When I entered high school around the year 2000, a relatively new holiday started appearing on the calendar: Cesar Chavez Day.

Growing up in a farming community, with a father who worked as a farm laborer, it felt meaningful. In school, we were taught that Chavez was a civil rights leader who co-founded the United Farm Workers and fought for fair wages, safer working conditions and dignity through nonviolent action. He was often compared to Martin Luther King Jr., a figure of advocacy and change.

As a teenager, I understood it more simply. It meant a day off from school.

As I got older, something began to feel off.

Cesar Chavez Day, now recognized in California and observed by many government agencies, often means closed offices and paused public services. The DMV closes. Courts close. Many local agencies close.

But the fields do not.

Farmworkers are still working on March 31. Planting schedules do not stop. Irrigation cycles do not pause. Agriculture moves forward, regardless of the calendar.

The people the holiday is meant to honor are, in many cases, still in the fields.

Meanwhile, many of those observing the holiday do so from outside that world, often with a paid day off.

That disconnect is hard to ignore.

This is not a criticism of government workers. It is a question about how we choose to recognize the people we say we value.

If the goal is to honor farmworkers, what does that look like in practice? Is it a closed office, or is it something more tangible? Better access to services? Stronger protections? Real improvements to working conditions?

The same thought comes to mind with other modern holidays.

Juneteenth, now a federal holiday, commemorates the end of slavery in the United States. It marks a profound and important moment in history.

But again, the way it is observed can feel uneven.

Government offices close. Banks close. Many institutions pause operations. Yet large portions of the workforce, particularly in service industries, continue working. Grocery stores remain open. Gas stations operate. Restaurants serve customers.

The holiday exists, but not everyone experiences it equally.

None of this diminishes the importance of the history being recognized. These are significant moments that deserve acknowledgment.

But it raises a question worth asking.

If a holiday is meant to honor someone’s work, it is worth asking why are they the ones still working?

Meanwhile, on a quiet stretch of road four miles outside town, a lone fruit stand sits at the intersection of work and home.

The other night, as I drove past, there was a pop-up tent, a collapsible table and crates of oranges and strawberries. One worker, bundled in 60-degree weather, waiting patiently for the next car to slow down.

Hard work, no doubt.

I do not know who this person is. I do not know their age, their story or their legal status. I do know that I have seen a van drop workers off in the morning and return long after dark. Hours pass between those moments. No restroom nearby. No shelter beyond canvas. I hope there is water in the cooler beside them.

Sitting so close to the highway, they are exposed. To weather. To strangers. To whatever may pull off the road.

When we talk about immigration enforcement, I often think less about slogans and more about scenes like that. If someone is here without proper documentation, are they being exploited? If someone is documented, are they being treated fairly? Who is responsible for their working conditions?

We talk about protecting borders. We should also talk about protecting people.

In our community, I have seen hardworking families navigate a citizenship process that is slow, expensive and confusing. I have seen others pay thousands of dollars to individuals who promise help and deliver very little.

There has to be a better way.

A process that is clear. A system that is efficient. A path that does not leave people vulnerable to abuse or desperation.

We can disagree on policy. We can debate numbers and visas and timelines. But at the end of the day, that person under the tent is not a headline. They are someone’s child. Someone’s parent. Someone trying to earn a living.

We are all somebody to someone.

The question is not just who should be here.

The question is how we treat the people who are.

“In lieu of flowers.” I see the phrase often in obituaries, perhaps more now than ever.

It is practical. It is well intentioned. Families suggest that, rather than spending money on arrangements that will fade days after a service, memorial contributions be made to a nonprofit or medical society. It makes sense. Grief is expensive enough.

But I cannot help noticing what disappears when those words appear.

Flowers are not just decoration. They soften a room. They add color and life to a space defined by loss. They are visible expressions of love, admiration and presence. Grief is heavy enough. A room brightened by arrangements feels less stark.

Have you ever attended a service with only a casket spray and a handful of family pieces? It is quiet. It is bare. The absence is noticeable.

When contributions are directed elsewhere, the donation may generate a thank you letter, a printed acknowledgment, perhaps a note in the newspaper. The funds may go on to do meaningful work. No doubt about that. But the impact is abstract. It does not fill a room.

Meanwhile, something more tangible absorbs the loss.

For decades, many small-town florist shops have done more than sell arrangements. They have sponsored youth sports teams, donated to the same charities listed in obituaries, supported service clubs and quietly contributed to the civic life of their communities. They have paid rent, utilities, payroll and taxes. They have trained employees and delivered comfort during some of life’s hardest days.

When “in lieu of flowers” becomes the default, those businesses feel it. A few fewer arrangements each service adds up. A few fewer delivery vans on the road. A storefront window that once changed with the seasons grows dim.

This is not an argument against charitable giving. It is a reminder that our choices ripple outward. The local economy is not a collection of isolated transactions. It is a web. Dollars spent at a hometown florist circulate differently than dollars mailed to a national office.

We often talk about supporting local businesses, about keeping our downtowns alive. Sometimes the erosion does not come from big box stores or online giants. Sometimes it comes from small, well-meaning shifts in habit.

There is one thing I can be certain of. “In lieu of flowers” will not appear in my obituary. Perhaps it will read, “Memorial contributions may be sent to…” But flowers will be welcome too.

Because sometimes, in a room full of grief, something living and temporary says more than a line in print ever could.

Car for sale. Thumb covering the license plate.

Youth baseball team photo before a game. License plate blacked out.

For years I found it curious. Why are we doing this?

A license plate is one of the most public identifiers we have. It is on display 24 hours a day. By law, you cannot cover it while driving. It is visible in your driveway, in the grocery store parking lot and in traffic on the highway. Anyone can see it at any time.

Yet the moment we post a photo online, we rush to hide it.

Most say it is about privacy. The internet is a dangerous place. Someone might search your plate, find your address or even clone it and commit a crime in your name. License plate cloning happens. The rest feels less certain.

If peace of mind is the goal, fine. But the gesture often feels symbolic. It looks awkward, and it protects very little.

Meanwhile, we post vacation photos in real time, advertising that no one is home. We share pictures of a brand-new 75-inch television. We upload mirror selfies that reveal the layout of our bedrooms. Those details are far more useful to a thief than a visible license plate in a parking lot.

When a vehicle was sold at a dealership, chances are its plate or VIN appeared in marketing photos before you ever owned it. Dealerships routinely publish VIN numbers so buyers can run a CarFax. That information is already public.

In the larger picture, a thumb over a license plate feels about as effective as winding up a digital camera. It is a ritual that makes us feel cautious without changing much.

There are practical ways to be safer online. Delay posting vacation photos until you return home. Be mindful of what is visible in the background. Avoid broadcasting routines. Even small details can be pieced together by a determined internet sleuth. Entire social media accounts are dedicated to identifying locations from subtle clues. It is impressive and unsettling.

There is already more information about you online than you realize. A simple search of a name and city can reveal addresses, phone numbers and partial family trees. The data exists whether we post photos of our cars or not.

If complete safety is the goal, the only guaranteed solution is absence. No posts. No photos. No digital footprint.

Maybe that is the real question. How much connection are we willing to trade for perceived security?

Or perhaps we log off once in a while and return to the real world. There’s a concept.

I scrolled through my Instagram profile the other day, the way one does when they seemingly have nothing better to do, or when nostalgia sets in.

There were moments of happiness, moments of pain, and reminders of how far things have come.

Once, I was so hopeful of a brighter future. A certificate of achievement from the Chamber of Commerce recognizing me as a valued contributor to the community. Snapshots of food establishments now shuttered, books once read now collecting dust, and beloved pets that are no longer with us.

I can look back at each post and recall that snapshot in time. I do not post as much as I used to.

I believed in the American dream. Work hard. Build it. Reap what you sow. However, I was blessed with an undesired crop and tainted soil. It’s not the cards we are dealt, but how we react to them.

Mistakes were made. I focused on fighting the old instead of building the new. I believed the lie we told ourselves, that “we were happy.”

As with most truths, it settles in slowly and you realize it is more than just a passing feeling.

My favorite flashback is of a podcast guest who once said, “We need a place where people can go to find information about their community and events.” She said it straight-faced to a newspaper publisher. I smiled. Ironic.

Do you ever feel like 2019 was the last real year? The last real year you retained a memory that was not obscured.

Maybe that is why the feed feels different now. Not because the photos changed, but because I did.

Disillusionment has a way of stripping things down. It removes the polish. It forces you to look at what was real and what was performance, even if the performance was only for yourself. The filtered square was not a lie, but it was not the whole truth either.

Somewhere along the way, I learned to be patient with myself. Not the kind of patience that waits for something to happen, but the kind that allows room for growth. I learned that mistakes are not indictments. They are instruction. The advice I so easily give others about resilience and perspective occasionally needs to be reflected back in the mirror.

It is easier to encourage someone else to start over than it is to admit you need to.

I am moving toward a life that feels more like mine. There have been significant changes, the kind that rearrange routines and unsettle expectations. For the first time in a long while, they feel right. Not flashy. Not triumphant. Just steady.

Perfection was never the goal, though I pretended it was. What I am after now is something quieter. It is not about being perfect. It is about perfectly being. Present. Honest. Willing to begin again when necessary.

When I scroll back through those old posts, I do not feel regret. I feel recognition. That was who I was. This is who I am becoming.

And maybe that is enough.

“I really wish someone would open a print shop in town,” she said in a room full of socialites.

I miss our local print shop too. I will admit, I did not use it as often as I could have. Being partially in the industry myself, I had other avenues for production. But from time to time I would place an order and walk into that shop on Market Street.

They retired, well earned after years of dedication and hard work serving our community. Running a print shop is not easy. Last-minute changes. Alignment issues. Typos discovered after the proof was approved. Customers who want one more tweak. I often wondered if that prompted the sign behind the counter with a cowboy pointing a revolver and the caption, “Go ahead, make one more change.” My kind of humor.

It would be easy to assume the closure was simply retirement. Perhaps it was. But in this industry, margins are thin and patience thinner. I heard it often: “I found this place online. It was really cheap.” Or, “I don’t go there anymore. They messed my project up.” Rarely do we revisit the proof with our own signature on it and admit that some mistakes are shared.

Online vendors can be cheaper. They can also be faceless. If something goes wrong, you email a ticket into the void. When something went wrong on Market Street, you walked back in the door and talked to someone who knew your name.

We talk often about supporting local businesses. We believe that buying a cookie at the neighborhood coffee shop means we have done our part for the month. I am sure they appreciate the sale. But one cookie does not cover rent, payroll and utilities.

Imagine handing out miniature candy bars on Halloween and declaring you have ended world hunger. It is generous, but it is not sustainable. Businesses require more than occasional goodwill. They require habit. Consistency. A decision to return even when it might cost a few dollars more.

Older generations talk about when downtown flourished. Part of that was necessity. Fewer options. Fewer roads leading elsewhere. The internet did not exist. Our phones were not portals to endless vendors across the country. Today we are overburdened with choice. We can drive an hour for detergent or order custom business cards at midnight from a warehouse three states away. “Have it your way” comes with a hidden cost.

Will there ever be another print shop downtown? Maybe. But it will not survive on nostalgia alone.

“We understand that this decision may be disappointing.”

That was the message on my screen when I logged into a game I had only recently begun to enjoy.

For those who know me, it may come as a surprise that I started playing World of Warcraft. I was never much of a gamer. I had a Game Boy and a Super Nintendo growing up. Tetris. Donkey Kong. Kirby’s Adventure. Pokémon Blue. Simple games I played from time to time.

In high school, I remember Half-Life being installed on a classroom computer. I played because my friends did. I was there for the company, not the competition.

I do not play solitaire on my computer.

I once had Tetris on my phone until an update forced advertisements into a game I had already paid for. That was the extent of my gaming career.

Fast forward to December. A friend introduced me to World of Warcraft. He spoke about it with such passion that it sparked my curiosity. He enjoyed it. It brought him joy. So I thought, why not? It could be something we do together.

I signed up and was immediately lost.

You create a character. You choose an alliance. You customize appearance and abilities. “Just pick what feels right,” I was told. I am a tall guy in real life, so naturally I chose the shortest character available: a dwarf hunter.

My first pet was a boar. “Name your boar,” the screen instructed. I pressed enter and left it as “Boar.” That felt like enough creativity for the moment.

My hands are built for typing, not navigating with W, A, S and D. Learning to move was an achievement. Walking up stairs felt like a victory. I fell off cliffs. Repeatedly. I got stuck behind trees. Once I lodged myself somewhere that required in-game assistance to free me. I died countless times.

Early on, I declined invitations to join groups or guilds. I did not want to be the weak link. I wanted to understand the basics first. Eventually I gave in and grouped with a few players just to see what it was like.

One time we were questing in an area with a particularly challenging villain. I attacked and defeated the boss villain. I also managed to get myself killed in the process. I characters spirit respawned at the cemetery and ran all the way back to resurrect help my group mate. I looted the villain upon my return. The group mate was upset because he had been too far away to share the reward when this all went down.

Maybe that was my offense. Maybe that was the moment I was flagged. Or maybe I just looked suspicious because I moved like someone who had never played before.

Slowly, though, something shifted. I began to enjoy it.

I liked the structure of the quests. The sense of direction. The satisfaction of turning in completed tasks and watching the quest log shrink. For someone whose brain thrives on checking items off a list, it was oddly calming. I even started crafting small stories in my head while sneaking up on enemies, hoping not to pull three at once and send myself back to the cemetery again.

After nearly two months, I reached level 40. That number felt significant. I was starting to understand my character’s abilities. I had theories about how to approach certain battles. I died less frequently. I even began to feel competent.

Then one morning I logged in and saw: “User banned. Account closed.”

I checked my email and my account had been closed due to “exploitative activity involving unauthorized cheat programs.”

Hacks, cheats? no way.

I could barely coordinate my movement keys. The idea that I was secretly running sophisticated cheat software was almost flattering.

I had two-factor authentication enabled. Every login required approval through an app. The only add-ons I used were common ones recommended by my friend, downloaded through standard channels: a quest helper and a status bar tool. From everything I researched at installation, they were normal.

There was no warning. No temporary suspension. No explanation beyond a template paragraph.

Nearly two months of effort. Of learning. Of dying and trying again. Gone overnight.

I searched forums. Some suggested I may have been reported as a “bot” because of erratic movements. That seems plausible. I probably did look like one. Other players glide through the terrain with precision. I sometimes tried to crawl up the side of a mountain that clearly was not designed to be climbed. I struggled with stairs. I walked into walls.

Apparently that’s enough to get banned?

Others said players sometimes report newcomers for poor performance during group activities. I think back to that boss fight. Did someone click “report” out of frustration?

I honestly do not know.

What I do know is that I was finally having fun.

I filed an appeal explaining the obvious: I am new. I am inexperienced. I am not sophisticated enough to run unauthorized programs. If anything, my gameplay should prove that.

Now I wait.

“We understand that this decision may be disappointing.”

Yes. It is.

“It’s your community, it’s your news.”

That was the tagline I wrote in August 2010 when I purchased the newspaper from a friend. It still resonates today.

The Pioneer Review began under Andrea Moore after she was laid off from the former Colusa Sun-Herald. She launched the paper solo, covering events, sharing favorite recipes and highlighting community voices. It was ambitious. It was personal. It was local.

At the time, I was running Lloyd’s Print and Copy. After a few months, Andrea approached me about helping with advertising design and layout. One thing led to another. When her husband was transferred out of state and the paper faced possible closure, I bought it.

“You are crazy,” my parents said. My mother was certain I had lost my mind. “Why do you want to own a newspaper?”

I did not have a polished answer. I just knew I loved informing the community. With another local publication slowly declining, I felt compelled to try.

For years, I ran the paper largely on my own. I covered events, sold ads, designed pages and delivered newspapers long into the night. Eventually we went weekly and earned adjudication as a Newspaper of General Circulation on Sept. 19, 2017. For a time, we had a full staff and momentum.

Then came the pandemic.

Readership grew. Advertising did not. A dollar per copy was not enough to sustain payroll, printing and overhead. We explored every avenue, including nonprofit status. I sat in meetings that felt less like partnerships and more like auctions.

One conversation changed everything.

I was offered a substantial sum of money, with conditions. Stop writing about certain topics. Grant final approval before publication. The paper could survive financially, but not ethically.

I walked away from that meeting, returned to my office and posted a “for sale” notice on LinkedIn.

I was exhausted. Years of headlines, deadlines and deliveries had taken their toll. Two or three hours of sleep was not uncommon. The criticism echoed louder than the praise.

Then came a phone call.

“There’s a man on the line who wants to buy the paper. He saw your LinkedIn post.”

That was Paul Scholl.

Within weeks, we reached an agreement. He would purchase the Pioneer Review. I would move on to screen printing and embroidery, convinced it was time for a different chapter.

For a while, I believed that.

In July 2025, after a conversation at home and more than a little reflection, I reached back out. My partner had observed that I spoke about my newspaper days with more energy than anything else. He was right. Therapy confirmed what I already knew.

This is what I am meant to do. Write.

I returned as a contractor, then began exploring full-time opportunities. On the night during Christmas Tyme, I received the offer. I accepted.

Nothing compares to sitting in the newsroom, a blank page glowing in front of you, the cursor blinking. A new chapter waiting to be written.

For eighteen years this publication has informed the community. I may no longer own the business, but I take pride in the work. Some decisions are beyond my control. The commitment to honest reporting is not.

Strong local journalism requires strong local support. Advertising is not charity. It is partnership. When businesses invest in these pages, they invest in accountability, in shared history and in a record that endures.

We attend the meetings so you can attend your children’s recitals. We read the agendas so you do not have to. We ask questions that may otherwise go unasked.

My fear is not inconvenience. It is disappearance. When newspapers fade, governments go unchecked and history goes unrecorded.

They say what is online stays online. I would like to locate my old MySpace account or the website I built in high school. What I can find, preserved at the local library, is the story I wrote decades ago. Ink endures.

I am grateful for the last eighteen years. For the supporters, the critics and everyone in between. This work has never been about me. It has always been about the community.

I’m glad to be back.

I can be reached at the Colusa office, 430 Market St., Suite E, Monday through Friday, 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., email lloyd.green@mpg8.com, call (530) 458-4141 or text (530) 813-5218.

“Sausage gumbo today! It has a little heat to it, and it is DELISH!” the post read, about eleven hours too late.

One of the frustrations today is our reliance on social media to keep us informed. It’s a place where everyone is screaming into the void, begging to be heard. Businesses are almost forced into participating in the madness because “it’s where the customers are.” Probably one of the biggest lies we’ve been told.

That gumbo looked good, but I missed out because I do not have time to endlessly scroll my choice of platforms. The business lost a sale. Not because they did anything wrong, but because a platform they trusted did not deliver the message. Or maybe they posted it the same day, not giving the algorithm gods time to work their magic, like a forsaken cooldown period in World of Warcraft. I digress.

What gets lost in all of this is not just a bowl of gumbo. It is the quiet, everyday transactions that keep a small town moving. A daily special. A last-minute discount. A reminder that the soup pot is full. When those messages depend entirely on who happens to be scrolling at the right moment, we are no longer informed. We are lucky.

There was a time when daily specials, church dinners and fundraisers were not left to chance. They were printed in black and white, delivered to your driveway, and read at the kitchen table. You did not have to hope an algorithm deemed them worthy. If it was in the paper, you saw it.

The problem is not that businesses are posting. It is that we have replaced something dependable with something reactive. A post appears when it appears. You either catch it or you do not. There is no guarantee, no shared starting point.

If that gumbo had been listed in a weekly roundup of daily specials, printed once and set in ink, I would have known about it. Instead, it floated past in a sea of noise, and by the time I heard about it, the pot was empty.

There was a time when information arrived whether you were looking for it or not. It showed up on your porch. It sat on your table. It did not compete with a thousand other voices begging for attention. It simply existed, steady and visible.

For now, I am mostly disappointed I missed that sausage gumbo. But I suspect it is not really about gumbo at all.

ABOUT: Lloyd Green Jr. is the regional editor for the Colusa County Pioneer Review, the Gridley Herald and the Territorial Dispatch. He writes “After the Deadline,” a recurring column on community life, local business and the changing media landscape. He can be reached at lloyd.green@mpg8.com

I’m pleased to share that on Jan. 2, 2026, I accepted a new role with the Messenger Publishing Group as Regional Editor for the North Zone. In this position, I’ll be working with the Colusa County Pioneer Review, the Gridley Herald, and the Territorial Dispatch.

I was born and raised in Arbuckle and grew up in Colusa County, as well as the Yuba-Sutter and Butte County areas. Local newspapers have always been part of my life, both personally and professionally. I’m also the former owner of the Colusa County Pioneer Review and bring15 years of small-town newspaper management experience, along with journalism overall.

I’m excited to return to this work in a leadership role and to collaborate closely with the communities these newspapers serve. Local newspapers play an important role in our busy lives by offering insight into our communities, recognizing local achievements, and keeping people connected to what’s happening close to home.

Strong local journalism depends on strong local support. For our newspapers to be successful, we need community involvement through story ideas, event submissions, letters, subscriptions, and advertising. These papers are strongest when they reflect the voices of the people and places they cover.

I welcome news tips, community events, submissions, and conversations. You can reach me directly at lloyd.green@mpg8.com

I’m looking forward to the year ahead. 2026 is shaping up to be an exciting year for our local newspapers, and I’m grateful to be part of their continued growth and connection to our communities.

In Arbuckle, Christmas once meant piling into the car and driving slowly through town, heater humming, eyes searching for familiar magic. The crown jewel was the house on First Street.

Every inch glowed with electric excitement. Animatronic Mr. and Mrs. Claus waved from the front window. A giant star watched over the RV garage. Two towering plywood nutcracker soldiers stood guard, faithful and proud. Santa and his reindeer stretched across the roof, Rudolph leading the way. The home of Burley and Shirley Free was not just decorated, it was alive. We would often stop, step out into the cold, and search for what was new that year.

Time has a way of changing traditions.

Responsibilities grow, schedules fill, and the season seems to move faster each year.

The house on First Street has been dark for some time now. Its owners have aged gracefully and moved on, but the memory of that glow still lights something warm inside those who remember.

Other homes carried the spirit just as proudly. At the end of Hall Street, where Honey Grove now stands, the Dolbow’s transformed a Jeep into a flying sleigh, reindeer mid-landing. When Christmas passed, the scene flipped. Santa was heading home. It was playful, clever, and unmistakably Arbuckle.

Some magic appeared when you least expected it. Driving home from Woodland, there it was atop Pierce High School. A simple wooden cutout of Santa and his sleigh, Rudolph, marked by a single red bulb. It was not elaborate, but it did not need to be. To a child, it meant everything. Christmas was close. You could feel it before you ever reached town.

Christmas in Arbuckle was never about who had the biggest display or the newest lights. It was about the feeling of home, the slow drive through familiar streets, and the quiet joy of sharing something simple with the people beside you. Even as the lights dim and traditions change, that warmth lingers. It lives in memory, in stories passed down, and in the moment, you turn onto a hometown street and feel, for just a second, that Christmas is exactly where it belongs.