Christmas MEP, 20 people lost their lives in crashes within CHP jurisdiction. In addition, CHP officers made over 900 arrests for driving under the influence.
 
Let’s make safety our top priority on the road! Buckle up, drive responsibly, and if you’re celebrating, always plan for a sober ride. Your thoughtful choices can help prevent crashes and keep California’s roads safe for everyone. Celebrate wisely and drive with care!
 
The mission of the CHP is to provide the highest level of Safety, Service, and Security.