A bit about Dad

My father carried gratefulness around like a lucky coin. Maybe the seed was planted when he was adopted as a baby, but he was profoundly thankful for his family. He would have been lost without my mother and told her so in vibrant love letters that she continues to treasure. But he appreciated the smaller, sillier things, too, like peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches, having someone else (anyone else) mow his lawn, chocolate cake with caramel icing, and every episode of the Muppets.

He delighted in Judy Garland’s voice, a good vodka martini, heavy on the olives, The Far Side comics, and hurrying out with me to the open garage whenever a rollicking thunderstorm paraded down the block. (To this day I can still be found sky gazing at even a hint of a rumble.) I grew up watching my father flex his senses. As he soaked up everyday pleasures, they accumulated over the years, burnishing him with the warm patina of a contented man.

But although he may have been satisfied with his life in general, he was by no means apathetic when it came to those around him. Dad held opinions on everything from when I should be allowed to shave my legs (yup) to the state of world affairs. One of his favorite places to share these opinions was at the kitchen table, most notably at breakfast on the weekends. After finishing off a plate heaped with (never enough) scrambled eggs, he would lean his hefty, 6’4” frame back into the squeaking roller chair, take a deep breath, prop his fingers into a pyramid, look out the window and say “Well, girls. ” This was our cue that a history lesson, current events summation, or just plain advice was coming.

Occasionally, Dad would pull the morning’s topic from one of the books he was reading. We’d hear about the wisdom of Churchill or the foresight of Lincoln. Civil War history was his literary passion, though, so you can imagine his delight when I came home in fifth grade and announced that I had to give a speech about the War Between the States. Thrilled, he outfitted me with an authentic Union cap, a real Confederate canteen, a tape of period songs, and an abundance of facts. I was not quite as thrilled.

A WWII Veteran, Dad was a member of the 82nd Airborne. Although he rarely spoke of his own experience, I think he gained a sense of honor from being a soldier, along with pride. Unwaveringly thankful to be an American, he often reminded me how lucky we were to live in a country where freedom was our birthright.

Words got as much care and feeding in our house as our collie, Mac. Books climbed the walls in our family room, tumbled off nightstands, and stretched out on tables. I vividly remember him telling me that I could go anywhere in the world or embark on any adventure when I became absorbed in the pages of a book. But perhaps the most valuable lesson my dad taught me was that words can comfort and connect. That written down, they carry great significance, most importantly, to those you love.

Shortly after his death, I found this dog-eared note folded in half in the pocket of his daily planner. Apparently he tucked it into each fresh notebook.

“Dear Daddy,
Thank you for taking me out in the rain.
Yours truly,
Carol Ann”

A Quick Decision

“They’ve been feeding him intravenously for the past few days.”

My honeymoon glow turned to ice. “Where is he?”

Our cat, Hobbes, had spent the last several days at the vet, brought there by my parents who were taking care of him while my new husband and I unwound on the beaches of Saint Maarten. Two weeks before our wedding, our other cat, Tigger, had to be put to sleep to spare him from the pain of an incurable bladder disease. As wretched as that experience was, we were not the only ones who mourned him. 

Tigger had been Hobbes’ littermate, buddy and partner-in-crime. Adopted together as kittens, Hobbes had never known life without him. Without another kindred soul. You can imagine how lonely he was. So lonely, in fact, that he stopped eating a few days after we left on our trip. My parents, who checked on him daily, did their best to keep him company, but he grew weak and listless. My father implored the vet, “These kids can’t lose another cat. Do whatever you can.” The doctor administered medication with an eyedropper and fed and watered him through tubes. He kept him going. By the time we got home a few days later, Hobbes had grown jaundiced and had lost nearly half his body weight.

We waited in the sterile examining room with the pea green walls and goofy dog calendar, the same room we were in when we said to goodbye to Tigger before we were ushered back to the front desk, tears still streaming, to sign gruesome paperwork. The knot grew tighter in my stomach. We didn’t wait long. The door opened and in walked the vet, empty-handed.

 “Your cat is dying of loneliness,” he stated matter-of-factly. I fumbled in my purse for a Kleenex. “There is no physical cause for his condition. You’d better find a friend for him right away.

Later that morning David and I squinted as we walked resolutely into the fluorescent bathed, antiseptic room where the local animal shelter kept their cats. We had told the volunteer that we were looking for a female, though I can’t remember why. We knew for sure we wanted a tabby though, like Hobbes. She directed us to one of the dull metal cages stacked on the left side of the narrow room. Inside three tiny kittens awaited homes. As we came closer, one kitten thrust his head between the bars and yowled an energetic greeting. 

“Oh, that’s the male. Don’t mind him. Here, hold one of the females.” She handed me a wiggling bundle of fur with sleepy gray eyes. As I began to pet her, the male piped up again, continuing to communicate with us. Preening and chirping, he bounced around the little cage, his tail curled into a question mark. Pleading to be picked up, he stretched tall on his scrawny legs. Sometimes, I guess, they just pick you.

Charlie chattered all the way home and ran straight to Hobbes the moment I opened the carrier door. Hobbes, yellow eyed and weary could barely muster a sniff. Our six- week old kitten still longed to nurse, though, so burrowed his way under Hobbes’ thick fur and suckled him. Whether he was too weak to protest or he welcomed the attention, we’ll never know, but as the afternoon wore on, Hobbes began to shuffle along after Charlie to see what he was getting into, and by nightfall he was eating. 

The boys were together for 14 years.

The Soul of a Vineyard

A chubby Dalmatian and a scrappy black terrier tore down the road, barking furiously. Driving slowly past lush rose bushes standing sentinel at the ends of the rows of vines, we inched past the rambunctious welcoming committee towards the trailer at the end of the drive. I could hardly wait to spring out of the car and walk through the vineyards.

As a birthday present (it was a big one) my husband had arranged for us to learn about winemaking from the craftsmen themselves, right in the heart of Santa Barbara’s burgeoning wine country. A couple of vintners graciously offered to show us around during crush, their hectic harvest time. The early morning fog had burned away and the autumn skies over the Santa Rita hills were speckled with only a few lingering clouds.  The winemaker for Clos Pepe greeted us as we bounded out of the rental car.

“Welcome! You must be David and Carol. I’m Wes. Why don’t we head right out to the vineyard while we talk.”  A lanky man with square shoulders and a brisk stride, he tromped over the occasional tangled weed, and led us down a tidy row of carefully tended vines, their leafy tendrils reaching out to us in a verdant greeting. He explained that the east/west orientation of the coastal mountains formed valleys in Santa Barbara County that drew the cool ocean breezes over the land, carving out distinct microclimates ideal for producing classic wines like Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. The faint scent of salt water still hung in the air.

Tenderly, he cupped a cluster of chardonnay grapes in his coarse palm. “See the dusty bloom? This protects them from sunburn. Here, have a taste.” He proudly handed them to us. A bright burst of fresh fruit puckered my lips and made me smile. Such possibility brewing inside those busily growing grapes. 

As Wes went on to describe the growing process, we learned more about the consistent, precise care that’s needed to nurture the grapes throughout the season. There was a comforting orderliness to it that seemed to suit him and he nearly shined with confident focus. Clos Pepe produced a very low yield, which enabled him to micro manage each row of vines. In fact, he had just completed a partial picking due to frost. Imagine- having your work tied so intimately to the moods of nature. A delicious sense of rootedness began to stir inside of me. Strolling through the tranquil vineyard, I could almost picture dedicated winemakers from generations past bending over their precious crops; their livelihood and their passion embedded in the land. After toasting Wes for generously sharing his time, knowledge and glorious vineyard, we were ready to get back on the road.

Winding our way through miles of dusty farmland and dry scruffy mountains, we drove into the criss- crossed hills of the Santa Maria Valley. The whole county was swollen with miles of ripe grapes just aching to be harvested. We slowed to a stop in front of an enormous warehouse on the grounds of the Bien Nacido Vineyards. Once again, we hit the ground running. These were busy guys.

“Hey, I see we have visitors!” Brad, a newbie preparing for his first bottling, strode over to us and extended his hand, adjusting the rim of his soiled baseball cap. “Have you guys ever tasted free run wine?” I’d only vaguely heard of it, let alone tasted any. Free run is the juice that’s produced from the de-stemming process before the grapes have been pressed. He grabbed a glass from a nearby worktable and carefully dunked it in the barrel, gently scraping the side to collect just the bright ruby juice. The clean ripe taste was refreshing; it was the real deal.

Since this was his first bottling, Brad drew samples of wine from his two barrels produced the previous year. He would taste each one, and then, with the skill of a budding alchemist, he would blend them. What he needed was some expert advice. We followed him to the vineyard’s makeshift office where a man in his early thirties sat, examining the two glasses lined up in front of him on a bottle strewn table. James, a 9th generation Californian, whose family had harvested the land I was standing on for several hundred years, not only grew his own grapes and sold them, but was a highly regarded winemaker as well. Brad took a deep breath. I didn’t hear him exhale.

James swirled the first sample, then stuck his nose down into it briefly. He straightened his spine and slowly brought the glass to his lips. As his eyes closed, he took a deep sip and held the wine in his mouth awhile before he swallowed.  Eyes still closed, he sat quietly, almost reverentially. I raised my eyebrows and looked at Brad, who whispered that he was counting the time of the finish. Just then, James opened his eyes and gave his colleague a slow, warm smile. He took off his cap and ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. Thoughtfully, he suggested areas for improvement, then blessed Brad with sincere praise.  Eyes dancing, our new friend beamed and extended a glass in our direction. We took turns enjoying the samples, giving what we hoped were knowledgeable sounding impressions. Having witnessed a baptism of sorts, I felt privileged.

We began to say our goodbyes when the owner of the winery invited us to stay to be part of the toast given to the exhausted but satisfied men who had brought in the harvest. At the end of the meal, James asked us if we’d like to try some of his wine.  It was as if da Vinci had asked if I’d like to look at some of his sketches. Our day had come full circle. From tasting grapes plucked off the vine to this. Lifting a glass with a man whose veins pulsed with his family’s accumulated wisdom and skill. I swirled mine gently in a small circle on the rough table. Lifting it to my nose, I pulled in a deep breath. Hints of black cherry and vanilla drifted up lazily. I took a healthy sip, letting the wine wash over my entire tongue. The smooth, velvet texture wrapped the fruit in a creamy embrace. I swallowed almost reluctantly.

In the end, it’s all about how it makes you feel. Rather than distracting me from my recent birthday, this trip immersed me in the rhythm of the harvest, the fruitfulness to be found in the passing of time. And that is well worth a toast.

Fussin': a fiction short

James felt relieved when he spotted Wanda’s rusty green Dodge resting in its favorite spot at the back of the lot. He had heard about her husband’s death a couple of weeks ago and hadn’t seen her at the diner since. Wanda’s Place was as reliable as the sunrise, the eggs were always piping and the bacon always crisp. He pushed the squeaky screen door open, wiped his boots on the bleached welcome mat and headed for his favorite stool, the one by the wall under the Coca Cola clock at the end of the no smoking section. A relatively recent concession Wanda had made just for him.


The swinging doors that led into the kitchen opened without their usual burst. Wanda moved through them gingerly, as if avoiding contact with a bruise.

“Hey there, honey, Good to see ya.” She grabbed one of the creamy mugs that were stacked to the left of the coffee pot and set it in front of him. Normally, she’d hit the punch line before she finished pouring, but today was different.

“Wanda, I just want to tell you how sorry I am.”

“No, James, they’ll be none of that.” She shook her head. “I know ya are and if you say any more, you’ll just get me going again.” She sighed slowly and reached a plump hand into her faded blouse to snatch a hankie. She dabbed at the blotchy skin by her once lively blue eyes. “It’s just that I don’t know who to fuss over now.”

She moved off to take care of another customer, leaving James with his thoughts. He held the mug with both hands and blew the steam softly. Wanda had ministered to Ed for longer than James had been alive. She grumbled about it, sure, but everyone knew that’s what fueled her. Fussing over people.

Late for a meeting, he polished off his scrambled eggs, took one more sip of coffee and tipped his cap to Wanda on the way out. Gravel crunched under the tires of his muddy red pickup as he sped up to the warehouse. He strode around to the side door, jangling his keys. His boots clumped heavily on the plank steps, nearly drowning out the pitiful mewling. He stopped short, keys in mid air.

“Meew, meew.” A hoarse, high-pitched call crept up through the steps.

“What the hell?” James jumped off the side and peered underneath. Sunlight stole through the cracks in the wood, throwing splotches of light into the small space. Perched on a pile of twigs was the tiniest kitten, its huge triangle ears threatening to topple it head first.

“Meew.” It squeaked again, its small fuzzy body shaking with the exertion.

James dropped to his belly and reached in slowly, crooning “It’s okay, little one, I’m not going to hurt you.” He scooped the kitten up with one gentle swipe of his sturdy paw and drew her out into the welcoming sunshine. He stroked the orange stripes of her downy fur with his other hand and her trembling began to subside. His meeting temporarily forgotten, he leaned back against the steps and began to inspect his new friend. Her green eyes looked clear, and except for some leaves and a bit of dirt, she seemed pretty clean. Well, her motor works, that’s for sure. He smiled to himself as she cranked up her contentment to a rolling purr. She was so young, so needy; she’d have to have a home where loving attention flowed freely.

She battled with his bootlaces as he hurried through his meeting. He knew what to do. Less than an hour later, for the second time that day, James was relieved to see that rusty, green Dodge.

A Tuscan Torment (or more aptly,) The Smashing of my Rose Colored Glasses.

“Oh, you’re American.” He raised his eyebrows as he put my bags into his car.

“Yes.” I said slowly. “Don’t you have many Americans in the workshop?”

“We used to have over 70%,” he sighed, his words caramel thick with a creamy Itlaian accent. “But since 9/11, enrollment has dropped way down. Now, I’d say the reverse is true.”

I folded myself into Diego’s dirty blue Fiat outside the dusty little train station in Buonconvento, Italy. I was there to attend a photography workshop in the nearby town of San Quirico and had been looking forward to meeting people from different countries. So why was this information making me uneasy?

I started the day with a surplus of enthusiasm, but as I navigated my way though the bus and train system, lugging my carefully packed bags and equipment through the 93 degree haze, some of that positive energy began to melt. It wasn’t the foul breathed teenaged backpacker’s fault that he had to press himself up against my sweat soaked body on the bus. There was nowhere else for him to go. Nor could I blame the blank-eyed train station attendant for giving me the wrong information; how was she to know that the platform number for my train would be switched less than three minutes before departure? And it certainly was no one’s fault that the announcement was made in Italian. I was, after all, in Rome.

“Quale traino per Buonconvento?” A kind hearted woman heard my desperate entreaties to several bystanders. I imagine she took in my sagging shoulders, wet brow, and frantic tone and took pity on me.

“Do you need help, dear?” I could have kissed her.

“Oh, yes. I’ve been given conflicting information and I’m trying to find out which platform to go to for Buonconvento.”
She put a warm, matronly hand on my shoulder. “Well, that is where I am traveling, it’s this one over here.” Dressed comfortably chic, with a casual cotton skirt and short sleeved print blouse, she reminded me so much of my Aunt Betty. Pulled together, brisk, yet nurturing.

We boarded shortly thereafter and although she asked about my trip and told me a bit about her hometown of Florence, she left me to my thoughts. The old train ambled slowly through the countryside, the stuffiness in the car gradually easing as pockets of air pushed in through the grimy top windows. Postcard scenes unfolded, teasing my expectations. Tidy lines of rolled hay marched over the gently sloping hillsides. Sun bleached stucco farmhouses with ruddy tile roofs looked haphazardly plunked down every few miles, like game pieces scattered across a board. Swaying rows of deep gold crisscrossed with rigid rows of verdant green.

At the next bend, we rumbled right past a lonely looking cypress, causing it to swoosh in our wake. Taking a deep pull on the precious bottle of now lukewarm water, I settled back , closed my eyes and could almost hear the whir of my mental projector as scenes unspooled from the story I had woven. I pictured myself sipping fruity local Chianti with my fellow classmates after a day spent capturing the wildly romantic Tuscan images that so nonchalantly rolled past my window. The work would be so consuming, I’d lose track of time. My photographs would be vibrant and fresh, something I created with my own hands, my own vision. After writing down every detail and impression in my journal, I would fall into bed each night with that delicious weariness that’s rooted in a satisfying sense of accomplishment.

I’d heard from two friends, whose work I greatly admired, that attending a workshop would be “a life changing experience.” God that sounded thrilling. There was a time when I wouldn’t have considered doing something this bold. But that was before my father died. That day knocked my life out of balance and a big piece of my foundation was kicked away. Finding a passion and a purpose mattered more now. I was convinced that the immersion into the unfamiliar, the sensual setting, and the adventure of traveling alone would all combine to arouse my creative individuality and point me in the right direction. I didn’t want to waste any more time.

After passing a half dozen nameless sleepy stations, the train finally slowed at my stop. My good-natured traveling companion was concerned that no one was on the platform to greet me, but I told her not to worry, I’d find them. Before rounding the corner I looked back to a warm smile and vigorous wave goodbye.

“Do you want a cigarette?” Diego’s question pulled me back to the moment at hand. I shook my head.

“No, thanks.”

We were winding our way over bumpy, dusty roads, passing fields of drooping sunflowers, weathered cottages blooming with overflowing window boxes and, to my delight, the occasional smattering of thirsty looking grape vines. The steady breeze filled the car with an earthy, silty smell.

Half an hour later, he nudged the Fiat up a steep hill, then down a bustling side street, parking alongside an ancient stone building that had once been part of the city walls.

“Okay, sorry to rush you, but you’ve got twenty minutes to shower and change for dinner. I need to get back to the school. I’ll wait across the courtyard at the café.”

He helped me haul my bags up the narrow, slippery stone steps. I dumped my equipment and peeled off my sticky clothes. Even in my hurry I was able to appreciate the charm of the wide windows with heavy red peeling shutters that were begging to be flung open. Ah, the healing power of a much needed shower! Vastly refreshed, I hurried out the door to meet Diego.

Il Poggiolo, the meetinghouse, stood like an arrogant warrior with arms crossed and feet spread. Aptly named, (the balcony), it was built on a hilltop and overlooked the tiny drowsy town of San Quirico. We walked up the stone steps to the sweeping patio where many students had already arrived. There were five classes being held that week, each with 6-10 students, one instructor and one assistant. My first choice class had been canceled due to lack of enrollment and I was attending the one the school suggested in its place. Most people were talking and laughing in small groups as if reacquainting themselves. There were more men than women, but many could have been an artist’s muse. I struggled not to stare. Sculpted jaws supported pillow soft lips, espresso eyes shined, sable hair flowed.

Although travel weary, I was humming with that first day of school anticipation. But before I could plunge in, however, Carlo, the soft-spoken founder and director of the school, announced in English that we should gather for an orientation talk. He had an overgrown rumpled monk haircut, wide face and easily distracted eyes. Dressed in wrinkly kakis that had seen better days and a faded blue polo shirt, he looked like he had been dragged away from doing something else. Initially warm and welcoming, he quickly introduced the different instructors, those surely wise professionals who were standing at the ready to coax out our collective genius. They broke us into groups by class.

“You must be Carol.” A petite woman with smiling eyes reached out her hand. “I am Anna, Andrea’s assistant and I will be translating for you.” Before I could even register just what that was going to mean, my instructor Andrea looked up from the gaggle of students surrounding him and switched into English.

“Oh, Carol… yes. I am afraid you are the only American in my class – the only one who speaks English, actually.” He laughed. “This is very rare, as most students who come here can usually speak English as a second language. It’s odd, but no one does in this group. So, I’ve decided to teach it in Italian for the first time. Anna will translate for you where needed.”

Where needed? My language tapes had reviewed how to catch a bus, order a meal and chat with the locals. I wasn’t prepared to learn photography techniques in Italian. Oh, God. This workshop had sounded like such a good idea. My Mom so wanted to give me something special for my birthday. She was thrilled that she could do this for me. And the timing was perfect. My husband, David, was working with a client in Reno… it was the ideal week. But how was I going to learn anything this way?
Dismissing me with a quick nod, he turned back to the rest of the class.

“Excuse me, but won’t that be difficult?” He looked back at me with raised eyebrows. With a trace of annoyance, he responded, “Well, it is unfortunate, but Anna knows a decent amount of English, so she can explain things to you quietly as I teach.”
Yep, that was my only option. The other classes being held that week were either much more advanced or specialized. I didn’t want to just turn around and go home. I had come too far.

Little did I know that the struggle had just begun.