The Stages of Grief

I was in Ohio when Philip died, had the privilege of being able to say goodbye to my heart.  And, because I was in Ohio, before I returned to California, I went to see Lynn, another piece of my heart.  

Philip has been my friend since I was 14; Lynn has been my friend since I was 19.  It was to Lynn I turned, in an effort to process the huge loss.  She's been through this, come out the other side intact.  

Intact.  That was something I didn't think I'd ever have again.

So I read the Stages of Grief, we talked, and I got on the plane to return to California.  Wrote about Philip; several things about Philip.  Found him everywhere, pieces and parts I thought gone.  And I thought I was okay.

Sure, I had a few bad nights, but for the most part, I was fine.

Liar, me.

I was anything BUT fine.  However, so long as I didn't cry every night, could sleep at last, all was well and all manner of things was well.  And then came Friday night ... dinner with a friend, a man I've known for about three years now.  Great cook, smart man, fabulous house.  Everything earmarked for enjoyment ... even down to the sparkling fireworks show offered by the park outside his neighborhood.

Except that something triggered me, and I felt the need to talk about Philip.  Before I knew what was happening, tears were slipping down my cheeks.  All the weeks I'd judiciously not talked about Philip disappeared, and the pain was fresh, raw.  Waiting, just for me.

Like the bandaid that gets ripped off before the wound is healed, the damage in the tearing seems worse than when the hurt was first incurred.

Having conveniently blocked out the depth of my pain when my dad died in 1990, I was unprepared for the sheer weight of this grief.  Unprepared to become undone.


For three nights, I sat up and cried.  No, I sat up and keened - where my very soul itself seemed to be wailing.  I finally understood the grief so huge it causes one to harm themselves, simply to purge one's system, get the poison out.


This morning, when I woke up, it was as if the world had shifted, and the poles were once again in alignment.  


As with my father, not a day will pass that Philip isn't a part of, in one fashion or another.  But, as with my father, the grief is quiet, calm.


For now.


And that's good enough for me.

Ode to Philip

Everyone we meet leaves an effect on us.  How profound is usually dependent upon the initial meeting, the chemistry between the two individuals, a tie that binds.  If we’re lucky, we have at least one heart connection in our lives.  I’ve been blessed many times over, as I have heart connections.  None, however, were ever as great as the heart connection I shared with Philip.

From our first meeting, there’s nothing about me he doesn’t know.  Okay, so most of it was learned through surveillance, but I told him everything about my life, anyway.  And he told me of his life.

I never found this odd, he and I.  It was simply Philip.  The fact that he’d find a way to contact me, 30 years ago, from the other side of the world, never seemed strange. The fact that he showed up, unexpected and unannounced, at my graduation, didn’t feel out of place.  And the fact that he was always in my thoughts, my conversations, never felt weird, only right.

I learned a lot from Philip, although not the things he wanted to teach me.  I learned I have the capacity to hate.  That surprised me.  Not dislike, but hate, loathe, despise, with a fervor near biblical in its proportions.  And it was born, this hate, out of protective love.  A girl way back in Philip’s past, a friend of mine I’d introduced to Philip, hurt him.  With deliberate intent, and great malice.  I shunned her – even after Philip forgave her, even after he let her back into his world.  That was the first time I understood the comment ‘you’re dead to me’.  Who knew that I, good little church-going Christian girl, could hate so fully?  Not me.  Even now, all these years later, I refuse to speak to her.  Petty?  Perhaps.  But ever loyal to the one I love.

I learned of darkness – the darkness that steals hope, blots out all light.  Philip would call when he was lost, when his well had nothing left.  For hours we would talk, both of us revealing the truest self we have, in the black of night.  When he would get lost, I could only listen.  Hold the phone in such a manner that he never heard my tears, and pour all the love I had into my voice, to bring him home.  He called me his light – he held me up, he kept me close.  It was through his taking of my hand, leading me into the black, that allowed me an understanding of a world I’ve never seen, a life I’ve never lived.  Except through Philip.

When my second marriage fell apart, and sleep became a nebulous thing, I turned to Philip.  At first we would talk – but then I found I had nothing left to say, yet didn’t want to be alone in the dark.  So began another chapter of my life with Philip – he would read to me.  Charles DeWitt was his author of choice.  I’d snuggle into my bed, arm around the stuffed moose given me by my daughter years ago, hand against the phone, holding it tight to my ear, and he would begin.

You would think a man whose entire life was formed in the military, from the time he could walk, would sound gruff, hard, even.  No; Philip had the perfect storyteller voice.  Diction clear, concise, tone pitched low in the mid-range, weighing each word carefully, to ensure the listener understood.  I was almost always asleep before the end of the second page.  And next time I phoned him for a story, we’d begin again.  He never grew annoyed; just kept reading.

He would speak with clinical exactness of weapons – any weapon, any era, its accuracy, effectiveness, etc., until I could listen no more.  Yet he would speak with equal exactness of the railroad lines running through Hocking County, the glaciers that formed the southern area of Ohio in which he finished his life, the flora and fauna, the wildlife indigenous to the area.  In either conversation, he would be animated, excited, eager to share.  For the world never ceased to amaze Philip – the beauty and the wonder that was offered up on a platter, every single day, fascinated and humbled him.  I would ask what he was doing, and his answer would invariably be, sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the pine trees grow.

He’d reached a place of acceptance – of his life, his place in the world.  He’d found a community that accepted him – respected him.  And that continued to be a mystery to him…he was The Gunsmith, and he belonged to Hocking County.

He left us knowing he was loved, knowing he was respected, knowing he was part of a larger community.  Knowing he wasn’t alone.

And he left a huge vacancy in my life, one I despair of ever filling.

Rest, Sweet Boy…

The Natural Order of Things

As the days count down to when my amazing daughter and I will no longer share space, I find I am weepy, giddy, manic, depressed - the entire gamete from sorrow to joy rips through me in an instant.

Sorrow - that I will no longer hear her laughter across the way as we are engaged in separate activities within the house we share.
Joy - that I've had this incredible opportunity to be with her.

And as I sit in my room tonight, I am reading a comic which bonds us - we gave each other the trilogy one Christmas during her college career - and she left me post its on the cartoons that mattered the most to her.  Of course I am speaking of Calvin & Hobbs; she even created a class at Berkeley devoted to the philosophy of Calvin & Hobbs.  I think she did it just to play Calvin Ball, but that's simply conjecture... 

In Book Two, December 10, 1988, Calvin imagines he is a dragon - I stopped reading the cartoon, closed my eyes, and sang 'Puff'.


If you don't know 'Puff the Magic Dragon', stop now and look up the lyrics.  No, it's not about drugs.  Sheesh...


When Jordan was small, I'd sing her to sleep.  Even then she didn't mind that I was tone deaf and sang off key - oh, and changed keys at will mid-song!  Now, she shakes her head when she hears me sing and says, with great affection in her voice, 'Oh, Mom, you're so cute,' but she sings with me anyway.  Except for Puff.  Puff always made her cry.  And tonight, when I sang it to myself, I felt I was Puff...'without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave, so Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave.'


This time out of time that I've had with my daughter has allowed me an understanding and an acceptance of Jordan in ways that far transcend the mother-daughter relationship.  I will always and forever be grateful.


And the child is doing what she aught -


Learning, absorbing, surpassing ...


to form the next generation.




Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea, and frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called HannaLee; Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea, and frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called HannaLee...

The Things People Say to Strangers!

I decided it's time to truly take a look at what I want - out of my professional life, out of my personal life, out of the area in which I live.  And I find that people have zero problem sharing with strangers.

Now, the point could be argued that I share with strangers by posting a blog.  And I share with strangers through my writing - I'll share with even more strangers once I get published!  But that isn't the point - the point is, yes, I share with strangers.

If I'm going to share with strangers, I always make sure the title is indicative of what might be found within.  For instance, this title pretty much is what the blog is about.  I'm discovering that is not always the case.

After we got robbed last Friday, I've spent more time on craigslist, looking for our stuff.  And, while on craigslist, I am always drawn to the personal section.  It's a sickness, I admit.  But I am curious as to who is out there and why, what they are looking for, how they present themselves ... the whole thing.

What I'm finding out is that the bulk of men on craigslist have but one thing on their mind.  Hold on, now - I see you rolling your eyes, shaking your head, making the 'tsk tsk' sound.  Men don't ALWAYS have sex on their mind - sometimes it's food.  Sometimes it's beer.  Kidding, boys....  It isn't so much that the topic of sex is on their mind - it's how it's put out there.  Spelled badly, presented poorly, desperate men looking for a quick fix.

I imagine a line of men, all races, all sizes, all ages, going into infinity, all with one thing in mind, waiting for just one thing - to get their rocks off.  What I'm finding, though, is every man has a different ... trigger.  And they aren't bashful about telling a perfect stranger what that trigger is!  What happened to 'let's get to know each other'?

And I am wondering, as I read these posts, would these men be this forthright with a person they knew?  Or would they be embarrassed that this other side of them was showing, and try even harder to hide under the guise of 'quiet and shy'?

It's a puzzler ... 

And people wonder why I'm single ....

Lemons and LemonAid

A 'for rent' notice was posted on our duplex fence today, and on the big oak, as well.  Mimi (my landlady) and I talked, I told her of our (mine and Jordan's situation), and we decided it would be best to give notice, and let her get new tenants.

She came by, heard my concerns about several aspects of the rental, and even agreed with me, which was great!  She's been a wonderful landlady.  After we'd chatted, I needed to go into Solvang for a few minutes, and then into the Vet for Misty.  And then I was going to return home.  Lots to do, and all that rot.

I left my house at 1:10 p.m., a bright, breezy spring day.  I returned to my house at 2:23 p.m. (roughly speaking).  In that short space of time, my home had been robbed.

Since the dogs were with me, there was none to give the alarm - the "Intruders!" alert that was always being given to Will Rogers, along with 'Danger!'  Nope, no one here to offer any resistance.

Someone, or someones, walked in through the back gate, came into the house, stole a MacBook 2009, 13" screen, a MacBookPro, 2011, 13" screen, two iPods, a digital camera, contents of one jewelry box, and another jewelry box complete with contents.

It took me a second to even grasp what had happened.  I came into the house, and noticed the kitchen table was all cleared off.  Oh, that's nice, I remember thinking.  Right before panic hit me, a blow to the gut.  The kitchen table was not all cleared off when I left; nope, when I left, it held my computer and my iPod and speakers.  Now, it held a candle and a slate menu board.  Okay, I've not been sleeping well; I'm sure I moved the computer, used it somewhere else, and don't remember.  I visualized everywhere I'd used the computer this morning:  in bed, right when I woke up; sitting on the bench at the end of my bed, taking a break from painting; at the kitchen table, playing solitaire, taking another break from painting.  Then I visualized where it was when I left the house: kitchen table, closed but on.  And the table was all cleared off.

I did what any rational woman would do in my circumstances:  I moaned, right before tears flooded my eyes.  My computer - six unpublished novels.  Countless snippets and starts.  Poetry.  Photos - photos I can never get back, unless they've been published in another forum.  Luckily, my professional file and my writings file had recently been saved to a stick.  Photos?  Gone.  My silver bracelets, the trio Jordan gave to me when she was still in high school, that I wear damn near every day, even if I'm not going anywhere - gone.  Not worth even a nickel, to anyone except me.  Jordan's diamond solitaire I gave to her when she began her college career - gone.  The diamond ring Nanny (Mrs. Presley - my first mother in law) gave to me, which I gave to Jordan - gone.  Silly gold hoop earrings, same monetary value as my silver bracelets, gone.  The ring given to my mother by Pat Lamont, a woman we called 'Aunt Pat' while growing up, because Pat and Bob Lamont were my parents' closest friends - said ring subsequently given to me - gone.  

The sheriff department sent one of their men out to check for fingerprints - bastards wore gloves.  Nothing.  And, even though Jordan and I were able to get the serial numbers of our Mac computers, everything else was just ... gone.

Jordan kept telling me 'it's just stuff'.  And she's right - it IS just stuff.  But damn it, I have very little 'stuff' in this world as it is ... we live in a duplex, for cryin' out loud!  What did they think was here that they could possibly benefit from?

The sheriff, and my next door neighbor, for that matter, think it's someone who knows us, whether we know them or not.  Timing is too tight for it to be anything but.

All I know is - I've lost more, in the loss of my computer, than I ever thought possible.  Jordan's prom; all of my Cleveland photos; my trips around California on my days off from the winery; my recent trip to DC.  Gone.  I'm not even going to think about what writings may be missing, not included in my last update.  That thought really makes me want to vomit.

So, as Jordan takes these lemons and makes lemonade, I take these lemons and make Lynchburg Lemonade.  Mine will at least let me sleep at some point in the near future.
 

Bridge Over Troubled Water

I have a HUGE fear of bridges.  It began at an early age - I had a dream, as a wee thing, that my family was traveling by car, and for some reason my grandmother was with us, and the car flew over a bridge.  Just went flying right through the concrete side, and 'Whee!', we were air-borne.  Can you say 'Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang'?  As is the way of dreams, the next second, my grandmother and I are slipping and sliding down this frozen hill, the bank, if you will, of the river over which the bridge runs.  And we go skating across the frozen river.  That's all I remember.  But, for a woman of 53 years, who rarely remembers her dreams, this has stayed with me all my days.  Only one other dream has had such power over me, and that one came to me when I was 33.  Dreams - such weird things.  But, from this wee girl's dream came the grown girls' fear of bridges.

I also have a love of the open road.  I turn to my car, turn to the road, to mourn, to celebrate, to play, to run, to seek, and to hide.  In the joyful blush of the first year of marriage to my first husband, we attended a Renaissance Faire in Houston, Texas, and there I had my palm read for the very first time.  My then-husband attended the reading with me.  The woman looked at my palm, as I watched, rapt with attention, seeking out that which she saw with ease, yet which remained hidden to me.  The palm reader, garbed as a Gypsy (another interesting point, as I claim Gypsy heritage and write about Gypsy Queens and the powers therein), turned to my then-husband and said, "She drives when she's upset, doesn't she?"  His and my mouths dropped open - wow, not a charlatan!  She knows!  How much she knew, or simply derived, I know not.  I know only that she nailed me.  I drive ... period.

Let us consider this, for just a moment.  I have a HUGE fear of bridges.  I drive ... period.  Well, unless one is driving circles around a field, one is bound to encounter the stray bridge or dozen.  As I encountered when my five year old and I moved from Atlanta, to San Diego.  Pulling a U-Haul.  With a Nissan pick-up truck.  As I encountered again when I moved from Santa Barbara to Cleveland after a second divorce.  And yet again, when I returned to Santa Barbara.  Or simply drove the state for educational or family purposes.

Every trip will bring at least one bridge into the driver's scope of trip.  My most memorable bridge story, though, is fairly recent - 2010, I believe.  Winter, California style.  Rains so vicious that whole pieces of road are being washed away.  Cities are flooded.  People can't sandbag enough.  And I'm at a conference in San Francisco.  By rights, I should have stayed another night.  My bosses urged me to do so; no, stubborn wench that I am, I insisted on coming home.  It wasn't the stubborn in me speaking; it was the fear.  I needed to be home.  If hell were to rain down - quite literally, in the downpour - upon us, I wanted to be home, with child and dogs and pillows I knew and could bury my head under.  So off I go.  Into the deluge.  

So far, it's no big deal; just a little rain.  Until you factor in the part of California I was currently stationed; can you say Napa?  Yes, that quaint, lovely wine country, the birth of the newest California Gold Rush ... Napa, that leads to San Francisco and all points south.  San Francisco, which has named each bridge, due to the sheer scope and size of them.

Named each bridge.  Even typing that makes me shudder.  And a double decker bridge - what brain trust came up with that idea, I ask you.  Not only one layer of lives, but two, for the price of one, that can go tumbling into the icy waters of the San Francisco Bay.  Oh, joy!

And it was that double decker bridge I had to cross, in torrential rains.  Panic set in; deep, paralyzing panic.  Five lanes of traffic, merging into three, flying at speeds of 60+ miles an hour in rains so hard, so thick, the wipers are nothing but a game to the water as it streams, no, screams, from the heavens to attack any and all beneath.  

I could literally feel my heart beat a little faster; I felt my palms grow damp against the steering wheel.  That's when I realized my hands ached; I was gripping the wheel so tightly I couldn't unbend my fingers.  I knew I was in serious trouble.

Using my bluetooth (which has since been lost, more's the pity, since I got a ticket for talking on my cell phone while driving), I phoned Philip.  And got no love on the other end of the phone.  Philip was always available; this couldn't be happening.  I've known him since I was 14 years old; he's always been there when I needed him, no matter where he happened to be in the world.  But no, as I have my HUGE panic attack in the wrath of God rain, he's nowhere around.  Great; thanks ever so much, Philip.  Okay, who else can I call?  My mind was racing; I could feel the panic rising again, as the shadow of the bridge loomed large.

Keith! my mind screamed out at me.  Call Keith!  He'll answer.  Well, not always true, but my mind wasn't interested in truisms at that particular moment.  My mind was interested in succor ... I was desperate for the proverbial life line.  He answered the phone - and my greeting to him was uttered in a hoarse, nearly guttural tone:  'Tell me a story,' I demanded.  

'Huh?'

'Tell me a story - damnit, Keith, tell me anything.  I'm scared to death, the bridge is huge, it's raining so hard I can't see - tell me a story!'  By now I'm nearly screaming, so great is my terror.

He talked.  I drove.  I can't remember what he told me, and it didn't really matter.  He could have been reading word definitions to me; I didn't care.  The voice of someone I trusted, resonating in my ear, allowed me to breathe, kept my eyes from the edges of the bridge, away from that dangerous seductive side, where my car liked to steer itself, as if, from the depths of the canyon or body of water, the Troll is calling:  come to me, my pretty - come, where life is simple and gay.  My hands didn't loosen their grip until the bridge was gone; my eyes didn't relinquish the wide-eyed stare of terror until the bridge was gone; my muscles didn't unclench until LONG after the bridge was gone ... but the voice of someone I trusted got me over the bridge in God's own rain-wrath.

So I've learned to handle my fear of bridges, and still celebrate my joy of the road.

Until this morning, when I read an article about the group of five who had planned to blow up a bridge in the Cleveland, Ohio metropolis area - a bridge I've driven over many, many times.

It isn't enough we have to worry with wind and rain and our own deep seated fears when it comes to bridges.  Now we have anarchists (as they were labeling themselves to be) wishing to show us the error of our ways by laying trust in the bridge.  

Sure, I'm going to sleep at night.  As if.....

 

"Last Meal"

My daughter and I have successfully cohabitated for the past two plus years.  And we've successfully worked together.  I know - truly a different relationship we share.  At the very least, certainly not traditional mother-daughter.  But then, when is anything in my life 'traditional'?

Now, though, two years out of Berkeley, she's reaching for the CITY.  And not just any city - oh, no.  She's going for La-La Land.  She leaves in May ... 

Changes, and their ripple effects, fascinate me.  Part of her leaving reminds me so of myself, when I was leaving home at the age of 21, to travel across the country.  I wanted to wring every last ounce of those last few weeks, asking for favorite meals, going to my favorite park, spending a lot of time with my girlfriend Lynn - who, I'm happy to report, remains my friend still.  As if I could soak up a lifetime of memories to sustain me after I was gone.

Jordan is doing the same thing.  'Mom, aren't you coming walking with me?  I'm leaving in two weeks, you know.'  'Mom, will you make chicken and dumplings for me?  I'm leaving in a week, you know.'  It's heart warming, and heart wrenching, in equal measure.  Heart warming, to know that she will carry these pieces with her wherever she goes, that our time as adult family will always be part of who she is as she goes forward.  Heart wrenching, because 'I'm leaving in a week, you know.'

So this morning, I prepared her request meal - chicken and dumplings.  Hungarian style, only with a twist for the grown-up taste buds of my daughter.  I used a LOT more hot paprika than I did sweet.  So much more that my first taste of the gravy damn near seared my throat closed!  But she'll like it.  Funny thing about the connectivity, from generation to generation, and the things that can trigger such connectivity.  For Jordan, I've connected her to my grandmother, to my mother, through certain foods.  Hungarian chicken and dumplings; Hungarian sauerkraut and spareribs; Grandma's Christmas cookies.  These meals are tradition where I come from, and they are now tradition wherever Jordan will go.  And, yes, as I cooked, I mourned.  It was a healthy mourning - a poem came from it, and I've not written a poem in a dearth of Sundays (what is a dearth, anyway?).  The poem is as follows:

     (untitled)

buffeted about, creaking

      swaying - groaning

           in consternation

pieces fly past my window

      cracks and bangs

           resonate

as my oak does what

       I cannot -

           weeps.

                                N.

As these last few weeks rush by, screaming in their eagerness to always move, move, move, I will do my best to simply enjoy.  And save my mourning time for when I am alone.  I have a feeling I'll be spending a lot of time alone for a bit.

 

Insomnia ...

It's amazing to me that, what we celebrated as kids, we bemoan as adults.  As a child - think teens into early twenties - I could stay up forever.  Not days without end, of course, but two, maybe three hours' sleep, and I was golden the next day.  Now, when sleeplessness hits me - as it seems to have a wont to do when stress rears its ever so familiar head - I am a walking zombie.

I've tried sleep aids, p.m. pain relievers, herbal teas.  And, while each of them have their merit, the body soon becomes immune to their subtle tricks, and reverts to its old habits.

That of not sleeping.

Or rather, that of sleeping for about two hours, and declaring it ENOUGH!  Would that it were ...

So tonight, as the day washes through my mind and I reflect on what I accomplished (creative writing on demand blog of Alec & Isobele continued, check; walk taken with daughter and dogs, check; kitchen cleaned, check; all work completed, check), I'm feeling it's a rather good day.  In fact, it's about spot on perfect for what I had stated I wanted to accomplish.

See, Jordan, my roommate of the past two years, who just happens to be my much-beloved daughter, is moving out.  She's spreading her wings, as any eaglet should, and is going to fly away to her own tree.  A tree we fondly call La-La Land, aka Los Angeles.  Only a few hours down the freeway, and a few light years removed from where I live now.

And each time I try and focus on 'what next' for my life, I get caught back up in the fact that Jordan is moving.  So, as sleep approaches, I can almost hear the gerbils talking to one another, rather like Calvin's alter-egos speak as he sleeps, planning out his dreams.  Only my gerbils don't want me to dream, oh, no.  They want to give me these thoughts, worries, angst-ridden moments, while on the cusp of sleep, so that even as my body begs for rest, my mind whirls like the Tasmania Devil himself.  The Bugs Bunny Taz, of course.

Rather than try an old sleep aid whose effectiveness has worn off, I'm trying something new.  A quick blog, with my Scottish music by Steve McDonald, playing softly, only candlelight in the bedroom, the windows open for the breeze and the one-note (according to my very musically inclined daughter) wind chime which hangs from the oak singing softly in the breeze; a quick interlude for a warm, steamy shower to relax the body even further, and then back into the sheets, where I will play a few mind-numbing games of Solitaire (don't even MENTION Angry Birds to me...), and at last turn off my music and, gods be willing and pillows be soft, I will sleep.


That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.  Good night, y'all.

Festival ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Vintner's Fest.  2012.

Saturday morning, I woke up with a headache at 4:30; drank some water, took some Advil (God's finest gift, in my opinion), and went back to sleep.

8:30, when I climbed from bed, I wondered what had happened to my usual joy.  When I wake up, regardless of the time of day or night, I wake up happy.  Unless it's a nap; then I wake up surly, disoriented, and not very pleasant to be around.  But this was waking up for the day ... and I felt as if I'd just crawled into bed.  My spirits were down, my body was dragging, my mind was slow.  What the heck???

And then it hit me - Festival.  I'm going to set the scene for you, as seen by those of us working the industry:  imagine the old horror movies, and the voice of the man portraying the dark, evil, monster wrapped in a human body.  The music that would wrap around the dark voice, and suddenly your body is thrumming with dread as you watch these movies - yet, the dread is not understood.  There's the threat of ... and the music and the voice say the 'threat of....' is going to be nastier than you could ever imagine.  So, with that voice in your head, the music as its back-beat, I want you to read again...Festival.

Bamp-bamp-bum!!!!!

I was expecting - anticipating - eagerly ready for - Festival.  In all of its dark undertones.

Ever notice that, when you least expect it, life throws you a curve ball, and you forget to swing?  And suddenly the opposing team is winning because you don't know how to swing at anything other than a fast ball, so you duck, and you, and the team, are screwed.  Well, sometimes, those curve balls are great, wide, wonderful things.  They take the moment at hand, twist it just a little bit, and give you something wonderful.  Apple trees, rainbows, and cellar doors.

And that's what happened to me this Festival.

I left the house with errands ... three of them, to be exact.  Refill my daily hormone replacement drug, buy vacuum cleaner bags, and drop off my comforter at the cleaners.  Two out of three were strike outs; not a good start for what I anticipated to be a very challenging day.

I arrived at the winery at 10:30, was given my favorite station, out on the patio, and was given a newbie to train - Kelly.  All of 24 years old, blond and beautiful, I felt old and fat beside her.  My problem, certainly not hers ... oh, but it troubled me.  Strike three - batter out.

It didn't make me feel any better to learn that she's educated, career driven, and an absolute sweetheart of a young girl.  Her mother used to work at Sanford, before Richard split from his partners and opened Alma Rosa.  It's a family affair....and I felt even worse for my negative thoughts - more about me, than her, but since she was the catalyst for the moment ... well, you know how that goes.

And then the customers began to arrive.  From the very first interaction, I had fun.  Every person I talked with had a story - we had club members, favorite wine tour drivers (who happened to have his phone with a few videos of his baby and wife that he shared with me and it was a really fabulous interlude in a grand day), bachelorette parties (Sylvia was unveiled, and my comment was, 'so you met him last week in Vegas, your mother approved, and you decided to go for it'; the whole group got a laugh, and she told me before they left my station that she was going to make up a new story for every stop that Brian was taking them to ... getting into the spirit of the day and having even more fun with it), club members (one who makes his own mead and is going to Boston on a 'mead tasting tour' with people from all over New England - too cool!), we hosted vertical tastings with two separate Pinot Noirs, taught people about the Riedel glass and why one should NEVER rinse the Riedel glass with water during a tasting, and just - well - played.

Richard and Thekla Sanford were there all day; watching them talk with the customers was so awesome.  Both Richard and Thekla are unassuming people - yet they were the first people to plant the revered Pinot Noir in the Santa Rita Hills - now world-renowned.  They were the first to go wholly organic - before organic was cool.  Richard even grows his grape in the old style - as it wishes, called a California Sprawl, as opposed to the straight-up, straight-over, most vineyards prefer. 

I even got a new story from Richard, that he shared with a club member and his brother (the mead guy, whose brother lives in Boston - hence the mead tour).  We (the club member, his brother, Kelly, and me) were talking about spiders, and Richard walked around the bar, asking if Jonah (mead maker) was a spider lover.  He said he was only afraid of the brown recluse, and then Richard told the story.

Y'all know me; I'm all about The Story.  Richard has ten million of them ... this one came out because of a club member.  Richard had been bitten by a brown recluse; he was here, on the ranch, got bit, couldn't find the damn spider, and watched in awe as his leg swelled up.  It went from bad to worse; he finally found an Epi-pen to stop the symptoms, but it didn’t' stop what was happening to his leg.  His skin began to rot - literally.  The bite from the brown recluse kills the flesh around it.  Nowadays, according to Jonah, doctors put maggots in the wound and bandage it.  Because the maggots eat the dead flesh.

Obviously Richard recovered ... even though it took months. 

I'm wondering now, as darkness has fallen and sleep is fast approaching, if this is one story I could have done without....fear of spiders, disgust of maggots, smell of dead flesh ... well, you get where this is going....

At the end of the day, my hormone replacement had been called in to my pharmacy, Kelly had proven she was going to be excellent, I'd gotten to watch both Richard and Thekla in action, told stories, learned stories, shared stories ... the funk I woke up with was long gone.

To make my day beyond perfect, an employee from my D-C Wine days had reached out to me saying, "I'm in town for Festival; let's hook up."  He and his gal came to my house, where we started with Alma Rosa 2009 Mt. Eden Pinot Noir, El Jabali Vineyard, and morphed into D'Bruno 2006 Merlot, Grassini Vineyard, with sautéed peppers, fried bread, three cheeses, a loaf of sourdough, salami, and some gorgeous Late Harvest Riesling  from Santa Barbara Winery.  I've not seen Matt and Jamie for nigh on a year - the short time together, with Jordan added into the mix, was sweet, poignant, funny, and perfect.

When they left, and the kitchen was finally cleaned, I remembered why I loved the wine industry.

It's about the people - both in, and out, of the industry.  It's about the stories, the sharing of the stories, the power of the stories.  It's about remembering that we all have our own unique story.

And it's remembering to get out there and share that story.

Tomorrow, I do it all again.  And I can't wait!

A Capital Time...

At the age of 52, I've just had my first trip to the nation's capital.  Wow; what an incredible experience.  

Monument from Willard Hotel

I thought I had a pretty good handle on what Washington, D.C. looked like.  I mean, come on, all the spy movies and thrillers, even spoofs on the President; we've all seen films where D.C. was the main feature.  How much of a surprise could it be, really?  Oh, fool, me!  The scope of the city is impossible to view on film.  No matter the size of the screen; my brain simply couldn't wrap around the sheer size of that town.  The first thing that struck me was that, no matter where you looked, the Monument could be seen.  From every direction in the city, from high above the ground, from across the Potomac, there was the Monument.  More often than not, as my eye would be caught yet again by that imposing edifice, tears would come to my eyes.  Not at the magnitude of the Monument, but at what it represents - the City over which it stands guard, and the people who claim that city as their own - Americans.  

The memorials and monuments all stand tribute to one thing, and one thing only.  The fallen hero - whether that hero be a statesman, a serviceman, or an unknown citizen, they gave everything they had to the protection of this grand nation. 

Changing of the Guard

I didn't make it into any of the museums, nor into the National Archives, nor into any of the buildings that house our unique government.  There was simply too much to absorb by staying outside.  I spent a day at Arlington Cemetery; truly, it could have been a week. There's a bit of a side note here; I've always loved old cemeteries, reading headstones, learning of the people of a different time in what they leave behind.  But this cemetery isn't about that; this cemetery is about those who gave the very last measure for what they believed in - us.  A nation of pieces and parts, come together by want or force, from all over the globe.  Made better, stronger, for the coming together, bonded by the blood spilled on our behalf, perfect strangers dying to keep us safe.  Nowhere else in our Nation is that exemplified better than at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Sliding down Lincoln's Memorial

Yet, in the midst of such somber moments, such intense emotion, there was a spirit of play.  Children will always be children, no matter the surroundings.  It was at Lincoln's Memorial that I saw this spirit in its total abandonment to joy.  There, amidst the marble splendor that houses one of the Nation's most celebrated Presidents, children were using the sides of the Memorial as a slide.  And I stood watching, thinking, of all the Presidents to choose from, surely his Memorial was the correct choice - after all, Lincoln was a man of the people, first and foremost.  Inside the Memorial, the atmosphere was hushed, reverent.  Yet out in the sunshine, it was simply one more moment of joy.


Watching that, the unbridled joy, reminded me again of why we struggle so hard to defend our truths, why we have decreed to take our Freedom to the world.  It is so that unbridled joy might always hold sway over all.

I leave you with this - the symbol of our nation, with the symbol of our missing immediately below it.  All over the City, our nation's flag flies.  Fifty flags surround the Monument; they hang down, stars toward the ground, at the Tomb.  They fly at half-mast at Arlington.  They fly over the tent city in the plaza by the Willard Hotel, being used by those who protest our government and the current politics.  The symbol remains the same, a constant - and is recognizable across the globe.  The United States of America.


What was YOUR first impression of the Capital?  Do you believe that freedom comes with a price?  What price would you be willing to pay?