Agriculture Oregon

Amid a tense standoff between farmers and federal law enforcement officials, the sheriff of drought-plagued Klamath County, Ore., has asked federal officers to leave town, saying their presence is making matters worse. The request could force U.S. Interior Secretary Gale A. Norton to make the awkward choice between flouting a local request or leaving federal head gates unguarded after protesters repeatedly forced them open to release water for their dried-up farms.

Amid a tense standoff between farmers and federal law enforcement officials, the sheriff of drought-plagued Klamath County, Ore., has asked federal officers to leave town, saying their presence is making matters worse. The request could force U.S. Interior Secretary Gale A. Norton to make the awkward choice between flouting a local request or leaving federal head gates unguarded after protesters repeatedly forced them open to release water for their dried-up farms.

In an act of defiance that was as much parade as protest, more than 15,000 people created a 1 1/2-mile bucket brigade down this city's main street Monday to focus attention on the plight of farmers denied water in a fertile agricultural basin straddling the California border.

In an act of defiance that was as much parade as protest, more than 15,000 people created a 1 1/2-mile bucket brigade down this city's main street Monday to focus attention on the plight of farmers denied water in a fertile agricultural basin straddling the California border.

Lindley Bothwell, revered as "Mr. B" by generations of song girls and yell leaders at USC where he was their volunteer coach for the past 60 years, died Thursday in Sherman Oaks after a long illness. He was 84. A successful Woodland Hills citrus rancher, former Indianapolis 500 racer, pioneer surfer and collector of vintage cars, Bothwell was USC's first yell leader as an undergraduate in 1919. Then USC football coach "Gloomy Gus" Henderson dubbed him "the worst yell leader I've ever seen."

Children start trickling into the small city park about 11 a.m. Most walk up, holding younger siblings by the hand or pushing strollers. Others arrive on bikes, some with training wheels. They scramble into line when Cindy Wyburg pulls up to the weathered gazebo at 11:20, the back of her Bronco packed with coolers full of food. They open the rear door before she's even made it out of the driver's seat.