Sonoma Sojourn

My friend, Suzanne, and I spend a wonderful afternoon in Petaluma at the 10th Annual California’s Artisan Cheese Festival. We’ve tasted local wines, farmstead cheese, decadent chocolate, handcrafted beer, seasoned oils, artisan breads, crisp endive, California dates (fruit – not men), and more.

On the way home, we stop at Trader Joe’s to pick up a few grocery staples: riced cauliflower, turkey jerky, fresh vegetables, chicken, and fruit. We pull into the parking lot and hit parking lot karma: the first spot closest to the store’s entrance – a treat, since it’s been pouring all day and we can run into the store without our umbrellas.

We shop, we line up at the register, and our cashier is gregarious. He’s returned from Texas to visit his daughter, who moved there recently with a teacher’s job. He’d gone to the market while visiting there and purchased lemons, limes, cantalope, strawberries, chicken, fish, and more … for only $18!!!

“That’s better than shopping at Trader Joe’s!”, I say. I’m impressed. “Yes,” he tells me. “That’s why Trader Joe’s can’t compete down there.”

Mr. Cashier continues: “Gas is only $1.39/gallon there. It’s almost $3/gallon here.” He’s giddy sharing this information.

I agree that that’s a huge difference in pricing, but “I’m sorry,” I say., “It would take more than lower gas fees for me to move to Texas, at least until I hear otherwise – I don’t want to live that close to Ted Cruz.” I’ve been texting a lot lately, and I try to make an appropriate smiley face as I speak so that he will know I’m somewhat kidding.

I don’t think I succeed.

* * * * *

Suzanne and I hoist our two bags of groceries out of the shopping cart, which we leave outside Trader Joe’s door. We rush to deposit the bags into the trunk of the red Ford Fusion before they get soaked.

We slam the trunk door and tumble into the car. Before Suzanne closes her door, we hear a young man yell, “Do you want me take this carriage back to the store?” We see him hoist a cart off the curb next to our car.

We shout out the window, “Yes. Thank you!” We think he’s polite – even solicitous.

He grabs the red handle of the carriage and propels himself toward the store. He stops for a moment to yell over his shoulder:

“Next time, maybe you can bring this back yourself. It’s not that far a walk.”

He yells it in such a way that we know he is neither polite nor solicitous.

* * * * *

It takes less than a moment to compost what has just happened.

We realize this is a passive aggressive person who thought he was going to teach us a lesson. We wonder if he would have been so rude if we were elderly, or physically challenged by weight or otherwise.

We consider going into the store to find this person and let him know that he’s got this all wrong. We want him know that THAT was NOT our carriage, and we wonder what has happened in his life to make him so hostile (perhaps he will tell us).

* * * * *

So if you’re reading this, sir, please consider this:

You made an assumption today about the shopping cart – and, thus, you made an assumption about us. Luckily, it didn’t impact our lives in the overall scheme of things – except for the fact that it felt as if you’d punched us in the stomach with your mean spirit camouflaged as an act of kindness.

But on any other day, you might make a judgment about something you think you’ve witnessed. It could be misinformed … misjudged … a mistake. The repercussions of such a judgment just might ruin someone’s life: theirs, or yours.

Please don’t assume … “When you assume … you make an ass out of u and me …”

1 Comment

March 14, 2016

In the Bag …

I stop into Whole Foods here in Sonoma upon arrival – Smokey and I have made good time up from the airport and, thus, arrive in town before the house is ready for our arrival.

No problem – we’ll drive around, reacquaint ourselves with the town, stop to get a few basic groceries (e.g., cheese and wine) before we settle into Oak Lane.

Sonoma Square looks almost as it did three years ago, with a few storefronts boasting new names. Parking around the Square looks about the same as it did before (not too bad – but if you can walk from where you’re staying, that’s a good thing). All in all, arriving in Sonoma feels the same – and at the same time different … as it did before.

I saunter through Whole Foods’ wine aisle, looking for what – I don’t know. The gentleman merchandising the wine has silver gray hair, tattoo sleeves on both arms, and disarming eyes. “Can I help you find something,” he asks. I say, “No, thanks.” I don’t want him to know I’m on a budget, if I am going to enjoy wine here in Sonoma for the next two months.

But the choices are many, and I’m still on Eastern Standard Time. I’m still dehydrated, and still tired beyond belief. I don’t care if my budget is below others here in Sonoma.

“Can you recommend a spicy, full-bodied red wine for $15 or less,” I ask. I expect him to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. He seems happy for the challenge.

“Do you like Zinfandel?”, he asks. If it’s full-bodied and spicy, I do.

He brings me over a Cline Zinfandel, and I put two bottles into my basket.

“What about a Pinot Noir,” I ask. I learned three years ago that there are spicy and delicious Pinots. Which are they?

No problem. He ushers me to a St. Vincent Pinot … less than $15 a bottle.

Two St. Vincents go into my basket, and I head to the registers.

In line, I’m ahead of a gentleman who notices the bottle of Sonoma vodka I also have in my basket. “Oh, did you know this vodka is made from grapes?,” he says. “GRAPES!”

No – I had no idea vodka could be distilled from grapes. But I’m dehydrated from the six hour flight from Boston. I’ve been up and out of bed since 4 in the morning, eastern standard time. I’m giddy just by being in Sonoma. Vodka made by grapes sounds like the right thing to buy.

So the cashier runs my order through the register. The wines and vodka go into a shopping bag with separations for each bottle.

The cashier sets the Cowgirl Creamery Mt. Tam Triple Creme and dry Parmesan (no wood chips) aside. She and the gentleman behind me (who turns out to be the store’s baker) and I say good bye to each other. I wonder why the cheese has been left aside, but I pick up the wedges and place them atop the wine. I carry my fused wine carrier out to the Red Fusion and drive to our home for the next two months.

So here is what I quickly learn upon arrival in Sonoma:

You can bring you own bags to grocery stores, to Target, to CVS – or – you can buy a paper bag from the store of your choice for $.10 each.

I chose to purchase ‘souvenir bags’ today and hope I remember to bring them with me at all times – even when just strolling through the Square. I SO want to be a proper Sonomaian … Sonomite?

“Tourist bags” here in Sonoma/Napa … don’t leave home without them!

LOVE the label graphics ... and I really wanted to love it - but I have finally met a vodka I don't love. It's not that it's not good - it's just that it tastes like grapes, and I get confused when I drink it! :)

LOVE the label graphics … and I really wanted to love it – but I have finally met a vodka I don’t like. It’s not that it’s not good – it’s just that it tastes like grapes, and I get confused when I drink it! :)

2 Comments

March 14, 2016

Enough, already!

I’m a Pollyanna type of girl … I make lemonade out of lemons … I choose to look at the bright side of life (Monty Python is playing in my head as I do).

The weather here in Sonoma challenged me, finally, yesterday. It’s been raining, it’s been pouring, almost every moment since Day 2 of our arrival.

My happy-girl resources are running low.

I’m not happy wearing knee high rain boots anymore. I’m not happy fingering the release button on the umbrella in a timely way as I step in and out of the car, in and out of the store. I’m not happy forgetting that rain comes with wind, and with that wind, I get soaked because I’m not wearing an actual raincoat.

Enough, already!

Yesterday I returned some videos to the Library, and then took a right turn into the parking lot to drop off nine bags of books from my friend, Suzanne’s, house. As I did, here’s what I saw:

A Volkswagon with sculpture as roof – fantastic!

If it weren’t still raining, I’d have waited to see who the owner of this car is … I want to know him/her!

It’s been gray and dreary, so the whimsy of this artwork made me laugh. Yay! I’m still alive! I decide then that I need to brighten up the cottage, too, so I stop and buy beautiful tulips: mega-sale at Whole Foods, which I found out about because I had just downloaded the Whole Foods app. (If you shop at all at WF, DO download the app!).

Beautiful, full, robust tulips … brings joy to the eye and to the heart.

Uh-oh. Smokey has set sight on the tulips. She loves tulips, too.

I try to distract her with tulips of her favorite color: purple.

Smokey: 10
Tulips: 0

I know California needs this water. I’m okay with that … I just wish I could put on my sunglasses for a minute or two …

4 Comments

March 6, 2016

Rainy Days and Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays …

It’s raining.

It’s pouring.

It’s March in Sonoma, and I’ve heard this is what it used to be like in the ‘old days’.

I’ve been lucky to enjoy Sonoma’s charms for many years, thanks to my friend, Suzanne, who has shared her beautiful, serene, iconic Sonoma style cottage with the utmost hospitality. Every time I’ve visited, the weather has been perfect (yes – even with a short-lived shower or two included).

Three years ago, we had one inch of rain (versus the normal 12″).

Today, we’ve enjoyed what promises to be the beginning of a record-breaking rainfall. (The creeks are rising amidst a microclimate weather alert – winds are gusting – “you’ll feel as if you’re inside a washing machine”, promise the weathermen. And HOW do they know what it feels like to be inside a washing machine? Do I want to know?).

They also promise that this is the first system of four, which will produce twice the monthly rainfall over the next week or so.

And while Sonoma is exceptionally beautiful when the skies are blue, it’s equally beautiful set against a backdrop of clouds.

Take a look:

Clouds settling in over Napa ….

Gundlach Bundschu truck and winery …

Peace on earth – and everywhere else …

2 Comments

March 6, 2016

Back in the Valley of the Moon

Three years ago, I packed up my life here in Sonoma (my three and a half month ‘Sonoma Sojourn’) and returned to Boston. At that time, I believed I’d be back same time, next year.

Three days ago, I returned from Boston to Sonoma. Smokey and I endured a turbulent flight (she threw up; I did not), and then encountered a kind (but not-so-smart) car rental agent. Take away learning: don’t ask Terry to see if there’s a less expensive way to rent for two months vs. what I’ve reserved to date. Not when you’ve been up since 4am EST and you’ve traveled with a cat in a carrier underneath the seat in front of you and both of you are dehydrated, exhausted, and wondering if this trip is a good idea after all.

An hour after first meeting Terry, we locate the red Ford Fusion that is to be ours for the next two months. I load in our luggage. I wash Smokey’s carrier as best I can with the small bottle of water hijacked from Jet Blue, along with a pile of Jet Blue napkins. I release Smokey to the wilds of the car’s interior, release the emergency brake, and accelerate north to Sonoma.

Through the city, through the Presidio, over the Golden Gate Bridge, breathtaking in its majestic rise: red towers against brilliant blue skies. We stop on the other side of the Bridge to take a photo … what would it be like to see this sight every day? I can hardly imagine.

We’re here now. Car is unloaded. Cat is settled in.

Definitely a good idea.

Even though we spent more time at the Budget car rental counter than desired, the brightly colored welcome sign made me smile.

Iconic red against brilliant blue.

Smokey resting on the living room couch. She’s back ‘home’!

11 Comments

May 2, 2014

A Change in Venue

The “Year of Me” has come and gone.

I returned from Sonoma last April and dove into the rental season at Nashaquisset two weeks later.

It was a tough summer. Unexpected work challenges soured the enjoyment I usually experience on Nantucket, but life ignored my angst and marched on. Rental guests arrived and departed; toilets clogged and were augered; trips to Nantucket’s extraordinary dump (“The Madaket Mall”) were exciting and fruitful. The season ended; I traveled to Singapore again for the month of November to visit Max and Mason and their parents.

2014 arrived. I sold my beloved home in Potter Pond and moved to Hingham, an historical, beautiful coast town just south of Boston. I now live in a house originally built in 1750 and added onto in the ensuing years. My condo (there are four units in the shingled and clapboarded house) is less than half the size of my Lexington space; it is a welcome challenge to pare down, simplify, creatively furnish to accommodate my life’s essentials.

A light gray paint (or tan, depending upon the light) covers the mustard yellow walls. Bright white gloss covers the avocado green trim throughout. Hardwood floors replace the matted blue shag carpeting; new tiling, glass shower door, white vanity, comfort-height toilet make the formerly pink and brown bathroom a distant memory. New windows actually close tight, and roman shades add a designer’s touch to the small rooms. Of course, all these changes made the 1985 vintage kitchen look sad and troubling, so that was replaced, too: all white cabinets, white appliances, granite counter top, and kitchen island make me feel at home again.

Smokey has adapted well. She squeezes through the cat door carved out of the cellar entrance, trots down the stairs to use her litter box, and then explores the three small tunnels cut into the old stone walls of the basement. She perches on her cat tree in the living room as neighbors walk their dogs and joggers trot by. She follows the progress of the commuter train as it passes by our front door and descends into the underpass that brings it to the other side of the town center so as not to disturb Hingham’s history.

And I drive the back roads, get lost, learn my way home. I walk into town, into the small shops whose owners are warm and welcoming. I find a new gas station, new car wash, new grocery store, the post office, the library. I marvel that yet another chapter has begun.

So now … this becomes my South Shore Sojourn. Bring it on!

Hingham is just to the left of the dot called “Cohasset”! You can see the Boston skyline from our waterfront ….

6 Comments

April 13, 2013

Refuse to Fall Down …

A tough week in Paradise.

Hormones? Stress? What the heck is going on with me?? I’m weepy and anxious; is it because my time in Sonoma is drawing nigh?

I come across a photo of my mother that’s been posted on FaceBook, and seeing her makes me cry. I wish I were a kid back in Brockton, washing windows and drying them with circular motions so they won’t streak. Ironing my father’s handkerchiefs: steam press all four outer edges first, glide the iron over the middle; fold and stack the white squares to await use. Hanging silvery icicles one by one from the stiff green branches of the Christmas tree. These are just some of the life-skills I learned at my mother’s hands.

This week, I’m tired of playing grown up and wish I could fall into my mother’s arms again and have her assure me that all will be well. I wish those hands would stroke my head and caress my face and tilt my chin so my eyes meet hers and she convinces me that things aren’t as bad as they seem.

This afternoon, I read today’s posting from gratefulness.org that arrived in this morning’s email:

Refuse to fall down. If you cannot refuse to fall down, refuse to stay down. If you cannot refuse to stay down, lift your heart toward heaven, and like a hungry beggar, ask that it be filled, and it will be filled. You may be pushed down. You may be kept from rising. But no one can keep you from lifting your heart toward heaven. – Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés

I’m thinking my mother changed her name to Clarissa once she got to heaven – I’m quite sure she’s the one who sent this message today.

Thanks, Mom.

Josephine Gilbode
1923 – 2001

3 Comments

March 29, 2013

Making Love

I am making love in the kitchen of my Sonoma cottage late Thursday night – I chop, stir, cook, grind, and spoon pureed steamed organic sweet potatoes, steamed organic broccoli, Haas avocados, extra lean ground beef, and organic white meat turkey into ice cube trays I’ve picked up at the thrift store earlier that day. Hayes arrives Friday afternoon, and I am preparing a smorgasborg for him: brown rice mixed into the meats; mashed avocado molded into green patties; broccoli that tastes delicious but infiltrates the house with its pungency. Bowls, spoons, pans cover every inch of available counter space. Blobs of orange and green splatter the side of the refrigerator – for some reason, the small food processor I use spits out the vegetables I’m pulverizing so that there is a fair amount that sticks to the fridge and counter. The mess doesn’t matter; Hayes arrives on Friday – and I can’t wait to serve him dinner!

Hayes enjoys his meals ... the side of my refrigerator looked worse than his tray does!

Hayes sure does enjoy his meals (this one in his Boston home) … the side of my refrigerator looked much worse than his tray does by the time I was done with the food processor!

Here’s a link to a video Graham posted the other day on FaceBook: this is going to be a fun week! Hayes entertains (himself) during dinner!

March 14, 2013

What’s In a Name?

Catholic or not, today’s election of Pope Francis riveted many around the world – me included.

I am a recovering Catholic. I would like to re-engage with the Church I knew as a child. I miss the traditions of my early Catholic years; I miss the rituals:

May Processions: Dressed in beautiful dresses with floral wreaths on our heads, we lined up according to the color of the dress we wore. We walked carefully and in time with one another from St. Edward’s School to St. Edward’s Church. Our hands folded, we sang to Mary, Mother of God: “Oh Mary, we crown Thee with blossoms today! Queen of the angels…queen of the May.”. It was magical; we were little princesses singing to our Queen.

And Mass during the week was especially meaningful. We’d sing our Gregorian chants, and when it came time for Communion, we lined up to receive the body and blood of Jesus Christ according to where our favorite altar boy stood. Paul Cruise? I headed down the left aisle to be served by the priest that was served by Paul.

Stations of the Cross? Mmmmmmmm…burning incense still brings to mind all those seasons of atonement before the Bunny arrived early Easter Sunday morning. Oh wait! The Easter Bunny and Jesus’ ascension are not to be confused…although they were part of the same celebration, try as we might to keep these two events separate.

I could go on about early-life Catholic memories, including wearing mantillas – the lacy triangles we anchored to our heads with bobby pins (covered heads showed proper respect while in church). I loved wearing mantillas; they made me feel like I had the most glorious long hair on earth – even if my pretend hair was made of navy blue lace. And when we made our Confirmation at age 13, we were allowed to wear nylons for the first time! There were no panty hose in those days, and I remember pulling up the edge of my nylons to hook into my garter belt … and being SO excited to wear something as grownup as nylons, I pulled the nylons right through the hooks and ripped them. Oh. My. God. It was tragic.

Since I continued Catholic school education through high school (Cardinal Spellman High School in Brockton, MA) and into Junior College (Aquinas Junior College in Milton, MA), there are many more happy memories I have of growing up Catholic, before I became unhappy with being Catholic. (Another story, another time – yes?).

But today’s election of Pope Francis reminded me of my parents’ love of – and commitment to – the Church. My mother kept a statue of St. Francis of Assisi in the backyard of each of her homes. When Mom and Dad made their last move from their home on West Elm Terrace to an apartment with no yard for St. Francis, I inherited the statue. I loved St. Francis; I remembered especially my mother’s joy in the impatiens blooming in front of the statue each spring and summer. My mother reveled in nature, flowers, the outdoors – simple pleasures amplified.

I first brought the statue of St. Francis to my office in Natick, which I had arranged according to Feng Shui guidelines. St. Francis fit in perfectly. Then, when my mother died and we landscaped the bench that was to be her grave marker, it was obvious that that’s where St. Francis needed to be. He’s been watching over both Mom and Dad now for the past 12 years. I know they are happy to have him there.

And so … after suffering through years of Pope Benedict (there: I’ve said it. I did not care for him at all … he looked like a maniac to me and perhaps will be proven so – although I wish all things Catholic were clean and pure and real), I was unexpectedly happy to hear Pope Francis is to lead the Church.

I see Mom and Dad happy with the choice, too. Their faith in human kind – their appreciation of simple pleasures – is their legacy. Seeing Pope Francis on the balcony tonight at St.Peter’s gives me hope that the Church might now be led by a man worthy of the mantle he wears.

Many of the stories that surround the life of St. Francis deal with his love for animals. Perhaps the most famous incident that illustrates the Saint’s humility towards nature is recounted in the “Fioretti” (“Little Flowers”), a collection of legends and folklore that sprang up after the Saint’s death. It is said that, one day, while Francis was traveling with some companions, they happened upon a place in the road where birds filled the trees on either side. Francis told his companions to “wait for me while I go to preach to my sisters the birds.” The birds surrounded him, intrigued by the power of his voice, and not one of them flew away. He is often portrayed with a bird, typically in his hand.

This gives you an idea of what May processions were like in the early 60s – and if you need to hear “Oh Mary, we crown thee with blossoms today …” visit http://youtu.be/p_fln4An7G4.

4 Comments

March 4, 2013

Be Still

Every morning, gratefulness.org delivers a message to my inbox. Sometimes the quotes are interesting but not of particular relevance to me at the moment. Other times, like today, the message goes straight to my heart:

Be still, and the world is bound to turn herself inside out to entertain you. Everywhere you look, joyful noise is clanging to drown out quiet desperation. – Barbara Kingsolver – High Tide in Tucson

At times when I feel ‘quietly desperate’ (what will new health insurance cost, can I actually afford to move to Sonoma, what Nashaquisset detail now has to be addressed, will I ever be part of a couple again – a question that for some reason unexpectedly, deeply pierces my mind and heart these past few months?), I will listen for the joyful noises. Oh wait – here they are now: Smokey sits on my feet as I write; magnolia leaves slowly drift down like giant snowflakes from the tree outside my bedroom window; a blue sky beckons me outdoors. Quiet desperation be gone! At least for now.