Cheese, Wine and Dead Celebrities

I was going to write about how vacation week is a magical week where all I do is eat cheese, drink wine and go to the movies, but then I got irritated. So here we are.

Every year when the “Who Did Planet Earth Lose this Year” lists come out, someone on facebook posts that annoying - “We Are Obsessed with Dead Celebrities, but What About the Soldiers/ Fetusus/ Freedom Fighters/ Animals-Who-Had-Makeup-Tested-On-Them? Why Doesn't Anyone but Me Care About Them??” diatribe.

Well, I am here to answer your thorny questions, opinionated denizens of the internet! Using the magic of PHILOSOPHY!! I believe that my three credits of senior year philosophy (Aesthetics! I have some!) in college qualify me to write about this at length. It is the only A I got in college outside of the education program, which means, well, it means a whole lot of things that I am not going to get into in this blog post, but perhaps someday...

Do you want to know why we care about celebrities dying? It isn't because we know them, it is because of what they represent to us about ourselves.

Prince, Bowie, George Michael, Carrie Fisher – all of these gifted people created memorable songs, characters and writing that will live beyond them. It is a nice gift to give the world and I appreciate them all as artists and humans. But I don't know them. They didn't impact me. So I feel bad for their loved ones, and I do agree that 2016 was pretty greedy with the culling, but I am not posting testimonials about them. (Well, unless you count this one, I suppose...) But for a slight kid, and an artsy kid, or a gay kid or a girl who wanted to be her own powerful princess – these were icons and their loss packs a punch.

The celebrity death that knocked me for a loop was in August of 1995. Picture, if you will, a 30 year old woman of great potential and sturdy girth who has the questionably fulfilling job of raising some toddlers. I was the mother of a two year old and I was nannying a three year old and an infant. I feel like if you were to watch a movie montage of my life for the next ten year it would have consisted of me taking trays of chicken fingers out of the oven and peeling and slicing apples for children's consumption over and over and over.

God bless Steve. He and his dog Blue gave me 25-30 minutes of uninterrupted clue-finding, Boston Globe reading time every morning. I am pretty sure I saw in the paper that Jerry Garcia had died. Maybe my sister called me and that is how I found out. The internet was still pretty nascent in my life and I didn't check it during the day. We were still dial-up and it was an evening event for me to look on the World Wide Web.

So I heard about Jerry. And I cried as I read the paper. And I cried as I talked to my sister. And I cried as I pulled the luncheon chicken fingers out of the oven.

I didn't cry because I loved Jerry so much. Although we did share a moment once - a splendid story that I foist on every kid who has a dancing bear sticker on their laptop in the library, but I shan't share here.

I cried because his death corresponded with what I perceived to be the death of my youth. Frankly, from this side of fifty, thirty seems pretty darned youthful. But at the time, I was coming to terms with being a wife and a mother and a functioning member of the grown-up world. (Yes, I did have a very extended adolescence, thanks for asking...) Jerry was the end of an era for me. I had just seen my last Grateful Dead show at Shoreline Amphitheater that June and spent much of the evening worrying about leaving my toddler with a babysitter who wasn't a blood relative for the first time. My days of dancing without care in a flowy India print skirt while Jerry played Sugar Magnolia live were definitively over.

So long story short – there is no shame in mourning a celebrity death. Famous people are just people, but they also represent things to others. And artists are the ones we tend to hang our psyches on. When they are taken “too soon” they are taken away from us. We don't mourn what they might have done in the future, we mourn their gone-ness.

All of the things in the facebook posts – the soldiers, etc... - people also mourn what they represent, but they are a consistent loss. There will always be losses like these, mourned by the individuals who were protected by them or involved in the movements to protect them. But they are two different types of loss.

And they are both worthy of being mourned.

This meditation on death and loss was brought to you by college philosophy, the World Wide Web, wine and cheese.

ARE WE REALLY HAVING THIS CONVERSATION?

Sometimes you wake up at 3 in the morning all freaked out because you dreamed that you were in the main hallway of your 1978 middle school bare naked. And sometimes you wake up at 3 in the morning all freaked out because you realize that you are well within your rights to be all freaked out.

Yesterday I was talking to a woman I work with. Let's call her Nancy. (Her name is, in fact, Nancy.) She is this child of the 60's super-liberal history teacher. Sometimes I get cocky thinking “Damn, I am the smartest person in this room!” but never when Nancy is there. She is the teacher that got Harry so riled up that he once came into my room at 10:30 at night and did a 20 minute monologue about Teddy Roosevelt because he was so excited about what he was learning in her class. Frankly, it was weird. But wonderful.

Anyway, I will occasionally discuss the state of the world with Nancy, and as you can imagine, conversation sometimes finds its way to the current state of our great republic. Well, Nancy read me something (brilliant) she had written on the internet about the recent upheaval and without thinking, I said, “Geeze, Nancy, be careful!” She looked at me as if I were crazy. “Be careful?? That's how Hitler got into power! People were quiet.”

Now, I don't like to live in fear. That's why the republicanism I was raised in didn't stick. I like people who are different. I like new ideas. I recognize that people who want me to be afraid usually have an agenda. I understand that I might have an idea, maybe even a strong conviction, but if I come across new information, that idea could change. Not because some underlying fundamental has changed, but because I learned something new. Learning new things is a good idea.

Rich and I were talking about my faith the other night. This used to be a recipe for disaster. “You don't believe like MEEEEEEEE! You must be WRONGITY-WRONG-WRONG!!!” (copyright Barb Fecteau, every conversation about Christianity with Richard between 1987-2002 or so...) But we have mellowed. The reason is because we have finally hashed it out. We have discussed "what we do and do not believe and why" so many times that it has finally stuck. I won't say we respect each other's views, but we understand them. And we are so much more mellow now that we are doughy and gray.

So Nancy gave me this article about how evangelical Christians have supported conservative politics and it made me think about my whole history where I used to not call myself a Christian (from about 1987-2002 or so, coincidentally enough) because of how I saw Christians behaving politically. Well, I am a Christian. I believe the stuff Jesus said - the whole Son of God thing. But I have been kind of pissed at him the last few weeks. I do believe God is in control, but he didn't steer this world the way I wanted this time and I am miffed. I have good ideas, Lord. You might have asked my opinion!!

Seriously, do not come to me, claiming to be a Christian, and act like Jesus would have voted for the president elect. Jesus loves Donald Trump, this I know. The insecure, striving, thin-skinned little boy he must have once been is precious in His sight. But I do not believe that anyone who has ever read the Gospels can find any parallels between what the Greatest Teacher Ever says about how to treat other humans and what the president elect says. Or tweets.

So I have been off Facebook for awhile. I claim. (Good grief, it is brain crack, I can't stay away!) So I still look around every once in awhile, but I have been tempering it by trying to read either the New York Times or the Boston Globe every day to get my actual news. Yes, still liberal in tone, perhaps, but at least they print corrections every day, unlike the internet. And you have no idea how insufferable I have been, telling people, “Oh, I read in the Times the other day – blah blah blah...” Feel free to smack me. But I need to read actual facts, not just people's opinions and fears. And yet, here I am with my opinions and fears!

But here's the thing. I deserve to have my opinions and fears. I am allowed to be concerned that the incoming government of the country I love does not share my views on virtually everything. I am allowed to be upset when people with whom I disagree are dicks about the new administration and what it represents. It was not a mandate, southern cousin! We are not whiny little sore losers, friend from high school! We are just calling it like we see it.

This does not make me a snowflake. And here is my final point. It is okay to feel fragile in this current state of affairs. It is weird. There is a divide. I pray we can find a way to get through the next 4 years with less shock and nausea than I feel when I wake up at 3 in the morning all freaked out. This doesn't mean I need a “safe space” or a therapy dog. It just means I have a right to feel my feelings. And frankly, the person who coined the word snowflake to describe me and my ilk can kiss my unique, white, crystalline, frosty ass.

The Great White Hope

I teach a film class and last week for some reason or another we started talking about movies that deal with diverse topics through the welcoming eyes of a progressive white person. We talked about THE HELP and how pale red-headed Emma Stone had to navigate the civil rights era. How Kevin Kline suffered through Apartheid as a white South African man in CRY FREEDOM. How straight lawyer Denzel Washington gave us a glimpse of the AIDS crisis as he helped a dying Tom Hanks.

And yes, I know that Donald Woods, the Kevin Kline character, was a real person and a good friend of martyr Steve Biko and suffered for that friendship and his activism. And Denzel Washington is not actually white, but if you do the math – he is still the “regular guy” in PHILIDELPHIA: it fits the theme. I and contend that THE HELP is a flawed film. Amazing performances all around, and it's heart is in the right place, but it still has that air of – let's just peek into this world, but not too far.

We will circle back to this later.

I read a very reassuring article from the Boston Globe entitled “Seven Reasons to Move to Massachusetts Instead of Canada.” http://www.bostonglobe.com/lifestyle/2016/11/10/seven-reasons-move-massachusetts-instead-canada/LNy3P3GcWxbAmgoCFGiKrJ/story.html?s_campaign=bostonglobe%3Asocialflow%3Afacebook it made me feel so much better about this election. We have universal health care, marriage equity, legal weed, nice people, progressive state government, we're close to the border if you have to make the jump and you don't need to emigrate to move here.

Yes, I am still nervous about the economy and women's rights, but I also enjoy my comfy New England cocoon.

But then again, I am a middle aged, middle class white lady.

I have a good friend at church who moved here from India. She was a tech writer and a radio DJ before and now she is a stay at home mom. Her husband is an engineer and they are here for his work. Their two extraordinary kids were born here. This fall, the kids invited me to attend their school's grandparents day program because their grandparents are all in India. I was both honored and a little concerned. (It was actually grandparents and FRIENDS, their mom was quick to point out. But let's face it, I could easily have grand kids that age if things had gone differently. Again, a post for another day!)

Anyway my friend organized the missions meal on Wednesday – feeding 40 or so people in town who otherwise wouldn't eat – and we were chatting in the parking lot. The subject of the election came up. She and I had been out to dinner last month and we joked around about how if she and her husband got deported, I would be happy to raise her kids. (And I really would, they are so fun...) But when we talked on Wednesday, it was less funny. She asked if I would hide her and her husband. It was still a joke, but my first thought was Anne Frank and Meip Gies didn't see it coming either.

Do I think that it is going to come to building a fake room in my attic? Of course not. And my attic is horrible. But the fear is real.

I wrote a college recommendation for one of the best students I have ever had. She is super smart, very funny, brave, ballsy and kind. I took my son and some of his friends to a free concert in Boston last year and she was there. She wanted to see the band so she snuck out and went. She is just the kind of girl I wish I had been in high school. She is also Muslim and her parents emigrated here from Iraq.

I read her college essay where she talked about them fleeing oppression in their country, meeting in a refugee camp and building a life in America. It was a masterwork. (She is seriously getting into college on that writing alone...) It was a beautiful illustration of the American Dream at work, with a side of adolescent identity crisis and a dash of humor. Man, it was good.

Well, this morning I woke up at 4 am in a cold sweat (okay, hot flash, whatever...) and I remembered that this student told me her parents were going back to Iraq for a month. She would be staying with her adult siblings at home. And I felt so very bad. Not just for my student, but for her mom. How awful to come here and build this life and raise strong, smart, able children and know that while you are thousands of miles away, your little girl is waking up in a country that just elected a man who has more than implied that all Muslims are terrorists, who wants to ban people based on their religion. I picture her coming back in a few weeks, feeling less welcome. Worrying about getting through customs.

I don't have these fears for myself, but these fears are real and I am heartsick for GLBTQ friends and students and the worry they are facing now. Again, Massachusetts is cool with whatever. We love you here, man. But the whole country is not Massachusetts and there are kids all over the the U.S. thinking – well, maybe I'll just just curl up in this closet a little longer. Or worse. We all know the suicide statistics. I pray for these kids.

I am trying not to say anything bad about the president elect. I am not really typing his name. And it's not because of the Voldemort thing. And I am not saying anything about him that is not factually true: no opinions, no comparisons to Frito-lay snack foods. And it is not because I fear eventual death squads coming for me. I am not going to protest. I am not going to say, “Not my president,” but I recognize that there are lots of people who need to stand up and scream just that.

Instead I am going to pray and try to spread kindness and be aware of the needs of others and, hopefully, be helpful.

The litany of fears for me is pretty dull – middle aged fat lady fears dip in retirement savings and possible book burnings. Maybe being referred to as a “dog” if I meet the president. (We know he hates Rosie and she is one of my celebrity dopplegangers.) But I don't want to forget that for many people this is completely gutting. And if you need to talk, or need a surrogate mom, or grandma, I am here.

THE LOVE OF MY LIFE

I don't know how many of you have heard. But this weekend marks the end of one of the most important relationships of my life. We have been together 30 years. Man, I was only 11 when we met, but from the first time we were together, I knew it was going to be the sort of love that lasts a lifetime.

But sadly, sometimes you know that even though you are soulmates, one of you gives too much, one of you takes too much. It can be toxic. It can dull your senses, hurt your heart, give you emphysema and, of course, cancer.

Yes, I am breaking up with cigarettes. And it's killing me, but also, it's killing me. They say that breaking up is hard to do. And I know, I know that it's true. We have split up before.

I would occasionally try to be good in middle school. Yes, I was that creepy middle school kid, walking along the train tracks, stunting my growth with a pack of my father's Winstons burning a hole in the pocket of my sweet denim decal pocketbook listening to my new walkman play Billy Joel's badass PIANO MAN album. But I knew it was wrong. So I would stop and then I would start.

In high school my single most vivid memory is sitting in the girls bathroom reading Stephen King's THE SHINING and smoking True blues that I stole from Mrs. Dansik whose demon children I babysat for twice a week. Her kids were awful. She owed me! Plus they owned a deli and had, like, eight cartons of cigarettes open in the kitchen at all times. They were practically begging me to help myself. Reading and smoking. They go together like the apostle Paul and guilt – forever married in my mind.

Okay, college. I promised my mom I wouldn't start smoking when I went away to college. This was an easy promise to make since I had been smoking for 7 years by the time I left. Hey, there is a difference between careful syntax and lying to your mom.

I started out with Marlboro lights. So freaking cool! Freshman year I would go into Boston alone one day a week and buy a pack and just sit and read and watch people. The McDonalds in Downtown Crossing in the morning, the Public Garden in the afternoon and (after a trip to the Boston Public Library, of course) the bar in the Copley Plaza where they never once thought I was a hooker looking for business in the hotel bar. Must have been my Levis and crew neck sweater.

Sophomore year I met my new roommates, Sheila and Cheryl. They were gorgeous and popular and probably never would have befriended a geeky little nascent-hippie like me except for the one thing we had in common. We smoked Virginia Slims Light Menthols. Good grief, they were the cotton candy of cigarettes. We ran around and went to clubs and neglected our studies. It was glorious.

From 1986-1992 I was fortunate to live a glorious extended adolescence. I smoked generic cigarettes at Grateful Dead shows, I smoked hand-rolled in Europe, I tried to smoke less when I got home and moved in with Rich because he hated it. And then I met the man who would stop me in my tracks.

He was actually a fetus, named Frank. (Well, full disclosure, he was called Cleatus the Fetus until a few days after he was born.) Yeah, I quit to have kids. I had a pretty good run, too. I had a couple of slips between boys, but for the most part, I didn't smoke for nearly 15 years - from 1992 until after I had been working at the high school awhile.

Any teachers out there? Holla! Yeah, you all know why I went back to smoking... Actually, it wasn't the stress it was the summer vacation. All this time and fresh air and blue sky! My kids were adolescent, they loved it if I went to Salem Willows and sat on a blanket and read novels all day while chain-smoking! Granted, they didn't know about the chain smoking part, but they loved having me gone. I'd smoke all summer, quit all winter. Until my summers got longer and my winters never materialized and I realized I was just a full time smoker. And I was 50 and it was time to get over it.

So here I am. I have what I hope is my last pack of Camel blues in my purse and I am going to blow through them, perhaps weeping, as I drive around this weekend. I have a copy of Jennifer Weiner's HUNGRY HEART on my passenger seat and that looks like the perfect smoking book. And it's about food issues. Bwahahahaha! Look for that post coming soon...

I have been saying, “I will quit for good when Trump concedes on November 9.” So much for good intentions. But I am not going to let him keep me chained to this toxic habit. It is embarrassing and unhealthy and while I seem to have completely dropped the “bad relationship” metaphor, I need to break up with cigarettes. I will miss you forever, my darlings, but it is a pain in the ass always scrambling around to try to find an excuse to leave the house to smoke. And also you make me smell like death. (TM, Annika McKenzie)

So (to paraphrase) I press on, grouchily, fingernails bit down to the nub, hopefully into the future.

WHY I'M STILL WITH HER

Dear Role Model,

Did you ever know that you're my hero? Not so much the wind beneath my wings, but rather the mouthy, badass, don't-mess with-me 17 year old broad my awkward, Christian-school attending, Betsy-Tacy-book reading 13 year old self longed to be.

As my big sister's best friend, I watched you and wanted to be just like you. When you and Susan deigned to spend time with me, it was a gift.

When I found out you were a Trump supporter, I was gobsmacked. You're fricking brilliant! You are well educated. You're a great mom. You are loving and kind and you still don't take any shit from anyone. You are who I wanted to be when I grew up! (And yes, the vast chasm of years between 50 and 54 is still as immense as it was back in 1978.)

I ended up blocking your posts on Facebook a few months ago. They made me sad. I know that in liberal old Massachusetts, many people think like me. Most all of my friends are left-wing nut-jobs. I am a teacher/librarian for crying out loud. I should have had a Hillary tattoo on my arm, right next to “Born to Read!”

But I know that in most other states, the ones in the middle, the ones I lived in before we “moved east” there are a lot of people who feel like you. Even women. Smart women. And they feel like they have been screwed over. “The Elites” are trying to tell them what to think. The power brokers in politics and “The Sheeple” who follow them and tacitly approve, are giving all the money and the good jobs to people who are different. And Isis hates us. And men in dresses want to go in our bathrooms and watch our children pee. And all the abortions. And they want to take our guns! It just has to stop.

And honestly, I know you are not all those women. And God knows there are other women I love, to whom I could never even attempt to explain my disappointment, who voted for not-Hillary.

I don't think I can articulate why her candidacy meant so much to me. I am crying as I write this. Just as I cried with joy when I cast my vote for her, when I drove down the highway to my friend LC's house to watch election results. I was singing along with Ry Cooder at the top of my lungs to “Women Will Rule the World”. I felt so powerful. A woman was going to be president. Mother-fracking PRESIDENT! And I got to see it happen.

And then it didn't. And I am so sad.

But it will happen, someday. Eventually somebody – maybe Elizabeth Warren (I bet you hate her!) or maybe one of my students, or the daughter of a friend, or someone's granddaughter – a woman not yet born. Someday a women will be elected. And I pray to see it. But every election year until then, this will be my happiest political memory. My false certainty that a woman I deeply respect, who has done nothing but help the people of this country, would be rewarded with the highest office in the land. That she could wrest this honor from the grip of a man about whom the kindest thing I can say is – he has not held public office or been known for any civic involvement – seemed sensible.

But I was wrong. And I am so, so sad.

And I don't mean to harsh your buzz, but those patriots that conservative women voted for are going to disappoint you. It is not going to get better for us. For women. Not for four years, and you can bet your bottom dollar I am right. They will pay lip service to the issues you care about. We're old broads now, I'm not worrying about anything I'm carrying around being grabbed like a small feline. But I work with teenage girls every day who are still being made to feel bad about their looks and their perceived worth. They are too hot or not hot enough. They are too flirty or not flirty enough. They are being judged by their peers and strangers in ways that are directly related to their status as women.

I think of them going to college in the next four years. And I am so so so so so sad.

President Hillary Clinton wasn't going to cure misogyny the way President Barack Obama didn't cure racism. But the conversation would have continued. Our voices would be heard in ways that have not yet been heard. And I sure would have liked to see it.

I don't begrudge you your happiness, or relief, or whatever you are feeling. I just felt like I wanted to have a record of what it feels like on the other side right now. I don't know if you will ever see this. Do I have the ovaries to brave your wrath by pointing you to this post? Hey, if you get mad – we've just got recreational marijuana legalized in Massachusetts. Come on up for a visit and I'll try to set you up and we can talk.

Love,
Barb

Elko and the road...

Just an FYI - I am now home from the trip and have been since August 5! The events of this post took place July 27-8, if I should need this information to prove an alibi at some point. 

 

You may remember we got up at 3:30 to avoid the heat. It was well worth it. We got to Elko, Nevada just after lunchtime. What is the best thing in Elko, Nevada? If you have to ask, you obviously haven't met Sallie!

Sallie is a Betsy-Tacy friend who invited us to stay with her and “scoured the coal scuttle” to make us feel welcome. We sat and talked for a few hours when we got there, as is our way. Annika proved herself to be the most patient and polite of teenagers by putting up with our nonsense.

At dinner time, we headed downtown to a Basque restaurant. If the Star Hotel is the Elko version of Cheers, than Sallie is definitely Norm! Everyone seemed to know her and she, them.

We got cocktails (well, not Annika) and Sallie introduced us to a drink called Picon Punch. Now she had been talking about it when she told us about the restaurant but both of us thought she was saying Pecan Punch. It didn't taste like pecans at all!

 The place was very cute and the food was amazing! We were served family style. I thought, "There is no way we are going to be able to eat all this!" But I considered it a challenge and gave it the old college try... Even the cabbage soup was delicious, and it was made out of cabbage and soup!

After dinner, Sallie gave us a tour of Elko, including the houses of ill repute. I am not sure if they are considered to have ill repute if they are legal. Either way, I giggled like a 15 year old at the sign on in front of Inez's. Annika, the actual 15 year old, did not. She gave me the stony glare of maturity. 

We also saw some pretty early 20th century houses, some of which were at one point inhabited by Sallie and/or members of her family. 

I enjoy hearing about other people's family history, and Sallie is a true raconteur. 

Sallie's house is at the end of a dead end street and it looks out onto an empty lot. That sounds like it wouldn't be much to look at when I put it that way, but in the desert, it is beautiful!

She also has a back deck and garden so pretty that I had to panoram it!

Before we left, we got the obligatory selfie, which isn't actually a selfie because now I had Annika to do my selfie-ing for me! She is so helpful.

Her other job, which she did with no complaining, was to remove the bug graveyard at every gas stop. We had a serious bug-death problem going east. They saw us coming and decided to end it all. 

If you are a weirdo who likes driving videos and wants to see the different terrain we managed to drive through in a 48 hour period, these clips might interest you. If you are curious about what the windshield looked like encased with all matter of insects, you will also want to take a look. 
I would urge you to not listen to the sound. We were listening to audiobooks all the way home and often forgot to turn them off when filming. And we are goofy as well.

San Francisco to Chico - July 26

Nearing the Donner Pass - July 27

Chico to Elko - July 27

Elko to Salt Lake City - July 28

You would think I would have Annika take the video since I am the worst driving videographer of all time! But it was not to be...

Up next - a lot of pictures of Salt Lake City!

Chico, California

  

California is about 8 different states rolled into one. We drove through three of them on the way out. The starting point was San Francisco where I was to drop off my beloved at the airport.

This is what it looks like on drunk Canadian Siri when you cross the Golden Gate Bridge. You know what else? You have to pay money to go south. You know what doesn't work to pay for the bridge? Fast Pass. Well played Golden Gate Bridge, the check is in the mail...

After a tearful goodbye, I went to the cell phone parking lot. If ever a place was designed to make you pray for the day when we develop transporters like on Star Trek, it is San Francisco International Airport.

But I got to see these lovely ladies!

And Jorge, who declined to be photographed. Maureen was supposed to work, but she ended up getting the day off to make the trade off. I would be given Annika and she would get, well, really nothing in return. The good news is that I was getting Annika!

Mo and I took a selfie, which shall be kept small for...well, it will just be kept small. It ain't my best work!

After the second tearful goodbye of the day, it was off to Chico, California! 

If you have read any comments on this blog, you are familiar with Lady Chardonnay. But you have yet to meet her mother - Mama Chardonnay! But we'll just call her Susan. She isn't the drinker her little girl is. Heh heh heh...

Susan was kind enough to have us stay with her between San Francisco and Elko. It is a 500 mile leg and just too much to do in an afternoon. We were SO GLAD we stopped. 

The best thing about the visit was getting to know Susan better. It is clear where Lady Char gets her joie de vivre!

We went in the pool and splashed around and admired the landscaping. Which I did not photograph in true second-half-of-the-trip fashion.

Susan showed us her prize possession - a VW micro-bus that Annika was quick to claim she was ready to drive. Lady Char's son, L'il Martini claims that the bus will one day be his. But he is going to have to marry Annika to get it. (I will admit this has been my plan all along...)

Dinner was at la Hacienda - a place with salad dressing so good that if you type "hacienda Chico" into google up will come "la hacienda chico ca salad dressing recipe". This is LC's favorite restaurant of her youth and she adores the dressing. Guess who brought a bottle of the stuff home to her? Yes, it was us. And since it had to be refrigerated, we basically had to treat it like a human heart we were transporting for a transplant. There was a daily icing of the cooler (although by this time we were just living on nuts, iced tea, Starbucks and the kindness of others) and some discussion along the lines of how sick she could potentially get if we waited until morning to get ice. 

One thing I forgot to mention was that while we were in the pool, Susan told a story about crossing the desert to Elko with LC in an overheating car in the dead of night that scared the living daylights out of us!

Annika and I decided that it was imperative that we get up at 3:30 am to be on the road by 4 so that we could be in Elko by noon or we would DIE!!!

And we were. 

And we did not die. 

However we did a few hours of driving in the dark which I realized was my first nighttime driving of the whole trip! Annika is a very comforting person to have around. While I drove, she opened the moon roof and laid back and looked at the stars. She saw a shooting star, which is an excellent omen,

When drunk Canadian Siri told us to turn off the main road onto what looked like a gravel path leading to the home of a serial killer, Annika assured me, "We probably won't both be murdered here..." We were not.

And then, inexplicably, we were in the mountains! How did this happen?? We were in the freaking FOREST! And then we turned a corner to a scenic overlook and saw this -

You can't really tell, but it is a sheer drop that goes on forever and it was breathtaking. 

We drove a little further and the car was getting winded so I knew we were making some elevation. Nonetheless, I was rather surprised when we stopped at a rest area and saw this.

We were at about 7000 feet. The highest elevation of the trip so far. And Chico is 197' above sea level, so we made this elevation FAST!

It seems like as fast as we went from the bay to the farmland to the murderous dirt road to the mountains, we hit the desert! We were in Nevada and it looked very Nevada-ish.

I took a picture in Winnemucca because it is the hometown of one of my favorite fictional heroines. Anyone care to hazard a guess? I will reveal all in my next post from beautiful Elko, Nevada!

Glorious, glorious San Geronimo!

 

Here is my slightly blurry sister, Susan. She isn't always blurry but she is driving a huge yellow truck, so I will blame that and not the photographer. She and her husband Jim live in Marin County and was kind enough to let Rich and I stay with her for 5 wonderful days. This was day one, but she pretty much smiled the whole time! She has a very high tolerance for me.

So this is what happened. When I left Aptos, I headed to San Francisco International Airport to pick up my partner in crime [and parenting and house holding and any number of other things] - Rich! We had been apart for nearly three weeks so it was a tender reunion. We had to drive through the city to get up to Sue and Jim's and Rich took some shots of the Golden Gate Bridge - which is neither golden nor gated nor - if Rich's pictures are any indication - symmetrical...

I made an afghan for Susan over the winter and carried it across the country to bring to her. 

She loved it!

 

The first evening, we went to get Indian food for dinner. While we were waiting to pick up the order, we walked to see an Airstream trailer that Jim had made into a work of art. On the way there we saw these.

 

So on the way back, we PICKED ACTUAL FRUIT FROM A BUSH AND PUT IT INTO A CONTAINER AND EVENTUALLY ATE IT!! Can you believe that?? 

California is truly a magical place.

 

We had a nice dinner with Jim's niece and her gentleman friend and Maeve. Who is Maeve? I'll get to that later...

Who is this woman? No, not Maeve, I said later. Good grief... 

 

This is Ms Katie Watts of Petaluma! If you have read any comments on this blog, you will recognize her name. She even has it on the wall of her house. Which she used as part of the directions to her home. Which you can't see from the road. Alas...  

 

Anyway, Katie and I met for lunch in Petaluma and had a delightful time in spite of the fact that at the coffee shop where we met (to paraphrase Katie) apparently they had to raise the turkey for my sandwich and harvest the tea...Customer service wasn't their strong suit. Actually, they were very nice, just slow as dirt. But the conversation was sparkling! After knowing Katie for so long on the internet, it was great to get to meet her in person. She was nattily dressed (And not just in comparison to me! Actually fashionable!) We talked about travel and sons and Betsy Tacy. The time just flew by. I was meeting my family for a beer-swilling afternoon so I had to be off. But we managed to take an adorable selfie before parting ways. 

I met up with everyone at Lagunatis Brewery. They had a very warm, beer-garden where we spent a very long time sampling every single thing they brew. 

Here are Rich and I early in the process. Yes, we do find our matching hats adorable and assume you do as well...

 Here we are after some consumption. Everyone is doing just fine. Maeve took this. Who is Maeve. Soon, reader...soon...

 Here are Susan and Jim after we completed the tasting. They left those nachos completely unattended! Noobs!

OH look! It's Maeve!! Isn't she the cutest??

So Maeve is Susan's goddaughter. She is the daughter of Chris, Sue's best friend from high school. In our family we take goddaughter's pretty seriously. And it helps that they are awesome. 

Maeve is currently living in the camper that Susan and Jim provide at their house for traveling friends. I refer to it as the finishing school for hippie princesses. But I think I am the only one who does that. 

Here is the gang at Russian River Brewing Company. Rich is very excited to be here because, well, beer. Guess who was the designated driver at this point? This will be a reoccurring theme for me. Because I live to serve others. And also, I don't trust anyone's driving but mine. And Dale Earnhardt, Jr.'s.

  

 

When we got home, we were too full to eat so we just goofed off. In this picture we were trying to reenact a postcard I found in their living room that just may encapsulate everything about my whole trip! I am saving it for the end of this post – because I believe it is worth waiting for.

The next day (Saturday) was all prep for the big party! Susan and Jim have a group of friends who are just amazing. Every time we visit you can count on some sort of gathering. We had a wonderful time! Did I take any pictures? Of course not. But I did get some lovely shots of things neatly stacked up in preparation and Jim manning the grill. It will have to suffice.

 Here is what we did the next day. 

 

Crab cakes + eggs benedict for breakfast.

Rich naps while nearly dabbing! This is particularly amazing because Rich knows none of the current dance moves of the young people of today, they way I do...

I take a poncho selfie, because my poncho is awesome.

We sit on the deck and talk.

Have I mentioned the deck? It overlooks a little stream where I have seen actual salmon. (although not this trip) 

It is so lovely I have panoramed it.

Sunday afternoon we went to Terrapin Crossroads and saw some great music. Bluegrass first with Scott Law, there was a banjo - expertly played, I thought - and Jim is no fan of the banjo. And yet he loves bluegrass. This amuses me to no end... Then a blessedly banjo-free set from Kate Gaffney and Jeff Miller. It was wonderful. Did I take any pictures? Of course not...

I did go outside and brave the blistering heat (northern California is not supposed to have this, but northern California was being a butt, weather-wise) to hear Phil Lesh and the Camp Terrapin Family Band. I took a little video and here is a screenshot, so at least I have some visual!

That's Phil there on the right. This is the second closest I have ever been to a member of the Grateful Dead. If you ever run in to me in person feel free to ask about the night I saved Jerry Garcia from almost certain embarrassment. I love to tell that story...

On Monday we went to Sonoma to visit some wineries. This is Rich's favorite thing. I can't remember the names of the ones we visited, but they all had some kind of water in the name - pond, river, puddle - what have you...

Here are my artsy pictures with no people in them -

Here are the people ones...

Here are Rich and Susan going into the first place - we'll call it Roaring River...

Here are Rich and Sue (and a little photo-bomb-y Jim) at the second place. We'll call it Rushing Tributary.

They are really quite photogenic. 

Due to my responsibilities as D.D., I was able to take these very nice pictures. 

We didn't take pictures of the third place, because it was pretty much a shack. But the guy who poured was very knowledgable and friendly. And there were a lot of local people there, which seemed like a good sign. And the wine was delightful. (I had, like, 4 tiny sips!) We will call it Beginning-to-Regret-Being-Designated-Driver Creek.

 

Look at the pretty eyes on this guy! The last place we went was fancier than the others and had a beautiful outdoor tasting area. There was a guy playing classical guitar, but playing 80's classics on it. It was fun to play “Name that Tune” as he began each new song. Who knew “The Boys are Back in Town” could have such graceful emotional heft?

The wine was good (I hear) and I got to eat some olives. So it was a win for everyone!

 Two panorams in one post?? How do I keep up the pace??

 That evening, I was reading some old magazines that Jim collects and he noticed that I gave Maeve a new head!

That same evening, Susan gave Rich a 50th birthday gift. 

It is a wine decanter that we had in the house growing up. It is a family heirloom! Susan adores that thing and would not give it up lightly. Rich was honored to have been given it and drinks wine from it frequently. And he remembers this amazing vacation and his wonderful sister-in-law every time he does. 

I have it on good authority!

And I leave you with this - 

 

Next time, I pick up a new travel companion and face the desert again.

Now with even more mountains!!