Four years ago, with fires raging and power outages sparking across Napa County, the owner and operator of a popular neighborhood restaurant felt compelled to keep his doors open.

   If he didn’t, he feared, some of his patrons—many of whom are elderly— couldn’t eat. They depended that much on him. With gas grills and candlelight, he was able to feed all his customers.

   It seemed nothing could stop Ruben D. Carreón, owner of Emmy Lou’s Diner in Napa. Nothing except what was waiting around the corner—something atrocious, deadly and unreal: a worldwide pandemic.

   Maybe Ruben had met his match. He stayed open for takeout only, but customers fell away like hotcakes as we all stayed home. The horrific pinch would be the death knell of many restaurants, and Ruben often told us he felt lost and didn't know what to do.

   Sadly, we didn’t, either.

   Because Ruben fussed over my 92-year-old mother and was so kind to all of us every time we walked through his doors, we were loyal fans from the beginning. It’s a diner that features big portions, daily specials and smiling faces. Three of Ruben’s nieces—Mimi, Vanessa and Sofia—work there. And yes, they serve wine and beer.

   My mom and I love the cranberry mimosa!

   A the pandemic rolled on with so many restaurants closing, opening, then closing again, we came to treasure the special moments at Emmy Lou’s. Yet we’d nearly break down every time we heard Ruben wonder out loud what to do next.

   His family, of course, urged him to retire—which he probably will never do until it’s physically no longer possible for him to work. After all, hard work is in his blood. Ruben builds and, when all else fails, he rebuilds.

   I’d like to tell you Ruben’s story and how he got here, because it’s an inspirational tale and one my family is proud to tell.

   His hometown is Iguala, a historic city in the state of Guerrero in southwestern Mexico. His father was absent and his mother died when he was 8, but fortunately his aunts raised Ruben and his five siblings. At a young age, he began waiting on tables in nearby Acapulco, which gave him the opportunity to learn a bit of English from American tourists.

   Ruben knew he had to carve out a better life for Liduvina, the woman he planned to marry. Thinking he was “a genius,” as he humorously tells the story, he decided to make some radical changes.

   He figured the changes he envisioned could happen only in the United States. So, at the age of 27, he kissed Liduvina goodbye—promising he would return for her—and boarded a flight to San Francisco. He had never been on an airplane. In his pocket he carried a slip of paper with a name—only a name—given to him by a nun.

   There is power in being a nun, as we shall see.

   Knowing not a soul in a new country, Ruben showed up out of nowhere at a restaurant not far from the airport called Joe’s of Hillsdale. He was looking for the owner, Arthur Petri, whose name the nun gave him.

   “This man changed my life,” Ruben told us. Arthur asked if he was willing to work hard, and that very night Ruben started busing tables. The servers thought he was phenomenal, and each of them gave him $3 from their tips.

   Ruben gasped when he saw that amount of money. At the time, it was what people in Mexico made if they worked an entire week.

   When it came time to close for the evening, Ruben was still cleaning. Arthur told him to lock up and go home.

   But that’s not what happened. Ruben stayed and, implementing a technique he learned in Mexico, used lemon and salt to clean the giant copper hood above the kitchen stove. It took him until the wee hours of the morning to complete the task.

   When the staff returned the next day, they couldn’t believe their eyes. They brought in the owner to show him the gleaming hood. Ruben started working full time for Arthur, who let him carve out a small space in his office to sleep until the owner found a studio apartment for him. From that humble beginning, a lifelong friendship was born.

   Ruben kept his promise. He returned to Mexico to bring Liduvina back with him and continued to work hard. Perhaps it was the intensity in the way Ruben worked that convinced Arthur to ask him to help open a new restaurant in Napa. Of course Ruben’s answer was yes. Petri’s Restaurant on Monticello Road opened in 1979.

   Ruben worked his way up the ranks and, because of his gracious enthusiasm, became the maitre d’. Customers returned again and again. In 1996, when Emmy Lou’s became available, Ruben took another chance and bought it.

   Every time I think of this gutsy man willing to take risks to pull his family out of poverty, I ask myself if I could have done something like that.

   The answer is no.

   Over his years of living and working in Napa, Ruben has launched several business ventures, including another diner in American Canyon and a wine club. He was forced to close both during the recession of 2008 but held on to Emmy Lou’s.

   Ruben’s story has had many layers since he arrived in this country. He and Liduvina had five children, all of whom went to college and now lead successful careers in fields including engineering, medicine and psychology. And with the children grown, Liduvina started a successful cleaning business of her own.

   Ruben believes he was too strict with his kids (I have my doubts), but he and Liduvina did something right. Noel, 49, is an electrical engineer; Pamela, 48, is a registered nurse; Orlando, 44, has a Ph.D in education and teaches at UC Davis. The youngest, Liduvina Karina, 43, is a psychologist.

   Ruben and Liduvina also helped raise his nephew, German Hernandez, who lived with them at times while pursuing his education. That worked, too. German attended Stanford, then Harvard and is now a physician—a kidney specialist—in Texas.

   My whole family loves Ruben, who dresses with casual elegance on the job but still works hard. At times you’ll see him with an apron washing dishes, cooking behind the stove or running to the farmers market for fresh fruit. He doesn’t ask his staff to do anything he wouldn’t do.

   He’s built an additional family of his regular customers. If there’s one word to describe him, I’d say it’s gracious.

   His nieces are fiercely proud of him. A smiling Mimi (she’s always smiling) looked around the restaurant one day and, beaming with pride, said: “My uncle did all of this.”

   When restaurants were at last allowed to reopen, it’s no wonder that my mom, my husband and I were ecstatic to see Emmy Lou’s packed to the gills with hungry people—all the tables filled. It was that way again on Father’s Day and when we went in during the Fourth of July weekend. We wanted to applaud and cry at the same time.

   Best of all, the people were all ages and types: young and old, large families, single diners, a group of eight friends in their 20s.

   So far, it looks like Emmy Lou’s will survive the pandemic. I still don’t know how Ruben did it.

Posted 8/20/21

      A flower-child pattern reminiscent of the 1960s framed a car license plate in the parking lot of Napa’s Oxbow Public Market. It made Annie Johnson smile.

    She walked over to the driver and, saying how much she “loved your plate,” offered her a shiny golden $1 coin. The driver, an 18-year-old woman named Jordan, just beamed. Even her steering wheel cover was decorated in flowers reminiscent of the logo for that 1960s TV show, The Dating Game.

    This wouldn’t seem like an ideal meeting for two people apparently so different. Annie was visiting us from her home in Southern California, having just lost her husband of 38 years. Jordan, who lives in Napa, was preparing to leave for Agnes Scott College, a women’s school near Atlanta.

    They bridged their age gap in just a few steps and words.

    The next thing we knew, Annie was telling Jordan about her husband, and Jordan was telling Annie how excited she was to be heading off to college. Then these two strangers were hugging.

     Yep, that’s my friend Annie. You shouldn’t hang out with her if you don’t like watching her trying to make someone else’s day. Annie does it by offering one of those golden coins, which the recipients seem to hold and treasure.

    “I love looking for and finding the JOY,” she tells me. She also calls them “golden moments,” and says she once read a turn of phrase using these words in a book. That’s what inspired her to start gifting coins.

    When it comes to friendship, I look at it like this: We have friends for different reasons. One might be good at offering advice. Another might be wonderful at hosting dinner parties or providing late-night chats on the phone. Yet another might be able to convince you to start exercising again.

    And then there’s the friend who can do something entirely different, something so small yet so extraordinary that it seems like magic. That’s Annie. It’s as though she breathes fresh air into our souls with her golden coins.

    While some people say they like to “practice kindness,” Annie lives by that motto. I call it happy-making magic, and she’s one of the most unusual beings on this earth. For the past eight years, she has found a truly exceptional way to reach out to others, often complete strangers, by placing $1 coins into the palms of their hands. Just because they made her happy.

    The particular coin she gives, introduced in 2000 and produced until 2008, is engraved with the likeness of Sacagawea, the Native American woman who helped guide the Lewis and Clark expedition across much of America from 1804 to 1806.

    While some coins have a burnt copper color, the newer versions glitter and glisten like gold.

    Of course, the Covid pandemic put a crimp in her joy. Then five months ago, her husband, Allan, died after a long illness. She found that the giving side of her became a huge part of her grieving path. The people we saw her give them to in the Napa Valley were truly touched, whether it was the owner of a cheese shop, a tasting room server or a pair of kids.

    “I give them out on days ‘golden with joy’ and, I must say, there have been dozens of reasons,” she told me after her visit. “I’ve given out hundreds, probably at least a thousand, but with Allan’s death I started looking for more reasons to find a golden moment.”

    Whom does she give them to?

    “I gave one to a mother whose young daughter just said spontaneously, ‘Mom, I love you,’ while they were shopping at Target. I gave one to a teenager in a McDonald’s parking lot who ran over to pick up a piece of trash that flew out of his hand.

    “I gave one to my granddaughter’s boyfriend when he hung the Christmas lights on their new home. I gave one to a man who scooped up his son and carried him on his shoulders as they walked along the beach.

    “I always give them to men who wear red shoes—but once I gave one to a lady who was wearing them, because she was really rocking the whole red outfit.”

    In one instance, she gave a golden dollar to a woman whose job it is to pick up dead bodies and transfer them to funeral homes. Annie didn’t know about the woman’s job, but when she saw she was wearing shamrock socks, they made her smile and she handed her a coin.

    After Allan’s death, friends responded to her grief. Allan had asked his best friend, Frank, to never let Annie be without golden dollars for a single moment. Frank went to the bank and bought 300 shiny new dollar coins. Annie’s friend, Vivian, gave her 50 of them.

    Annie had been worried about selling Allan’s favorite car, a 1966 Pontiac. He was the original owner and never wanted to get rid of it. Seeing her concern, their close friend Gary Mendez told Annie he would find a buyer—a good buyer.

    And he did. When the buyer arrived, Gary was there to complete the sale. Naturally, Annie offered the new owner a golden dollar. “We were all feeling the love,” Annie explained.

    I can’t help but feel that Annie’s the one who creates the love.

    Giving those gifts has helped guide her through a mix of raw emotions after losing her soulmate. (I would like to note that she doesn’t leave anybone out in her giving, no matter their race, age or religion; we should all learn from that.) She gave a coin to a Muslim man just after the end of Ramadan. When she spots a quinceanera (a traditional celebration for Latina girls turning 15, often held at San Pedro beaches and parks), she hands one to the young girl stepping into the beginning of womanhood.

    The list is endless. She only recently started documenting the encounters with photographs so she can more clearly remember the names and the stories. She even takes notes! Thank goodness, because I was so often awestruck by her actions (often, so is the beholder).

    When we heard of Allan’s passing, I wondered if we should invite Annie to Napa. Grieving is such a different animal for every individual, so I was hesitant. I called two mutual friends and both thought it would be good medicine.

    When I talked to Annie, she immediately said no.

    Of course she did! She’d been taking care of her husband for the past two years, which ended all of their travel. His welfare had been on her mind every minute of the day. He died at home with her at his bedside. But it takes time to realize that although one part of her journey has ended, her grieving has not.

    One friend, Bill, asked Allan if he was worried about her after he died. His response? “Annie will be just fine. She’s strong.” And she is strong, she says, because she’s loved.

    In time, she decided to consider a visit to Napa after all.

    She asked a few people to go with her, but they were busy—until her friend Vivian said she would go. And that’s how Annie wound up here.

    Vivian, my husband and I had heard stories about her golden coin giveaways over the years, but seeing them first-hand—especially how people reacted—was an entirely different thing.

    Annie can find joy wherever she goes. She looks for it. Perhaps we all should.

    You can’t help but notice Annie, who is 6 feet tall with long blondish hair and deep hazel eyes. She had selected the Clif Family Winery in St.Helena to visit because she'd heard about its casual warmth.

    The instant we sat down in the Clif tasting room, Annie greeted our server and immediately asked him his name (it was Keegan). Within minutes, she had asked so many questions that we learned he was happily married, had two boys and that his wife recently gave him a stunning ring made of wood for their tenth anniversary.

    Annie loved it! You could see the warmth spreading over her face. She seems to probe people with her eyes. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before she stood up and told Keegan she wanted to give him something. She said she was looking for reasons to “have golden joy” since losing Allan.

    Keegan beamed. All of us at that table knew the first thing he would likely tell his wife when he got home that day.

    The next evening, after we finished dinner at Fumé Bistro, Annie spotted a young family sitting outside with their loving chihuahua, Zuzu. The 9-year-old girl was reading a book.

    Well, any kid reading gets Annie’s attention. She volunteered to teach second graders how to read and did that for many years.

    Annie just couldn’t help herself. She walked up to the 9-year-old, looked into her eyes and handed her a golden dollar. She explained she had lost her husband and that the little girl was giving her “golden joy” because she was reading. The girl was ecstatic and shocked that a stranger would give her such a gift. The parents were happy, too, and you couldn’t help but feel there was excellent parenting going on here.

    By the way, the mother said, her daughter’s name is Sonali, which means "rays of gold."  Her 15-year-old brother, Daniel, explained that he wanted to be a sportswriter and was interested in learning how to improve his writing. He, too, received a golden dollar because Annie was happy that he was pondering his future and was interested in writing. Delighted, I promptly handed the family my card so I could introduce them to what I call (coincidentally) “The Seven Golden Secrets to Writing,” which I’ve taught for many years.

    The kids were enthusiastic about learning to write and, a day later, I received an email from Daniel. He’s the first teen-ager to respond to my offer of writing lessons that don’t cost a thing. He wrote that both he and his sister were interested.

    Their first assignment, I told Daniel, was to write about how it made them feel to receive the golden dollar.

    Sonali wrote that a woman walked up and told her family that she hated to “disrupt” but wanted “to give this young lady something.”

    “I looked up from my book and looked around for other ‘young ladies,’ " she wrote to me later. “I pointed to myself, confused. ‘Me?’ My head spinned with questions.

    “Did I drop something? Was it a gift? Do I know this person?”

    She wasn’t entirely sure what the coin was. “The night air was cool against my skin,” Sonali wrote. “Yet I felt warmth spread throughout my body. A woman who didn’t know us came and gave us something of her own.

    “I wasn’t doing anything special. I was being myself and I got something. A stranger was giving me something for free. The only price was me reading and being myself.”

    Her brother felt the same way. He wrote: “Annie looked up to heaven, a small smile on her face. With that, Annie turned around and walked carefully down the street…

    “I turned and smiled as the golden sunset illuminated our table, glowing brilliantly as the sun struck the golden Sacagawea coin.”

*    *    *    *

Dear Readers: I couldn’t fit everything I wanted into this story, so in case you’re interested I’ve listed some of the other people to whom Annie has handed her golden treasure:

--Parents enjoying pushing their child on a swing—without their cellphones in their hands.

--A group of women who turned 65 this year and had known each other since elementary school.

--A woman running backward up a hill. Annie just happened to be at the top when she finished.

--A granddaughter carefully walking her ill grandmother out to the water’s edge at the beach.

--A second-grade teacher who took her students to study at the tidepools at Royal Palms Beach in San Pedro.

--A man sitting on a Catalina Island beach making people laugh with an inflatable puffin around his waist.

--A young couple enjoying their first “date night” since becoming parents.

--A teen-age boy on a nature hike with his girlfriend who stopped to pick some wildflowers.

Posted 8/1/21

   I had been stunned with grief, having a difficult time finding a new dog friend after losing my beloved love bug, Baxter.

   I needed someone to fill that very raw sore in my heart. I wasn’t getting anywhere with the non-profit rescues and, at the time, couldn’t find anything at the Napa County shelter. I contacted my friend, Tamese, who saves horses and other animals. I was frustrated.

   OK, I was whining.

   “Don’t worry,” she said. “The dog will find you.”

   She was right.

   Within a week, as I monitored the local shelter’s website, a face popped up looking like a fuzzy little butterball--a tongue lolling out one side of the mouth. She was 12 years old, had no teeth and appeared to be a long-haired Chihuahua.

   I asked my husband if we could go take a look.  Jim thought for a moment.

   “I don’t know,” he said. “I was thinking about a dog closer to Baxter’s size.”

   I couldn’t blame him, because what we both wanted was to have Baxter back. He was irreplaceable. But we knew for every moment we hesitated, another dog somewhere in the country would be put down. I pushed a bit and Jim agreed to take a look—but only with the caveat that we might not bring her home.

   We knew we wanted an older dog because, given our ages, we probably wouldn’t be able to take care of a puppy into its golden years. And our 27-year-old son, who likes to travel, has made it clear that he won’t be able to take care of our pets if something happens to us.

   So at this point in time, “old” was in. I emailed the Napa shelter and arranged a time when we could meet this little vixen. Covid restrictions at the time meant we had to meet her outdoors. Mazie arrived with fanfare with her foster mom, Shirley, who seemed like a wonderful lady. She gave us these tidbits of information:

   --Mazie had a bit of a weight problem, and she and Shirley’s other rescue dogs were working on that via exercise and diet.

   -- Mazie lost all of her teeth to a bad case of gingivitis, but she could still eat small bits of kibble.

   --And finally, Shirley said, she wished she could keep the little girl (really an old lady) but her house was already filled up with dogs—her own and the fosters.

   By the time we’d walked with Mazie for a short time, I was sold. I really don’t know why. I just was.

   At first a bit hesitant, Jim finally agreed that this furry ball was the one for us. We took her home that day.

   A woman who works at the shelter, Meghan Pence, explained that Mazie had been turned in with another companion dog when their owner said she could no longer care for them. Both needed expensive surgeries, which the shelter arranged. Mazie made it but, sadly, her companion did not.

   It made us feel sad, too, that Mazie’s owner had to give her up, because by the end of that day we knew she must have been an awesome pet parent.

   First, we read some notes the owner left at the shelter on a checklist of questions. For example: “Does your dog like driving in a car?” She wrote: “Loves it!!!”

   How else did we know Mazie had a good owner? When we brought her home, we plopped her down in our living room, and she had no fear. She walked around like she owned the place, going right over to say hello to our cat and to my mother’s dog, Dara. That night, an exhausted Mazie slept across my legs.

   We soon learned that, despite her size, she could “woo, woo” like the best of the big dogs. We cracked up. She slipped into our home like a foot slips into a comfortably worn shoe.

   We were very impressed with the Napa shelter and the care they gave Mazie. We also arrived on what appeared to be a good day for the shelter, at least for the moment. Another dog was adopted, and a lost pooch was reunited with its owner, who hugged and kissed the animal with uninhibited glee.

   But just as we were leaving, a darling pup with health issues, which had been adopted the day before, was returned. Such is the sad lot for shelter workers, who win some and lose many.

   All I can say is that the employees did everything right with Mazie. I was happy to see that several had their own dogs hanging out with them at the shelter. I’m sure those dogs were rescues, too.

   Early that evening, our doorbell rang. It was a shelter employee stopping by to get his dog’s leash, which had been accidentally given to us.

   “Thank you for adopting Mazie,” he said.

   All we could say was: “It was our pleasure!”

Posted 5/25/21 

It Wasn't a Bird.  It Wasn't a Plane...

And It Definitely Wasn't Superman

   When we moved into a house in the Napa Yacht Club four years ago, we were enthralled watching the wildlife on the marsh behind our home.

   Mating Canada geese tended their nest. Two coyotes raced by trying to snatch up hares. Raptors (a red-shouldered hawk and a white kite) hunted every day, gliding silently overhead.

   Sitting outside one afternoon, I saw a large doe burst onto the scene, take one look at me and spring across the terrain like a Disney cartoon character.

   One day, there was something else altogether. It was a sound, but not the kind of sound made by one of Mother Earth’s creatures. It took our neighbors and us by surprise. It wasn’t the roar of airplanes or the whoosh of hot air balloons that sometimes pass overhead. This was a mysterious buzz.

   Then one cool evening, just before dusk, we spotted a man walking around the marsh. This was unusual, because the marsh is off limits to people.

   He was a large man but he looked bewildered. If you know me at all, you know that I worry about people. I thought the man was lost, possibly homeless, and was going to get stuck in the rough terrain. That’s what I told my husband. The marsh is easy to navigate in the day, but it’s a different story after dark.

   We debated whether this was an emergency. “It’s not,” Jim said, but he called the police department’s business line to report it anyway. I called our next-door neighbor, Bill, to get a read on his thoughts.

   “What do you think of that man wandering around the marsh?” I asked in a concerned voice. “I think he may be homeless.” Bill went to his window to look.

   “I think I know,” he said. “I think he’s hunting for his drone. He must have lost it the other day.”

   That took me aback. Then I learned from Bill and another neighbor that a drone had been hovering near their windows the other night about 3 a.m.

   “It was very irritating,” said Bill, who was up studying at the time. Our other neighbor agreed it was upsetting and said it kept her up all night.

   On the other hand, Jim and I must have slept through it all.

   A sheriff’s deputy arrived at the end of south Jefferson Street to talk with the mysterious man. Bill went out there as well and told us what happened. The deputy told the man he wasn’t allowed in the marsh. The poor soul apologized profusely and promised he would never do it again.

   “He was really a nice guy,” Bill said, adding that the man told the deputy he lived just a few blocks away.

   At last, the mystery was solved. While this was all going down, we were talking to our neighbors over the fence on either side. Since then, no one has seen the man or heard the mysterious buzz.

   We don’t know if he ever found his drone.

Posted 4/20/21

Lots of Teachable Moments

A Few Things We May Have Learned While Enduring the Insanity of the Crazy Covid Crisis

    Here we go again. A new worry to add to our list -- getting the Covid vaccine -- and then what comes next? We are a bit confused and discombobulated for the past year now with our governments and governor handed out so many mixed messages regarding the Covid 19 pandemic.

   The messages go like this:

    • Get the vaccine as soon as you can. But being vaccinated doesn’t mean you can’t still pass on the virus to others. The only person it protects is you.

    • Stay home. Don’t go to wineries. Don’t go to school. Don’t go to restaurants. Then our California governor, Gavin Newsom, did just that. He attended a dinner at Napa Valley’s exclusive French Laundry to celebrate a lobbyist’s birthday. That look is more than horrible. It seems, well, elitist. The governor ignores his own orders and pours gas (wine?) on the fire,  fueling his potential recall. I’m not into recalls, but it certainly shows why lots of people signed up for it.

    • Wear a mask. I believe in wearing a mask, but now health officials say we should wear two. It will protect others as well as yourself. You have to wonder why they’re telling us this now, nearly a year into the pandemic. Obviously, health officials don’t understand that many people can barely breathe in masks as it us, and for some of us it’s like sticking your face in an oven.

    The list could go on and on, but instead of dwelling on it I’ve decided to focus on what I’ve learned from a pandemic that has killed so many people I don’t even want to think about it. So here’s what I’ve learned:

    Don’t worry if you can’t get vaccinated right away. Although I have an autoimmune disease (multiple sclerosis), all of my family except my 27-year-old son, my 32-year-old nephew—and me—have been vaccinated. My mom and my husband received the shot because they’re over 70. My older sister received it because the medical clinic where she works had vaccine left over after giving shots to its frontline employees. My younger sister, who lives outside of Seattle, received it because she’s caring for our mom at the moment and caregivers are eligible. It feels like I’m at the bottom of the list, but I’m not too worried. The more people who get vaccinated, the better it is for all of us. When we finally reach herd immunity, everyone will be protected.

    Patience. I’ve learned to have patience in practically everything I do. Whenever I phone my doctor, I’m placed on hold for at least 30 minutes because so many people are calling with questions about Covid. We’ve had to wait so long for dog grooming appointments that one of our pooches started looking like a heffalump. And going to the veterinarian is an adventure in itself. No one but employees and animals can go inside, so we sit in our cars and wait. Of course, veterinary practices have been slammed for good reason: More people are adopting animals because they have more time at home for that dog or cat. Many animals’ lives were saved because of the pandemic, and I discovered I liked waiting in the car better rather than going inside

    What's happened to smiles? More than anything since we’ve had to mask up, I miss seeing people smile. Smiles give us so many cues about people and their thoughts and how to behave. I love smiles. They rock me with the tenderness of life. I was at Whole Foods recently when an older man turned the corner and flashed me a toothy, delightful grin. I was so happy to see that smile. Then, at exactly the same time, we both realized he’d forgotten to wear his mask. He quickly pulled it out and put it on, but I have to say that smile made my day. I left feeling good about life again and waiting for the day when we can see all of each other’s faces and hug each other.

    Appreciate the outdoors: In the middle of the pandemic, health officials decided that we could go back to restaurants—but for outdoor eating only, which prompted state and local officials to suspend stiff outdoor eating regulations. I learned how much I love to eat outdoors, and I’m praying Napa and other cities will continue to encourage it. Outdoor dining remains a common practice in many European countries. It adds so much to the experience and a sense that life is alive and vibrant all around us. There are so many state and local regulations that it makes it practically impossible for many restaurateurs to serve food outdoors. But when indoor eating is forbidden, we’ve seen how well outdoor dining can work with little street pockets. Napa city officials roped off a section of Main Street so restaurants could serve outside. It feels like you’re in Paris or Rome. I hope it stays that way.

    How to cope with being stuck at home. This condition has forced my husband and me, both retired, to get used to being with each other all day, every day. I think the pandemic has helped us grow closer, grateful that we have each other. (Some of our single friends have a harder time dealing with it.) We nurtured our common interests of reading about history and nature. And we discovered how much we enjoy doing jigsaw puzzles. That became our staple when we were locked down and has become a part of our daily lives. I doubt we will stop even when the lockdown is over. We figure we’ve done at least 40 puzzles so far and have many more in our future.

    All that being said, I can’t wait to get vaccinated. There’s hope on the horizon. I’ll be able to see my son, my mom, my sisters, my niece, my nephews and my husband’s family again. Since we didn’t have Christmas together in December, we were trying to decide when to celebrate. Finally, my older sister said: “We’ll just have Christmas in July.” Agreed!

    Most of all, I can’t wait to see people smile again!

If you want to add something to this list, send an email to Diana Chapman at peteybaxter@gmail.com. You can follow her art on Instagram at dianalynnechapman.

Posted 3/25/21

Dear Readers: I’m telling this story in two parts because I couldn’t bring myself to cut any of these horses’ stories. This way you can read them all, because I believe that every animal has a story to tell.

Part 1

    The handful of horse rescuers stood stunned. Before them under the bright California sun, two thoroughbreds huddled together. These horses should have been sleek, shiny and proud. Instead, this emaciated pair looked like walking skeletons propped up by tinker toys.   

And rescuing these horses wasn’t even the reason they were there. Rumors had brought the rescuers to the Riverside County animal shelter to take a look at an abandoned horse that had been tied to a fence for days.

    There was no room at their barn in Norco. They were out of money.

   Tamese Neal, a longtime friend of mine who has rescued horses for as long as I can remember, had teamed up with these other kind souls to take in horses that no one else wanted.

   “I reminded everyone: ‘We’re just looking!’ ” she said. “ ‘No puppies, no kittens, no horses. Nothing.’ ” Later in life, she would team up with some other horse-loving souls to begin their operations in earnest.

   The rescuers weren’t prepared to see anything so horrible. And the horse they came to see had been adopted and already returned for “not having showmanship qualities.”

   The rescuers looked at each other. Three troubled horses were three too many. What could they do? What should they do? They struggled to find an answer.

Horse-loving Souls

    It wasn’t so many years ago that Tamese and two sisters, Yvette Nolte and Suzanne Liedlof, decided to take in troublesome horses.  Gathering up the “undesirables”—the unwanted, the unloved and the broken— these gals bring them to their Forever and Ever Equine Rescue. It’s a three-person operation for the most part (Suzanne’s son, Big Mike, helps load and unload hay along with other backbreaking chores).

    Liberal doses of heartbreak, sweat, grit and cattle-drive tears accompany their efforts. Sadness often prevails, but the determined women bring respect, dignity, love and peace to horses that have been tossed out. The rescues have included a one-eyed thoroughbred and another with a broken pelvis. The women have vowed to save horses—even if it’s only one at a time.

    They’ve never even taken the time to register their tiny operation as a non-profit. There’s just too much work: cleaning stables and riding, exercising and training the horses—not to mention raising money to pay for feed, veterinary care and, sometimes, professional trainers. The team has been at it for six years, but Tamese started along this trail nearly 35 years ago, about the same time we met.

    To make it all happen, Tamese works as a polygraph examiner in the Riverside County Sheriff’s Office. She also sells “giftie” items such as wall hangings featuring decorated horseshoes and wooden horsehead cutouts.

First Horse Love

    In the 35-plus years I’ve known her, Tamese has never given up on an animal. What impresses me the most is that she’s living her childhood dream. While many of us gallop along in our lives, leaving our dreams behind where they eventually turn to dust, she has fulfilled hers. She spends most of her free time around horses, something she vowed to do when she was young. “I’ve kept my promise to that little 12-year-old girl,” is how she puts it. It’s a mission that makes her happy, although often even the good times are bittersweet.

    We met in our early 20s, forging a friendship that has endured. I quickly discovered Tamese’s remarkable love for our equine friends—and for all animals, really. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder how she could ever take care of them all.

    She didn’t have much money and there was only one of her. She did it anyway, with a mental stamina most of us don’t have. The amount of time necessary to care for horses remains jaw-dropping. Years later, she married Jay Paciorkowski, a Los Angeles police officer who has supported her dream in ways that, early on, weren’t always apparent.

    I remember when Tamese found her first “horse love,” a six-month-old Arabian named Reno. At 21, she purchased him for $400. She loved that horse and kept him for the rest of his life, all the while rescuing more animals, including dogs and cats.

    I am sad to say Reno died in her arms in 2014 after years of intertwined love; she was 53 and he was 32. She cared for him for nearly 30 years.

    “He died with his head in her lap,” said Christine Adams, a friend who supports Tamese’s work.

    Tamese was a wreck. But, as usual, she climbed back in the saddle and continued her work, knowing there would always be another horse who needed her. And there was.

On Her Own with a $1 Horse

    If you’re committed to caring for a horse, your daily life is owned by these animals.

    One of the most shocking rescues she managed on her own involved a dark-red thoroughbred named Kaia. The horse had once been purchased for $11,000 to run on the racetrack. She had lots of potential, but there was one problem. She balked at the starting gate. Once, when a jockey tried to force her through, a metal post struck her in the eye, which had to be removed.

    Tamese purchased the five-year-old horse for one dollar. (To this day, she can’t understand that anyone could think so little of a horse to sell it for one dollar.)

    It was unnerving that humans thought an animal was such a waste, and only confirmed what she already knew: Horseracing is strictly a business and the horses are nothing more than commodities. Since 2019, more than 30 horses have died at the Santa Anita racetrack, and the deaths continue there and at other tracks across the country.

    “Kaia was just tossed away,” Tamese shrugged, . But, she added, “Their loss is my gain.”

    Before meeting her equine soulmates, Tamese was stretched thinner than a strand of horsehair.

    There was lots to do nearly every day. After a full shift at work, she would drive 30 miles to Riverside, where she paid $500 a month to stable her horses. There she would clean them, brush them and ride them.

    One day, something magical happened. Her husband Jay’s sister had married a man named Justin. The newlyweds implored Tamese to meet Justin’s mother because, you see, they had something in common.

    When they met, Tamese learned that Yvette owned a stable and horses. It didn’t take long for them to realize they were soulmates. Along with Yvette’s sister, Suzanne, they shared a belief in nurturing and train rescued horses without resorting to physical force like whips or spurs.

    When Tamese’s daily roundtrips to Riverside became unbearable, Yvette suggested the most heavenly equine thing of all: Why not move Tamese’s horses to her stable, which was only 13 miles from Tamese’s home? And where the monthly boarding fee would be $160 instead of $500? For Tamese, that removed two major spurs in her side.

    Today she’s proud to say she rides Kaia along dusty trails whenever she can, the horse’s mane flaring in the wind. With a mild temperament, Kaia is a smooth ride, even for a horse with just one eye.

    Not all of Tamese’s rescues would be so easy. No, ma’am. Take Apache’s story, for instance. Tamese needed her entire team for that one.

Apache

    He was a stunning Belgian paint, wildness emanating from every muscle. But he was so wild that he was impossible to ride, and his owner wanted nothing to do with him.

    It wasn’t looking good. Apache didn’t have much to offer, which meant the horse’s next move would probably be to the slaughterhouse.

    Fortunately, Tamese and her friends trotted into his life. Realizing how painful Apache’s abandonment was, they talked to the owner. After paying off his $1,000 debt, they took the horse away to his forever-and-ever home.

    “We stepped in because nobody wanted him and he was left alone,” said Tamese. She considers herself a “terrible rescue mom” because she rarely adopts horses out.

    More about Apache came into focus as soon as he arrived. He didn’t like people. He didn’t want anybody on his back. He didn’t want to be a lead horse. And for some reason, he didn’t like plastic bags.

    To have any hope of riding him, Tamese took the horse to a professional trainer and tried to ride the horse under the trainer’s watchful eye.

    Progress was slow on the first five rides. On the sixth, something awful happened. Without warning, Apache reared and bucked her off. The fall knocked her out. In the hospital, she learned she’d suffered a broken clavicle.

    “When we got him, he trusted no one,” Tamese told me. “He was scared. He was in basic survival mode. It’s taken this long for him to be a horse with personality and to get his confidence. We couldn’t figure out why he was like that.”

    Perhaps the fear stemmed from the fact that he had been sold and resold repeatedly. Maybe someone did physical harm to him along the way. No one knows. Tamese brought him along slowly with lots of care and love, but to this day no one rides him.

    “He is allowed to be himself now,” Tamese said. “It took awhile, but he is a good horse that trusts us.”

    Of course, in Tamese’s vocabulary, no horse can ever be bad.

    Christine Adams, who lives near the Norco barn, shakes her head when she talks about Tamese’s daily routine. “She’s out there by 8 a.m. cleaning and feeding them. And again every afternoon. That’s how much she loves horses.”

    Tamese doesn’t believe Apache is at fault. And after all, he practically introduced Tamese to her next true love.

PART 2

An Abandoned Booger and Two Walking Skeletons

    One day with the gals hard at work at the stables, they heard a rumor. Someone had abandoned a horse and left it tied to a fence for days without food or water.

    It wasn’t a rumor. Riverside County animal control officers scooped up the horse and adopted him out. But he was returned the next day.

    All the rescuers, including Big Mike, decided it was worth a trip to look at the horse, but they agreed it would probably amount to nothing.

    Remember that word: nothing.

    There in the corral was the abandoned chestnut quarter horse they came to see. More shocking was the sight of two thoroughbreds in the corral. “Walking skeletons” is how Tamese describes them. The officers determined that the two thoroughbreds had been starved and neglected. One was 20 years old and named Gracie. The other one was a 2-year-old called Luna.

    The four members of the Forever team looked at each other and, almost without discussion, decided all three horses needed them.

    Scrambling, the crew threw all their concerns aside and raced back for their horse trailer before the county facility closed for the day.

    Later that afternoon, I’m happy to say, all three horses were guided down the trailer’s ramp to their new home. There they would lead very different lives, treated with care in a place of love, respect and dignity—words probably not used by many cowboys.

    Of the three rescued horses, Gracie and Luna were the easiest to work with. The women fed them and nurtured them to rebuild their muscle mass.

    In their “before” photos, the two horses appear gaunt and gray, seemingly waiting for death. When Christine moved in next door with her partner, Doug, they planned to use the property to rebuild motorcycles. However, Tamese, Yvette and Suzanne couldn’t resist what seemed to be very special people. The couple would drop by and help the women clean the stables.

    “You need a horse,“ they told Christine and Doug. The couple had never owned horses and knew nothing about them, but they were willing to learn. They volunteered to work at the barn to learn more. Christine bought the book “Horses for Dummies.”

    “We weren’t prepared,” Christine said, stunned to this day that they ended up with a horse.

    By the time they decided to adopt Gracie, she had gained about 100 pounds. “When I look at the pictures, she was in bad shape,” Christine said. “It breaks my heart.” They had Gracie for three loving years before she died from infections in her legs that became untreatable. “She just needed love,” Christine said, adding she’s never regretted adopting her.

    Meanwhile, Luna still lives peacefully in the serenity of the stable with Apache. She goes for weekend jaunts on the urban trails of Norco, her sleek jet-black coat glinting in the sun. It’s hard to believe this horse was once a walking skeleton.

    However, while Luna and Gracie became well quickly, the third abandoned horse wasn’t so lucky.

Booger

    The abandoned horse tied to a fence, who was named Booger, had horrendous problems ahead.  A veterinarian's examination confirmed that.

    The doctor said Booger was a 12-year-old quarter horse with a severe pelvis fracture. She needed time to heal and couldn’t be ridden.

    With her own hip issues, Suzanne could relate. She kept Booger at her home and talked to her lovingly, brushing her and spoiling her every day. But then came Suzanne’s own hip surgeries, one after another. The day came when even Suzanne admitted to herself she could no longer care for Booger, so she returned her to the barn with the other rescues.

    Once Booger healed and Suzanne made a comeback from her surgeries, they would have their first ride together.  It would also be their last.

    After six years, on one cool day, Booger slipped and fell in her stall, refracturing her pelvis and causing other extensive damage. Despite two weeks at the vet with therapy and drugs, Booger would never recover. Suzanne still can’t talk about her.

    But Tamese summed it up this way: “The six years Suzanne had Booger were probably the best.”

Along Comes Skye

    While horse rescue missions are typically a feel-good operation, there isn’t one person in this small group who hasn’t suffered the loss of a horse they’ve come to love.

    Their rescues have included some 10 horses with names like Bandit, Dakota and Monster.

    Tamese bumped into one of these horses accidentally. One day, she took Apache to a well-known 25-year-old cowboy and professional trainer. While there, she noticed a stunning black-and-white horse with glacier-blue eyes.

    “I was walking around and saw Skye,” she said. “She had her head down and was trying to be invisible.”

   “What’s her story?” she asked.

   The cowboy, whose name was Adam, said some clients wanted a black-and-white horse. He found Skye, but once he bought her they were no longer interested.

    Her next stop would be the auction house.

    Tamese saw Skye again later that month. Like Booger, Skye had been abandoned in a field. She stood motionless, hoping no one would notice her.

    There were so many reasons not to get Skye—one being, as usual, that there was no room in the barn. Adopting would also cost money the group didn’t have. And Skye wouldn’t connect with Tamese or even look her in the eye.

    When Tamese would stroke Skye in her stall, the horse still wouldn’t react. Then one day when Tamese turned and began to leave, Skye followed her.

    “I stop. I look her in the eyes,” she said. “I tell her she’s going to be okay: ‘You are mine.’ ’’

    It took a lot of haggling, but she was able to get Adam down from $600 to $400. He brought the horse to the barn, but another surprise was just around the corner. While being unloaded, Skye suddenly collapsed.

    They brought her water and she drank two buckets. Later, the veterinarian said he found cancer but it wasn’t life threatening and could be removed.

    Tamese loved to ride Skye out on the trails, and I think she found a new love. But she would have the horse for only two years.

    "I was cleaning her stall one day when she fell down and couldn’t get up,” Tamese explained sadly. “After about five minutes of freaking me out, she finally got up. Life was good, I thought.”

    But it happened again. After she called in the vet, he had horrific news. Skye had DSLD (degenerative suspensory ligament disease), which meant the ligaments in her legs were giving way. Not just in one or two legs, but in all four.

    The pain was excruciating, and there was no cure. The vet explained that standing was painful. Trying to get up was painful.

    “She was in constant pain,” Tamese said, battered by guilt for riding her.

    After six months, “there was nothing we could do,” she said. “I made the hardest decision ever, which was best for her. No more pain.”

    She often thinks about Skye and how her previous owners probably knew of her condition but just passed her on.

    “I have no clue what her past was other than she did have babies and when she was no longer needed, she was ignored, Tamese said. “I can only hope her last years were her best.

    “I know doing what I do really doesn’t make a difference in the world, but I can make a difference in a horse’s world, even if it’s just one or two at a time.”

*   *   *

Find out more about Forever and Ever Horse Rescue on Facebook at Lucky HorseShoes.

Contact Diana Chapman at peteybaxter@gmail.com and follow her art on Instagram at dianalynnechapman.

Posted 3/12/21

   Backing out of our driveway, I noticed a young man in the back of our next-door neighbor’s pickup truck, cleaning furiously. He flashed a giant grin and waved.

   I couldn’t resist so I rolled down my window: “Are you an auto detailer?” I asked. Yes, he said, and gave me his business card. Just a couple of days later, we hired him to detail our SUV.

   I figured Mark Ellison, 20, would have some interesting stories to tell about items he finds in cars, but he takes the Vegas approach: What he finds in cars stays in cars. Despite that, he said he racked his brain and couldn’t remember any good stories.

   But I want to tell his story about how this whole thing came about. He started his auto detail business to put himself through school at California Polytechnic State University in San Luis Obispo.

   He uses new technology (not that it will be new next week) to make it easy for clients to get an appointment and a cost estimate in just 30 seconds by scanning his card on their phones.

   He calls his business MarkDetails.com (quite creative) and seems to enjoy what he does (thus the huge smiles).

   I talked to our other next-door neighbor, Kim Nicol, who with her husband runs a property management company. She’s so keen on him that she recommends him to her kayaking friends in the neighborhood. That’s why I see him a lot around here.

   “I just love young entrepreneurs,” she told me. “He’s so talented and hard-working. I just have the highest respect for him.”

   So do I.

   I have loads of respect for anyone who puts hinself through college, because I was fortunate to have help from my parents. The few times I worked during school were overwhelming, anxiety-inducing and some of the hardest times of my life.

   That’s not true for Mark. He says he enjoys it. Because he was homeschooled, he was able to start his college education earlier than most. As a high school senior, he took college courses and is working on an entrepreneurial degree at Cal Poly.

   So it’s no surprise he started to get creative in ways to earn money. He grew up washing his family’s car. Then, while working as a groundskeeper for the Cottages of Napa Valley, one of his jobs was (guess what?) cleaning the Cottages tour car.

   It was clear he paid attention to detail. And that’s when it all began to happen.

   “I did not have a grand plan to start a mobile care detailing business in Napa!” he told me via email. “The formation of MarkDetails.com came about naturally as the managers and the owners asked me to detail their cars on my own time. For the first few jobs, I started out by using my family’s house vacuum.

   “After those first few jobs, my entrepreneurial mind decided to start doing a little bit of marketing, so I hired my brother, Tyler Ellison, to design a flyer that I could hand to my neighbors.”

   Despite the pandemic and because of the pandemic, his Napa business has steamed on. He’s met scores of people, some of whom have become friends. And because he’s taking his college classes remotely, his business has flourished. He hopes to use some of the money for a down payment on a house. I don’t know about you, but when I was 20 I never even thought about buying a house.

   What’s made him successful has been the referrals he’s received. “I’ve absolutely loved meeting so many people and getting to know them,” he said. “The friendships that I have formed as a result of my car detailing business have been one of my favorite parts.”

   He has his eye on expanding the business, but for now he can detail only two or three cars a week. That’s because he works remotely as a marketing specialist and is kicking off another venture: Ellisign.com, a digital marketing company that does website and logo design. Kim already had him redo her company’s website. “I’m super happy with it, and his prices are really reasonable,” she said. (To check out his work for Kim, go to knm-properties.com.)

   Mark’s rates for detailing cars vary, depending on the vehicle size and the last time it was cleaned. For example, removing a lot of animal hair can take longer. What services does the detailing entail? Interior vacuuming, exterior washed and waxed, tires shined, leather protectant applied, carpet shampooed and so on. If you drive by a car being cleaned by a young man with a bright smile, say hello. You never know when you might need him to clean your car—or build you a website.

   As Mark likes to say, once he’s detailed your car “you’ll enjoy driving again.”

* * *

Contact Diana Chapman at peteybaxter@gmail.com and follow her art on Instagram at dianalynnechapman.

Posted 2/26/21

    The news about our dog was grim. Our veterinarian, Dr. David C. Carroll, didn’t mince words. He had to remove our Baxter’s spleen right away after finding two masses there.

   He wouldn’t know for sure until he could see the lab results, but drawing upon more than 40 years of practice, he believed it was cancer. And that it had likely spread to other areas in Baxter’s 30-pound body.

   We listened, disheartened. Baxter had lived with us for more than 10 years, since he was nine weeks old. He had always been “our baby.” Our son chose the bearded collie-poodle mix from several dogs offered by a rescue/adoption service in Long Beach, Calif. Baxter had a white coat with a black patch on his right eye, black ears and a black spot on his rear end. He looked like a little lamb and cuddled like one, too.

   We’d been looking for a partner for our aging dog, Boo. He had a beautiful reddish-brown coat and seemed to be a mix of everything—from German shepherd to collie to who knows what else. A perfect mutt.

   Boo was 7½ years old at the time but seemed to be aging way too quickly. Despite regular walks, he was often stiff and in pain—until Baxter came along.

   They changed each other’s lives. Those two were glued together at the hip. Baxter, with his youthful energy, had Boo up and running, playing and enjoying life again. They formed a symbiotic relationship and, to this day, we believe Baxter gave Boo another 7½ years of life.

   Baxter went along with every trick Boo had in his back “pawcket.” Boo taught him both the good and bad. They loved us deeply but also loved stealing food.

   Boo and Baxter had a habit of following me from room to room: the laundry, the bathroom, into the backyard and back again.

   Both of them also had annoying habits.

   For Baxter, it was his exuberance over the slightest prospect of a walk, demonstrated with a series of ear-piercing yips the minute he spotted his leash. Boo’s specialty was stealing food. Once, he swiped a chicken breast right from our unsuspecting friend’s dinner plate!

   I had no idea how much I would miss all of that.

   By the time Boo reached 14, he had aged dramatically, his spine curved and his body gaunt. Our veterinarian recommended putting him down the day we walked in. I wasn’t ready. No one is ready to lose such a good friend. But truly, it was time. My husband still had to convince me.

   When we returned home without Boo, Baxter didn’t know what to do with himself. He had no idea what happened. One day his mentor and best friend vanished. Where was his place? We tried to fill in, but sometimes there isn’t any secret ingredient to help with grief.

   In the months that followed, Baxter would sometimes growl or snarl when he was around other dogs, as if to say: “You’re not my best friend! Where is he?” It took about a year for him to settle down and accept it. By then, we had moved from Southern California to Napa to be closer to my mom. Baxter and her dog became close pals.

   We had been on an awesome journey with this boy, so the news from Dr. Carroll was devastating (although we appreciated that he was truthful and upfront).

   Baxter appeared to rally after the surgery, but a couple of weeks later he was lethargic and losing weight, so we took him to see Dr. Carroll again.

   Due to Coronavirus restrictions, we couldn’t go inside with Baxter, so we waited in the car, fearing the worst. When the call came, Dr. Carroll said Baxter’s blood count had fallen drastically, probably due to internal bleeding.

He’d already told us that further surgery was out of the question, so he recommended that Baxter be put down that day. He could do it in his facility, but of course we could not be present.

   We already knew that we wanted to be with Baxter when he passed. I had promised myself many years back that I would be with my animals when they died.

   Because of my friend Julia, I was able to keep that promise.

   Julia lost her loving dog, Otto, about a month earlier. She recommended a veterinarian, Dr. Tracy Rohrer of Napa, who provides grieving humans a chance to be in their own home with their animals during their last moments. Julia told me how beautiful it was that she and her husband Kevin could be with Otto on a warm day in their yard when he passed.

   After we heard the worst about Baxter that morning, we immediately called Dr. Rohrer, whom we had contacted a few days earlier. She agreed to come to our home at 5 o’clock that afternoon. For the rest of the day we looked after Baxter, who seemed to be in so much pain.

   Of course, when Dr. Rohrer arrived, Baxter perked up, especially when she spoke to him softly and gave him a treat. He jumped up on her and ran around the room before calming down again.

   Dr. Rohrer established In Loving Arms in 2018, after she recognized the need for pet euthanasia services in people’s homes.

   She told us she worked in the agricultural industry after graduating with a degree in animal science from California Polytechnic State University in San Luis Obispo. However, she left the industry when she began to believe the animals were treated inhumanely, including what she had done herself. She returned to school at UC Davis, where she achieved a degree in veterinary medicine so she could treat animals with love and compassion.

   But she wanted to do more, and now she can for cats and dogs.

   On her website she says: “Our pets enrich our lives, providing joy, companionship, comfort and unconditional love. The bond we share is personal and powerful. When our pets approach the end of their lives, choosing to help them pass peacefully can be the greatest gift we give them in return…and allows your beloved companion to pass gently in a familiar environment, surrounded by the love that has been their foundation.”

   Our final moments with Baxter were beautiful. She placed him on a blanket, talking softly and stroking him as she explained to us what was happening. The first medication she injected was a painkiller; the second was to let him pass peacefully, which he did. His pain at last was over.

   That was the last time we saw the mop-headed dog who left so many paw prints in our hearts, minds and memories. We are grateful to everyone who guided us along the way.

To contact Dr. Tracy Rohrer, go to her website (inlovingarmsnapa.com) or call 707-302-9884. To contact Dr. David C. Carroll, go to the Napa West Pet Hospital website (napawestpethospital.com) or call 707-254-9033.

Contact Diana Chapman at peteybaxter@gmail.com and follow her art on Instagram at dianalynnechapman. 

Posted 2/15/21

Dear Readers: This is another in a series of stories about the animals I draw. These animals live with close friends of mine, acquaintances or, sometimes, complete strangers. For some reason, I’ve always loved telling animals’ stories. This one is about a dog, a cat and a mother and daughter who together learned what unconditional love is.

--Diana

   Mona was fuming. Her friend had already adopted out the dog she wanted from Animals Rule, a dog rescue agency in San Pedro, California. Her face betrayed her emotion.

   “I know you’re angry with me,” said the friend, who ran the agency. It was adoption day and the place was packed, so she had no time to explain what happened.

   “Mona, I’m really busy,” she said, handing her another dog, a blonde long-haired terrier. “Here, hold this little baby.” Then she ran off.

   Mona’s anger stemmed from the fact that she was looking for a new friend for her beautiful 88-year-old mother, Mary, who was undergoing a major upheaval while recuperating from a host of health troubles. Mona was trying to persuade her to move out of her home in San Bernardino to San Pedro, where Mona lives with her partner, Leslie.

   Mona paced back and forth, upset that she lost out on what she believed would be the perfect dog. “I kept thinking I have to get ahold of myself,” while the little terrier snuggled in her arms. Finally, she put the dog down and walked her around for a bit.

   When her friend returned, she suggested Mona think about adopting the dog, whose name was Bella. “She’ll go to anybody,” she said.

   Mona reluctantly agreed. And when she brought Bella home to her mom, it turned into what she calls one of the most uncanny moments in her life.

   She placed Bella on the couch next to Mary and said: “This might be our new baby.” Mary just shook her head.

   Bella convinced her otherwise. Wiggling her little bottom, she went straight for Mary, kissing her face. Mona said it seemed like the dog fell in love with her mom at first sight.

   Bella soon learned the ropes and became the ultimate service dog. “It was just a miracle,” Mona said. “She provided my mom with so much love. It was awesome. Mom had never had unconditional love like that.”

   Bella seemed to know that Mary needed help. She made sure Mary walked into a room first and then followed, never getting under her feet. It was as though Bella’s instincts knew that Mary could trip over her. In the meantime, the dog showered her with love and companionship.

   “My mom never had a dog her entire life until Bella came along,” Mona revealed. “Bella taught her how to laugh again, how to accept unconditional love. She said over and over again that she’d missed out on this type of love and companionship her entire life.”

   Then another animal came along.

   Mona had been managing some rental properties in a San Bernardino neighborhood famous for roaming cats. One burning hot day, she saw a litter of kittens running about, apparently abandoned. She knew they would die in the scorching weather, so then and there she decided to save them. But the only one she was able to grab was a kitten who was hanging out with a small dog.

   She grabbed the kitten and put her in her truck. “Oh my God, that little cat,” she said. “She wasn’t scared.” The kitten rode quietly on Mona’s shoulder on the drive home. When they got there, the kitten couldn’t quit drinking water. When Mona brought Kee Kee to meet her mom, Mary shook her head and said: “What’s that?”

   But the minute Kee Kee was on the floor, she and Bella started romping around. It didn’t take Kee Kee long to convince Mary that she too belonged in her pack. The two animals grew close and gave Mary so much love that everyone, Mona said, was amazed.

   And Mary loved them in return. She would put them down for naps when she needed to rest, and the two animals let her wrap them in blankets. Delighted, Mona took thousands of photos of her mom tucking them in and watching over them.

   Soon, they learned that Kee Kee didn’t want to be left behind when Mona took Bella for walks. She would cry and cry, so Mona bought a leash for Kee Kee so they could all walk together.

   While adopting Bella was one of the best decisions Mona ever made, finding Kee Kee was the next.

   Bella and Kee Kee’s mom has since passed. But when Mary died, she was surrounded by love. Neither animal left her bedside, lying snugly next to her. Mona promised her mom she’d take care of them and loves them just as much as she did.

   “They gave her love and company, and it just happened by luck,” Mona told me. “The stars lined up.”

   Perhaps they did, especially the dog and cat stars that shine brightly in our sky.

Contact Diana Chapman at peteybaxter@gmail.com and follow her art on Instagram at dianalynnechapman.

Posted 10/19/20

   For years, Cinthya Cisneros would pull into the small parking lot of what locals call the Old Adobe, a house built in 1845 that has become a Napa landmark.

   For reasons she never really understood, she felt a calmness at the Adobe. It was a place of respite, of solace. She would stop in the lot to be rejuvenated, maybe reapplying her makeup or brushing her hair. After a few minutes, she’d continue on her way, whether to work or home.

   When Cinthya, now 28, pulled in one night about two years ago, she was carrying in her heart some deeply bad news that she had to deliver to her family.

   Her dream of opening a Mexican-style abarrote (“one-stop shop” or “corner store”) with her family had collapsed after nine months of negotiations for a site in downtown Napa.

   As the tears flowed, she thought once again of her family’s distinctive mix of talents.

   On the food side, her mother is a pastry baker and her uncle a cook with an amazing repertoire of Mexican dishes. Her 25-year-old autistic brother has a skill set of arranging things with exactness. And without her father’s inspiration, the whole idea would never have come this far. Then there’s Cinthya’s very own talent: with a degree in chemistry, she makes craft beer.

   “The wheels started churning in my head,” she said.

   The family enthusiastically supported her dream. While working as a high school chemistry teacher, she held onto the idea. It was a vision that wouldn’t go away.

   Sitting in that parking lot, she noticed that Justin Altamura, the Old Adobe’s owner, had starting working on the place again. For 2½ years, he had been restoring the building to its original state.

   Cinthya had talked to Justin about leasing the Adobe a year or so earlier. “I could not contain how deeply I fell in love with the Adobe,” she said. “I could not get the beauty of it out of my mind.” However, the asking price was way out of her league.

   What she didn’t know was that the other lease proposals Justin was receiving involved altering the historic gem to something more contemporary.

   When she spotted him that night, she decided she’d email him in the morning and tell him that her plans had collapsed, leaving her upended.

   That would become one of the most eventful messages she ever sent.

   As it turned out, Justin hadn’t liked any of the other proposals he received for his historic gem. All of them involved repainting or otherwise changing it in ways that went against its preservation. Cinthya’s ideas, however, intrigued him, and were much closer to what he envisioned for the property. In August 2019, they sealed a deal that worked for both sides.

   “He loved our idea and what we were doing, and I loved the building and how perfectly it merged everything we wanted to do under one roof,” she said.

   At last, it looked like Cinthya’s dream was going to happen. 

   She went to work. She thought she could open in December. Everything was falling into place. The Adobe began to resemble an enticing oasis with a Mexican flair. Hacienda-style tables and chairs, colorful linens and terracotta mugs made it a place one could visit for a leisurely meal. Customers would be able to sip on a hibiscus mimosa or a Guava IPA while enjoying a taco or a slice of homemade cheesecake. Plus, there was lots of outdoor seating, which (no one knew at the time) would soon become highly desirable.

   Everything slowed down immensely with government permit approvals and other paperwork. December came and went. Then January. It was a rugged journey navigating the many regulations and delays. Finally, in March, Cinthya got the green light to open.

   Beaming with excitement, her family was so proud. Everyone bustled about, getting ready to greet customers.

   Then Covid-19 brought everything to an abrupt and ugly halt. The state shut down the restaurants.

   “It was a very dark time,’’ Cinthya told me. “I really didn’t know what to do. Nobody was working. My family, my friends, my parents had vested themselves into (the business).”

   When state officials walked back a bit and allowed restaurants to offer take-out, she took that option and ran with it.

   She brought back staff (friends and family filled in where they could). She notified the community via Facebook and other social media platforms, touting her mom’s pastries and her own homemade brews.

   When everyone came to work the following day, the line of cars in the lot spread onto Soscol Avenue. “It was beautiful just to see the community support,” she said. “It was nonstop the whole day from 6:30 to 4. The kitchen was wild. My mom was there. My dad was there. One of my uncles came to support us.”

   La Cheve: Bakery and Brews was open for business.

   Flying out the door were her mom’s conchas—round, pink Mexican pastries that have been a top seller with purchases topping 600 on the weekends. The chilaquiles became another No. 1 seller. In the first week they went through 24 kegs of Cinthya’s own “American Dream,” a Mexican lager she created “as an ode to my parents.”

   “I didn’t expect that,” she said this summer as she sat at a hacienda table in a dream world of her own making. The day was warm but with a kind wind.

   The whole dream started out because of her dad, Ezequiel. One day when the two of them were at home watching a movie, he asked: “Why don’t you try to make wine?”

   With her background in chemistry, she considered the suggestion. Wine isn’t really my thing, she thought, but I do drink beer—lots of beer.

   They began to experiment in the kitchen. She liked playing with the chemistry of water, which she “maneuvered” to change the beer. “It was all for fun,” she said.

   It brought her closer to her father. Her mom would create a pastry that matched the “intensity” of the beer. “I was like: ‘Mom, you are so frigging talented,’ ” Cinthya said.

   With her family’s many talents, it was easy to find a place for everyone. Her mother (“Momma Juana”) is the head baker for “all things bread,” including torta and mollete (muffin) bread. Her dad (“El Cheque”) fills in wherever needed. And her brother, Juan, sets up the restaurant every morning and works on packaging products.

   As the Covid rules for restaurants kept changing, she adjusted. In the end, the the Old Adobe was the best place she could have ever wanted.

   With ample outdoor seating, she was able to stay open, but in 2020 nothing is easy. The rash of August wildfires in Northern California forced her to close for three days because of the hazardous air quality.

   The coronavirus has trained her well.

   “I have never known anything but Covid,” she explained, adding she’ll take it week by week. “I’m quick to adjust.”

   And that is the real truth.

Posted 9/16/20

   It was a freezing Christmas Eve in Edmonton, Alberta, when Liisa spotted him at a mall in a pet store window. She fell in love at first sight.

   Looking back at her was a tiny, bichon-poodle mix. Black-and-gray in color, he was one of the sweetest puppies she’d ever seen. The little critter tugged at her heart and soul. She knew from the first moment that they connected, like a sweet song that soothes the senses and makes everything hum so right.

   She raced around the mall to find her husband, Mike, and told him they had to get back to the pet store immediately.

   “I couldn’t just walk away,” she explained. That’s why she paid $300 for Gabriel (naming him after the angel since it was Christmas Eve). In the past, they had always found their animals at overcrowded shelters. This time was a bit different. She couldn’t quit thinking about this scruffy little one.

   What Liisa didn’t know at the time—no one did—was just how much she and her Mike would need this little guy.

   “I walked in and saw this little ball of black fluff staring at me,” she recalled. “He looked at me from his cage and put his little paw up to say: Can you please take me home with you?” An employee asked if she wanted to hold him and she just nodded. As the puppy kissed her repeatedly, she turned to Mike and said: “I’m in love.” Mike knew what that meant.

   That night, Gabriel was home with them, a special Christmas present. Another puppy--Gabe's sister--was with them, too: a gift for Liisa’s mother, Anita. She had moved in with them temporarily after tragedy struck twice on the same weekend: her house burned down and then her mother (Liisa’s grandmother) died. On top of that, Liisa’s father had died only two years earlier from cancer at the age of 51.

   Liisa and Mike hoped the little puppy would soothe Anita’s soul.

   For now, the couple’s home brimmed with happiness, sparkling lights and five Christmas trees. They’d spent a year building the five-bedroom house, surrounded by ash-white birch trees, outside of Edmonton. They planned what so many couples plan: to fill their home with kids.

   While they waited to get pregnant, Gabe made them happy. Sweet, loving and relaxed, he fit right in. At the same time, the other puppy eased Anita’s pain. Deeply religious, she was delighted with her Christmas present and had named her Gracie.

   In the meantime, Liisa and Mike waited for their first baby to arrive.

   They tried to get pregnant. Nothing happened.

   They went to doctors. Got tested. And retested. Nothing happened.

   Weeks, heart-wrenching weeks, went by. The weeks curled into months and the months into years, the pain sharp and relentless.

   It became clear they were not going to have their own baby. In the meantime, there was a little fellow on their bed every night giving them love and sweet kisses.

   “He was always there for us,” Liisa says. “Gabe has been such a special part of our lives. Not only because he’s such a great dog with a totally laidback personality, but because he has been with us through some of our most difficult times. He was always there for the heartbreak. All the tests. All the disappointments.”

   They decided to adopt or foster a child. You don’t need a five-bedroom house without children.

   But even those plans were shattered. Mike, a documentary filmmaker, was often gone for weeks at a time and couldn’t be there through all of the intensive training for the adoption programs.

   Gabe has been there through it all.

   “He’s our kid,” Liisa says. “He’s my boy.” They decided to fill their house with “fur babies” after that.

   As the years drifted by, Gabe has had several companions. Princess, a striking, silver-haired tabby cat, died from cancer. And in another odd twist, there was Lady, a sweet German shepherd.

   Lady wasn’t the dog Liisa had come to the shelter to adopt. There was another dog she had fallen in love with. The adoption lady suggested she bring Gabe in first to make sure the two dogs got along. That shouldn’t have been difficult since Gabe got along with just about everybody!

   But the minute they were introduced, the other dog wanted to attack. “I was devastated,” Liisa said.

   She asked if they had any other dogs that might get along with easy-going Gabe. There was a German shepherd mix, a female, but no one wanted the dog because of her strange appearance. She had been left in a ditch with a broken jaw that made her look different (“weird,” the woman at the shelter said). She had a tooth that stuck out.

   In yet another example of things seeming to happen for a reason, they brought in the shepherd. She took one look at Gabe, got down on her haunches and slowly wriggled toward him in a gesture of friendship.

   The friendship would deepen in the years to come. Lady and Gabe would curl up together: two dogs—one big, one small—in a tight ball of love.

   Time passed by. Lady died at the age of 10 after years of affection from this family.

   Gabe and his sister are 16 now. They remain best friends even after Liisa’s mother moved into her own home with Gracie. The little dog was the best bereavement therapy that Anita could ever have, and now Gracie has a new job. She goes to work every day with Anita, serving as a therapy dog at a drug rehabilitation clinic.

   Liisa said they are no longer sure if Gabe and Gracie are siblings, but they consider them soulmates.

   It seems something else was at work here.

   Maybe on that frigid Christmas Eve, Mike and Liisa didn’t come home with just one Christmas angel. Perhaps they came home with two.

Contact Diana Chapman at peteybaxter@gmail.com and follow her art on IG at dianalynnechapman.

Posted 8/23/20

   The neighbors would see the feral cat only fleetingly. He was a scrawny, tawny thing. Always on the move, searching for food, slinking around. And leaving a litter of kittens in his wake.

   Therefore, to prevent more unwanted kittens in a world with an overabundance of unwanted kittens, the good-deed people in this Long Beach (Calif.) neighborhood tried to trap him. Thousands upon thousands of animals are put down at shelters across the country every year, something that has always bothered not only me but also many of my closest family and friends.

   My friends in the neighborhood, M and Lisa, called him Ben.

   “Right after we moved in, we’d see this skinny, feral cat with a big head going from house to house,” M said. “But Ben was just impossible to catch.”

   One day, a surprise revealed itself. That scrawny guy with the big head appeared to be moving into M and Lisa’s yard. He would bring a puny kitten with him. It was amazing to watch the two feral cats interact, with Ben appearing to dote on the younger one.

   Because the kitten had a black-and-white coat, they called her Tux. And because she was so young, they figured she could be domesticated and brought indoors. As they watched the two cats over a few weeks, they began to adore Ben, too—intrigued by how kind he was to this tot. He showed her where they could find food and be safe.

   Slowly, my friends started the painstaking process of getting Tux to feel comfortable around people. They talked to her softly, set out food and water and hoped that one day she would become a member of their family, which already included two indoor cats and a dog named Gracie.

   Then, one day…bingo! Tux walked through their door and has never showed interest in going outdoors again. Why would she? There was food, other animals (but no coyotes) and plenty of love.

   Meanwhile, Ben seemed to have found a new home, too, but in the yard. He left often but always returned. One day when he hopped back over the fence, he had another cat in tow: a female gray tabby. And it seemed the two were in love.

   “Evidently they’d formed a bond and were inseparable as if they were husband and wife,” M explained. “Ben’s a sweetheart, and Ricky is happy as long as he’s around, but shecries when he’s not. They’re a great couple.”

   Their union, however, had unintended consequences: two litters of 11 kittens in all. Ricky had borne the first litter at a neighbor’s yard down the street before Ben ever moved into my friends’ yard. Two of the kittens wandered into a neighbor’s yard where dogs killed them almost instantly.

The neighborhood collaborated and found homes for the three other little ones. Efforts to trap Ben and Ricky continued, but not before Ricky had another bunch of munchkins. Neighbors cared for them but two escaped and—you guessed it—joined Ben and Ricky in my friends’ yard. They named the kittens Gary and Kevin and found an adopted uncle, whom they named Cole.

   Some would call it a colony, but I think of it as a family. They have formed tight bonds. They keep out the skunks, possums, racoons and other cats that try to move into the luxurious yard, where they are cared for with compassion and love. All have been spayed or neutered.

   All the entertainment has transfixed my friends. “There’s a lot of sleeping together, curling up together,” M told me. “When we give them catnip, there’s a lot of wrestling, tumbling. They’re like members of a group that move in sequence with each other.”

   The cats stay closer to home, roaming less often. “Uncle Cole” remains best friends with Ben. Sadly, one of the kittens (Kevin) has vanished. M struggles with that daily: “That’s always the risk, the downside, of ferals.”

   The other cats still provide reams of happiness for M and Lisa. They know “this is a once in a lifetime thing,” as M says, to keep a feline family together.

   The best part is that as Ben ages, he can’t go anywhere without an entourage. The other cats in the family, especially Cole, follow him to make sure he’s safe.

   And at home, they can often be found where Ben hangs out: on the roof, like the king of his castle.

Contact Diana Chapman at peteybaxter@gmail.com and follow her art on IG at dianalynnechapman.

Posted 7/30/20

   For nearly all of her young life up to that point, JoAnne Lincoln believed she couldn’t sew worth a stitch. It was frustrating, because she admired the beautiful fabrics and the tempting array of colors that made her mind twitch with visions.

   She particularly enjoyed the idea of quilting, but instead of making quilts she purchased them. She treasured the antique designs but knew in her heart they weren’t what she would create—if she could make them at all.

   And then…all things that can change a life happened. JoAnne became pregnant at the age of 32 and started quilting.

   It was her son, now 29, who dropped some interesting tidbits about her in my lap. One day, he told me his mom quilted. That’s nice, I thought; maybe someday I’ll meet her.

   I knew Andrew from writing a couple of stories about his ambition to become a sommelier and his remarkable black-and-white photographs of animals. Jim and I thought whoever raised this kid (anyone under 30 is still a kid to me) must be a kind soul because her son is so kind. And so artistic.

   Sometime later, Andrew added another tidbit: his mom leads an art quilting group called Fiber Expressions. Hmmm... I filed that away in my memory bank, because as a writer you just never know.

   She facilitates a group created 10 years ago by Sonja Campbell. That says something. Actually, that says a lot. The group has 30 members from Napa County and the surrounding region and last year exhibited some of their work under an “Open Spaces” theme at the upper Napa Valley College campus.

   The next time we saw Andrew, he came armed with pictures of his mom’s work (he knew I was interested). When he pulled up the photos on his phone, I gasped. “Those are amazing,” I said, bewildered. They reflect not only how evolved quilting has become in general, but how effective it can be in telling a story.

   Stitched into JoAnne’s quilts is a variety of realistic wildlife:

    • An owl landing on a leather glove against an inky teal sky.  

   • A raven on a fencepost that appears to be almost smiling.

   • A tawny golden eagle with piercing eyes.

   • A kestrel staring out on whispering grasslands across the bay.

   • A golden snow leopard in the night.

   • A river otter in water lapping so invitingly that it looks refreshing.

   Perhaps my favorite has two barnyard cats eyeing each other suspiciously through a hole in a fence, the ground dressed in autumn colors.

   “I start with the eyes and enjoy seeing it take on its own life.” JoAnne would later tell me.

   That’s quite an understatement, because of what her quilts reveal about an animal, much like her son’s photographs do. They capture its spirit.

   And all she uses are her fingers and some fabric and thread.

   For those who don’t know (I sure didn’t), experts consider these quilts works of art that “hold a precarious position at the intersection of art, craft and design,” according to an article on the website of the University of Nebraska’s International Quilt Museum.

   In the 1950s, artisan women began pushing such handiwork in their pieces. Soon, universities incorporated quilting into their art curriculum. The movement was fueled further as “fiber artists” began to pull their communities together “organizing shows, and cultivating advocates and collectors. The studio quilt is now forty years old,” the article said, adding: “The artists who make them have succeeded in challenging the boundaries of art, craft and quilt.”

   No kidding.

   I admit to my own naiveté. I used to think of quilting as a folkcraft tradition. Viewing JoAnne’s work was a wake-up call, like dousing your face with cold water. I couldn’t believe how real everything seemed. It was as though she was painting in watercolors that burst out from the canvas.

   “I always start with a photograph, and luckily with Andrew’s portfolio of animal pictures there is no shortage of inspiration,” she said. Her work includes all kinds of animals: racoons, chimpanzees, tigers, deer, jaguars, night herons, goats, pigs, roosters—and yes, dogs and cats. Her work will be on display at the Napa County Library in November.

   When JoAnne and I talked (via email because the coronavirus has kept us from meeting in person), she told me she’d never considered herself an artist and couldn’t even “draw a stick figure.”

   But Andrew, not even in the world yet, changed her mind.

   “I thought maybe I could make a quilt for the baby,” she said. “From there I went on to make dozens of tradition quilts. I enjoyed handwork since I could work quietly with a young child.”

   It was work that required patience during countless hours, but there was joy in seeing the development coming through the materials. She estimates that her smallest creations take a minimum of 30 hours. Including details with textures you can almost feel (such as fur and feathers) adds additional hours. My favorite, the barn cats, took six months because all 450+ pieces were appliqued by hand before the quilt was assembled, she said.

   As Andrew grew older, the mother and son's’s love for animals only deepened, and their artistic skills reflect that. About 10 years ago, JoAnne switched from traditional quilting to art quilting. It was thrilling, she said, “to be able to create in cloth and thread.”

   “I love workshops and I’ve learned and used many techniques and style, but I’ve come to the conclusion that the only ones that are really meaningful to me are the animals,” she explained.

   She and Andrew are considering teaming up on an exhibit. That makes perfect sense to me.

   Having made some 100 quilts over the years, JoAnne has never bothered to try selling her work, other than a handful of pieces. When asked, she said the prices would start at about $500, but that’s not her goal.

   The members of her quilting group don’t collaborate on individual projects but keep each other going in so many ways. They’re “just learning together and inspiring each other,” she said. Within a year, the group will display quilts with literary themes at the library in St. Helena.

   “Quilting not only gives me a creative outlet but a social one as well,” she said. “Art quilters are incredibly supportive of one another. So many use their art for activism regarding environmental and sociopolitical issues. I’m grateful to be part of that community.”

   What she’ll do from here is anybody’s guess, but she plans to donate quilts, most of which measure 32x50 inches, to organizations that benefit wildlife or serve the community. I say any organization that gets one will be fortunate indeed.

   You can reach JoAnne at jklincoln59@gmail.com about her work or her quilting group.

*   *   *

Contact Diana Chapman at peteybaxter@gmail.com and follow her art on IG at dianalynnechapman.

Posted 7/6/20

Dear Readers: The best part about having your own blog is that you can write about whatever you want! I enjoy animals so much and, over the years, many of my friends have adopted cats, dogs and horses. I hope to honor them by drawing and writing about their orphans. This is the first in a series, and I hope you enjoy it. You can reach me at peteybaxter@gmail.com.

*     *     *

   The minute they met, she knew she had to save her life.

   It was rough going for the little terrier, because five other dogs were piled on top of her, rattling the cage. Tightly mixed in the Los Angeles County animal shelter was an overabundance of canines with a death sentence hanging over their heads: They had to be rescued in the next two days or they would meet their maker long before their time.

   My friend M (her nickname) had taken on the brutal task of a volunteer animal rescuer: a thankless, next-to-impossible job. As many of us know, you’re lucky to be able to save even one of the animals that society so readily discards at shelters.

   This little girl had been there for two weeks, sickened with kennel cough and a minefield of mange. Her ticket to heaven’s highway was about to be punched. What a waste that would be!

   However, there was a ray of hope. M thought the white, brown and black dog might be a purebred Jack Russell terrier. If so, there was a good chance she could find a home for her.

  Her excitement flowing like a gush of water, M contacted a Jack Russell rescue group. And what great luck: The group readily agreed to take her in.

   Until then, M would have to foster her, but if it saved a life she didn’t mind. She would have to clean up the little girl’s health problems, but she didn’t mind that, either. M’s partner, Lisa, readily agreed to the arrangement, despite the three rescue cats aready living with them.

   For the time being, they would call the feisty little dog Gracie. They had been down this path before, fostering several animals and nearly always finding homes. Why should this time be any different?

   After cleaning up Gracie and having her groomed, and with the mange and kennel cough under control, M started asking around the neighborhood if anyone was interested in adopting the little terrier.

   Three times she nearly found Gracie a home, and three times it fell through. One family was ready to give it a try when their resident dog told them in no uncertain terms there was no way another dog was moving in. Another family who met her said they would have to think about it. And the last prospect, a woman with a crushingly small apartment, never even showed up for the appointment.

   That left M right where she started. No home for this munchkin yet.

   She went back to the Jack Russell rescue group. But when she sent pictures, they pointed out that Gracie was not a Jack Russell, but a plain old rat terrier.

   You know that feeling in the pit of your stomach when you realize you’ve missed the target again? That’s how M felt, I’m sure.

   Why should it matter what breed an animal is if there’s a life to be saved? But to many people, it does matter.

   As the days and weeks marched on for M and Lisa, Gracie would race around their legs, excitedly greet visitors and chase balls around the yard. She loved being walked three times a day. In fact, she was so “high energy” that they began to wonder if a breeder dumped her in the shelter because she was considered “unadoptable.”

   Yet Gracie loved to jump onto their laps, place her paws on their shoulders and stare deep into their eyes. They and everyone in their circle of friends considered Gracie eminently adoptable.

   Like most terriers, who were bred to hunt and chase small animals, Gracie had to adjust to living with the three cats. One of them, Abbie, whose jaw was broken in a car accident, has a permanent frown-like grimace. However, she’s the sweetest cat ever and took a big liking to Gracie.

   Gracie’s lively, bouncing personality made Abbie yawn, perhaps because she once lived with five dogs. Nothing seemed to faze Miss Abbie, and in some odd way she seemed to calm Gracie down. No one knows how.

   More days and weeks ticked by. Gracie still had no home despite the phone calls, the emails and the neighborhood postings.

   By now, she was sleeping happily in the comfort of their room, practically snoring with contentment. One day M woke up and realized that perhaps she had been looking at this whole thing the wrong way. Perhaps Gracie had found her.

   That’s exactly what had happened. Gracie knew she’d found her “forever home” before M did.

   The reason why Gracie landed in her lap—because I believe everything happens for a reason—might be tied to M’s childhood.

   She recently visited her dad and sister in Chicago, where she grew up. When M pulled out an old black-and-white photo of herself as a toddler holding a small canine, Lisa exclaimed with shock: “That looks exactly like Gracie!”

   And you know what? It does.

*     *     *

Contact Diana Chapman at peteybaxter@gmail.com. Follow her art on IG at dianalynnechapman.

Posted 5/25/20

Dear Reader: Over the few years we’ve lived in Napa, I have enjoyed drawing my friends’ rescue animals. I was particularly honored to get to know George, a beagle, during the 16 years he lived with Scott and Marie. As many dogs seem to find their human, George found Scott, and they became inseparable. Oh, he liked his human mom, Marie, and his human sister, Eileen, but Scott was 110 percent his human—forever. George died in the past year. Many animals, especially dogs, will survive only if we adopt them into our homes. I’m truly supportive of animal rescue, and my friends’ and family’s homes are filled with these animals.

Here is George’s story as told by his human friend.

By Scott Nordhues

   The first time we met George, in September of 2003, it was an eye-opening experience.

   About 18 months old and quartered at a beagle rescue facility in Stanton, California, he was released from his kennel for our perusal on a sunny Sunday with about 10 other pooches—all female. Free of their cages, the females ignored their potential new owners and excitedly nipped, licked and jumped all over the male dog, named Toto. Overwhelmed with the female attention, Toto found himself pinned to the ground and unable to get close to us.

   We learned he had spent some of his short life in the Mojave Desert and was somewhat independent-minded. That appealed to us, since we would have to leave him alone frequently during the day. As we drove the visibly nervous hound to his new home, we debated names for our new pet. To us, he was not a "Toto." We compromised on the rather bland "George," but the name somehow fit.

   In his new surroundings, George promptly set about chewing everything he could get his jaws around—mostly shoes, which we soon learned would become a mess of soggy leather, rubber and foam unless they were stowed in closets or high on shelves.

   On a Saturday night shortly after we adopted him, he somehow got ahold of something more alarming – one of my used razors! We found the gnawed handle in the living room, minus the blade, which we assumed George had swallowed.

   Eileen was terrified at the prospect of the sharp object making its way through George's digestive system, so off to the vet hospital we went. One emergency operation and $1,000 later, George had a new zipper on his stomach and was forced to wear the “cone of shame” around his neck until his incision healed. We began to understand why we were the third owner of this 25-pound dynamo in just a year-and-a-half.

    Any beagle owner could identify with our experience over the next 16 years. Day after day, George alternately drove us crazy and delighted us with his antics. Like all hounds, he was ravenous. Chow time was over literally seconds after the bowlful of food was placed in front of him. He seemed to eat everything in one gulp, then looked for more. I said he was the only creature alive that got hungrier the more he ate. His hatred of being wet made bath time a battle of wills. Walks in the rain were simply inconceivable. Moist fur was not his style.

   His somewhat aloof personality never stopped others from spontaneously approaching him. We got accustomed to seeing people we met on neighborhood "walkies" talk to George for several minutes, only for him to walk away without the slightest acknowledgement of the humans on the other end of the leash.

   At night, with George slumbering near us in his own bed, we grew to consider his resounding snoring—which would shame even an 80-year-old man with severe apnea—as comforting white noise that lulled us to sleep.

   He aged well, bounding onto chairs and sofas beyond age 15, but we dreaded the day he would have to leave us. Various health complications led him to stop eating in August of 2019.

   If George, whose life revolved around food, was no longer eating, we knew the end was near.

   When word got out that our beloved beagle had been euthanized, many people offered condolences that mirrored those for a family member. Appropriate, because George was certainly that.

   More than we could have imagined on that day in Stanton in 2003.

Posted 4/25/20

    It was all rather exciting. Because the coronavirus pandemic had us locked up in our house like everyone else, we didn’t know what to expect when we posted on our Next Door neighbor page that we had jigsaw puzzles to give away.

   It made so much sense. If you’ve already put a puzzle together and the pieces are just sitting in the box, why not give it to someone looking for something to do while sheltering at home?

   The responses rolled in like crazy from mothers and grandmothers desperate to find something for their kids to do, as well as from people who love do jigsaws themselves.

   One woman said she finishes a 1,000-piece puzzle every few days and likes artistic scenes the best. We gave her a couple Pomegranate puzzles, in awe of anyone who can do such large puzzles so quickly. Sometimes it takes us nearly a month.

   We’re currently working on a puzzle of a classic Alice in Wonderland book cover that has us tearing our hair out. (We’ve also realized how bizarre the creatures are. A turtle with a head like a rabbit? A dodo bird with a fluffy green tail? Definitely not the Disney version.) I think we’ll be happy to give this one away.

   One mom pleaded for anything that might make her 4-year-old son happy, and we chose a 200-piece seascape with giant colorful fish. She said his eyes lit up when he saw it.

   Wrote another recipient, Susan Franzke of Old Town: “I’ve taken up jigsaw puzzles again. Calming activities are good for me. So nice to get the puzzles and have new ones to do. Thanks so much!”

   The day after the requests started coming in, we tied together boxes of puzzles and drove them all over Napa, from the north to the south and everywhere in between. We were rather exhausted but we’d reduced our puzzle collection to just a handful (mostly holiday themes with witches, pumpkins or Santa). We received appreciative notes from everyone, and I have to say people can forget how special thank-yous can be.

   Our cat, Petey Pumpkin Longtail, likes to snatch puzzle pieces and make them disappear. So our cat is not my hero. But a man I’m going to tell you about is.

My girlfriend—she’s more like a sister—works at a pharmacy (not in Napa). In other words, she’s down in the trenches on the frontline of the coronavirus war. Every day, she wakes up, gets dressed and goes to work along with thousands of other employees at pharmacies and grocery stores.

   Whenever we talk, I hear how insane it is. The store is packed with customers, but many of the shelves are empty and the lines are long. At the checkout counter, red markers on the floor are spaced six feet apart to remind customers to practice “social distancing.”

   One day recently, a woman in line edged closer and closer to the register, blowing off the red markers. When she finally pushed into another customer’s space, my friend asked politely if she could remain behind the marker.

   “Who are you, the police?” the woman responded angrily. “You’re a b____!”

   When I heard about this story, I was incensed. Doesn’t this woman realize what risks these employees are taking?

   Fortunately, one man does, and he stepped up.

   Standing behind the rude woman, he said loudly to my friend: “Excuse me, miss. I really appreciate that you’re here and the store is open. I’m grateful.”

   When his turn came at the register, she thanked him profusely. He repeated what he’d just said: He was truly grateful to all the workers on the frontline.

You can send a message to Diana at peteybaxter@gmail.com.  View her artwork on Instagram at dianalynnechapman.

Posted 3/26/20

   We were one of the first to board the flight for Seattle. It was Valentine’s Day, in the earliest days of the coronavirus scare, and the Southwest crew seemed in a fairly decent mood. In particular, one man, whom I assumed was the head flight attendant, began kibitzing with passengers.

   At first, sitting in the first row, he told people he had warmed up the seat for them before jumping up so they could take it.

   He continued on, joking with us that his wife wasn’t very happy he was working on Valentine’s Day, but he hoped she wouldn’t be too angry.

   As more passengers boarded, he continued to talk. All I could think about was what a cheerful flight attendant he was. He was gregarious and humor peppered every word. When everyone was aboard, another attendant told him the plane was fully loaded and the door could be closed.

   That’s when the “head flight attendant” walked to the cockpit, slipped into the pilot’s seat and we took off.

* * *

   A couple of hours earlier, we were at the TSA checkpoint at the Oakland airport. As someone with multiple sclerosis, one of my biggest issues is having a memory with holes like Swiss cheese.

   That’s why I make mistakes like driving around Napa for a year clueless that my license has expired, or forgetting to fill my gas tank. (The good news is that in Napa, you’re never very far from a gas station.)

   As we headed through the checkpoint, the TSA officer stared at my license and asked if I had received my Real ID card yet.

   “No,” I responded. “I plan to do it when I get back.”

   “Well,” he said. “You do know your license has expired, right?

   “What!?” I gasped. “I had no idea.” My husband and I looked at each other with that OMG expression. We thought we may not get to that family reunion after all, which was for my 60th birthday.

   We held our breath.

   “You’ll be able to use this for four days, until your birthday,” he said. “But after that, I can’t say what will happen. You’ll have to go through a lot of security questioning and you may not be able to board.”

   We weren’t scheduled to return home until nearly a week later.

   For all the ugly stories you hear about the TSA, this man was professional, efficient and courteous. Both of us were impressed. He let us go, but told us that the return trip would be a very bumpy ride without an updated license or a passport.

   We spent the next few days arranging for our daughter to send my passport to Seattle, and when we found it under the doormat of our rental home, we were swept with relief.

* * *

   That’s why, a few days after returning home, we went to Napa’s DMV office.  We had been in line for only a few minutes, but I was exhausted.

   It doesn’t take me long to become completely fatigued when I’m standing in line. It’s a big part of my handicap, and I can’t stand it. It's frustrating to take my 91-year-old mother shopping and, within five minutes, tell her I have to leave because I’m plumb out of energy. What’s worse, I grew up in a family of doers, but I’m grateful that my two sisters, my mom and my husband understand and don’t think I’m just being lazy.

   That’s what I hear from many people who have a family member with M.S.  The fatigue is unpredictable and has a mind of its own. I never know when it will strike, but strike it does—especially at large stores (think Walmart, Target, Costco). I rarely go to them anymore because I can’t bring myself to use the wheelchairs.

   Back to the DMV. The line moved quickly; we were in and out in less than 30 minutes. And contrary to experiences we’ve had with the DMV when we lived in other parts of the state, we were treated with courtesy and professionalism by every DMV employee.

* * *

A last note regarding the coronavirus: I had to go to Rite Aid the other morning here in Napa. No one was smiling. It’s hard to smile when you’re facing one of the worst pandemics in the last 100 years.

   But there was one reason to be grateful. Everyone in line was doing what they were supposed to do – standing several feet away from each other. Even better, every one of the customers was polite to the clerk, and she was polite back. That’s when people smiled.

   This seems a particularly good time to be kind.

Posted 3/20/20

     Standing tall, the bears launched themselves at each other, collapsing into a giant (bear) hug. They were so big that we didn’t move. We didn’t even flinch. But soon the playful wrestlers tumbled down a grassy slope, making everyone laugh.

     In a few minutes, another side of the fun-loving bears materialized. When slabs of red meat and chunks of squash were set out, their playfulness vanished.

     The grizzlies—who once roamed the length of the entire Golden State until we eradicated them—and two other brown bears began storming about in a ravenous search for the food, which revealed the true drama of what it might be like to face a hungry bear.

     They were relentless until they found it.

     On the other hand, in another large enclosure across the way, three cougars paced back and forth, carefully eyeing a gardener clipping hedges on the other side of the fence. Clearly, you didn’t want to be on the wrong side of that fence when you realized how very large pumas (also called mountain lions and catamounts) are. They can can weigh up to 140 pounds for females and 220 pounds for males.

     Here's what’s the most fantastic of all: Every one of these native California animals have been rescued by two agencies banding together: the Oakland Zoo (managed by the nonprofit Conservation Society of California) and the state Department of Fish and Wildlife. By visiting the Zoo, you become part of a rescue mission without which many of these animals would have died.

     They are also gentle reminders that humans and wildlife, especially predators, don’t easily mix.

     So, if you’re feeling too lazy to leave the Napa Valley, I suggest you wake up, put on your boots and go—especially if you have children or grandchildren of any age. Two years ago, the Oakland Zoo reconfigured its lands and added the California Trail with an additional perk: a breathtaking four-minute ride on a gondola with sweeping views of the Bay and beyond. The gondola takes you up to the new area where North American animals such as cougars and grizzlies live on the wild side.

     Bison dot the hills. Six cubs were recently born to rescued wolves Sequoia and Siskiyou. You shouldn’t miss the giant black condor, a species that nearly went extinct partly due to pesticides and lead appearing in its natural food. And how about that jaguar?

     Besides all that, the new area is an absolutely magical kids paradise. Adventure awaits!  There are so many reasons why this Zoo should be supported, but especially now that it’s nearly doubled its size (to 100 acres) with a grand mission: to save wildlife, including our very own native animals. In my book, that’s a beautiful scene.

     It happened apparently with a great meeting of the minds, so to speak, between Fish and Wildlife and the Zoo to find homes for North American animals that were rescued, disabled or too dangerous to be returned to the wild. For instance, a mama black bear with three cubs sat on Death Row after breaking into a home for food, injuring a resident. State officials were planning to put all four of the bears down.

     Because there was a place to house them, Fish and Wildlife spared the bears at the last minute, and they now live safely at the Zoo. A big “high paw” to everyone for that one!

     In other words, if you visit this Zoo, you’re putting your stamp of approval on animal rescues.

     The day we visited was a complete success, which was fortunate because we dragged our adult son, Ryan; his girlfriend, Evelenn, and her niece, Adimarie. Ten-year-old Adimarie launched into a campaign of documenting everything she saw, first with her pen and notebook and then with her smartphone, which she used to take some amazing videos.

     No shaking. No swinging takes. Everything was smooth and steady.

     As I mentioned, the Zoo is a paradise for youngsters who love to play and an entertaining way to educate older children. It's situated in 525-acre Knowland Park. The facility touts some 750 native and exotic species, including elephants, giraffes, lions, tigers, hyenas and many other celebrations of life.

     There are lots of reasons I like this Zoo (and I’ve been to many zoos in different parts of the world). But if you’re a parent with youngsters up to age 12 or so, there’s an array of activities.

     At Adventure Landing near the Zoo’s main entrance, your child might be interested in riding an animal merry-go-round, a small roller coaster or a grab-and-go Safari train (for both kids and parents).

     At the bear exhibit, Jim and I laughed as we watched the grizzlies put on their energetic show. We noticed that in the rest of the audience, most of the kids were older children. Wondering where the younger ones were, we spotted them frolicking nearby in a new play area called “California Wilds!” There’s a shallow pool for splashing, a rope for ziplining, a Mt. Shasta replica for climbing and animal sculptures to crawl on.

     I can sense the pure jubilation when children get educated in a fun way. They remember it more when they don’t even know they’re learning.

     For older children, there’s quite a bit to take in and learn, such as the jaguar, bald eagles and the elephants, which use their trunks to eat from trees. One rumbled by with branches all over his back. Even 25-year-old Ryan raced around to see the tigers and hyenas.

     Since I teach children how to write creatively, I know you must make it fun or you lose them. So many kids start believing early on that they can’t write well. So I look for ways to get them started, and I’ve rekindled the passion for writing in many of them.

     Therefore, I was stoked when I visited the Zoo’s website. Don’t miss it, because it’s a sure-fire way for children to learn more about the animals they saw. For example, they can look up the poisonous dart frogs from Costa Rica, which are festooned with beautiful colors like lemon yellow and lapis blue, and whose skin is toxic for predators.

     Remarkable.

     Or how about the critically endangered Aldabra tortoises that live off the African coast on an island in the Indian Ocean? Males can weigh up to 560 pounds. They have knife-like jaws that can easily crush a person’s hand. They can stretch their necks three feet high. And we don’t know their precise age or lifespan because they usually outlive the humans observing them.

     The Oakland Zoo is dedicated to wildlife and, with so much of it vanishing in our world, it’s a very good place to be.

     Admission is $24 for adults, $20 for seniors and $20 for children ages 2 to 14. Adults 76 and older are free. Parking is $10. The gondola ride is included with admission. The Zoo is located at 9777 Golf Links Road, Oakland. For more information, visit http://www.oaklandZoo.org.

Posted 8/26/19

     Dean & DeLuca, the popular gourmet grocery store in St. Helena, shut its doors abruptly on July 3, telling employees they would work with them over the next few weeks on severance packages.

     The chain had been struggling recently in spite its fame after opening the first store in 1977 in New York City.  Locally, there were numerous reports of Dean & DeLuca falling behind on the rent at both the store and its commissary kitchen several blocks north.

     Dean & DeLuca was purchased in 2014 by Thailand-based Pace Development Corp. and immediately announced ambitious expansion plans. But last year there were news reports that 18 of its 42 stores were being closed amid suppliers’ complaints about not getting paid.

     Because of its popularity with tourists and locals alike, the store’s closing is likely to take many by surprise. The parent company’s plans to open a store in London and a second location in Washington, D.C., have been halted. With several suppliers having filed multimillion-dollar lawsuits, observers have speculated that the expansion was happening too quickly.

     Despite those warning signals, employees here were stunned by the sudden announcement and found themselves leaving work Wednesday afternoon out of a job.

Posted 7/4/19

Art on the Brain?

Since we moved to Napa, something has happened to my brain: I can’t stop drawing. I’ve been picking up pencil or pen for this enjoyable pastime every day. It keeps me calm and puts me in a meditative state. Most of all, it’s fun!

The first set of of drawings was inspired by our housecat, Petey (whose full name is Peter Pumpkin Longtail). He loves looking at the birds outside our back window.

This set is a more random collection of designs that came into my head--from where, who knows?

     I'm always on the lookout.

     I look for them in bars, restaurants, coffee houses and (especially since we moved to the pastoral hills of wine country) wineries. These are the folks that make everything seem right. That night out for dinner. A meal at lunch. Tasting wine or champagne with food pairings.

     What I look for are employees that make that visit to their business hum and hum with melody and shine. These are the people who make you want to return time and again. It’s like finding a brilliant diamond.

     My mantra (one my husband has heard so many times he’s sick of it): A server can make or break your meal, your happy hour or, yes, even your winetasting experience.

     That’s why both of us were so impressed with a young man named Andrew Lincoln on a visit to Artesa Vineyards & Winery, a modern, hippish winery perched on about 350 acres atop Henry Road in Napa’s Los Carneros district. According to the website, “Spain’s oldest winemaking family,” Cordorníu Raventós, opened the winery in 1991 to make sparkling wine but transformed it into an artisan operation handcrafting chardonnay, pinot noir, cabernet sauvignon and other varietals. (In Catalan Spanish, “artesa” means handcrafted.)

     What we like about Andrew is his charm and his knowledge of the wines he serves. One of Artesa’s “wine educators,” he tends the wine bar at the Visitor Center and tries to make his customers’ experience a memorable one.

     “What I love about the industry is making people happy and turning them on to unique varietals, regions or the cultural history that leads to what’s in their glass,” he wrote in an email. “It’s fun and gratifying to sell wine, but at the end of the day my priority is to make guests walk away happy and excited about finding something they may not have tried before, like an albariño or a tempranillo.”

     It’s easy to identify people who genuinely feel that way about their job and those that don’t. It’s a tradition I’ve followed for years: Treat me well and I’ll be your customer forever. I encourage them to tell their stories: how they got there and why, and where they want to go next.

     Andrew is a perfect example in so many ways. Raised here and living near the winery, he may know more about wine than most of us. Yet, as he says, “wine is such a deep and complex subject that I can only say that my knowledge is growing.” He learned in part from previous experience as a food server. He took wine classes, attended tastings and did lots of reading. One of the biggest influences, without a doubt, has been his father.

     Jim Lincoln, who manages vineyards, gave his son a global perspective on wine. Andrew says he doesn’t know why, but he and his father have similar palates. He wonders if it’s genetic “or if I love and respect his knowledge and opinion so much!” It’s probably both.

     Working at Artesa has enhanced Andrew’s wine education. He fits right in with the winery’s approach: charming, knowledgeable and forward-¬thinking. Artesa considers itself a cross between the old world (founded by an historic Spanish winemaking family) and the new (bringing their roots to these rich, grape-loving soils).

     Designed by a renowned Barcelona architect, the winery brings nature and wine together. It's built into a hillside, nestled beneath cool grasses and treating visitors to panoramic views of San Pablo Bay less than three miles away. The look is classically modern: clean, bright and airy—a vast difference from most wineries.

     Besides what his father taught him, Andrew has garnered a treasure trove of experience from working at the winery. He’s considering becoming a certified sommelier and continues to study photography.

     After reading so much of Andrew’s writing, I believe he should add that skill to his toolkit. His style is soft-spoken, articulate and sincere. From work and living in wine country, he tracks trends, takes notice of changes and keeps many historical tips that tie themselves to wine.

     What he sees now is a younger generation finding interest in a new craft-style beer industry that launched “a cultural revolution of appreciating small production, and the top-tier wines have always had that M.O. It’s just that the concept of craft beer turned a lot of young people to the wine scene.”

     “I think wine inherently contained qualities that were appealing to the mindset,” he said. “Great wine is a celebration of place, history and craftsmanship. It’s about quality, not quantity.”

     Regarding other trends, he believes twist-off caps are here to stay. When some cork batches became contaminated in Portugal, he said, the Germans began using twist-offs. Technology has since discovered the right amount of oxygen needed to age the wines properly. “I know it’s not as romantic as popping a cork, but the moment you open that $300+ bottle of wine you were saving for a special occasion and it’s corked, you’ll wish you had a screw cap!”

     On the horizon he expects there to be much more environmentally responsible agriculture and a gradual move away from the dominance of what was once “Napa’s golden child,” cabernet sauvignon.

     “I think cabernet will continue to be popular for a long time in the Napa Valley, it’s just that the style is changing,” he says. “The big, uber-ripe, heavily oaked cabs that were championed by critics like Robert Parker and James Laube in the 1990s and 2000s are slowly giving way to more classic, restrained, more ageable expressions of the varietal.”

     Yes, Andrew is the kind of guy you’d like to grab a beer and chat with. Come to think of it, make that a glass of wine.

Posted 3/9/19

“Mom,” I said. “Jim and are about to celebrate our 30th anniversary. Can you believe it?”

“Yes,” she nodded patiently. “You’ve already told me several times.” And I had. I’d told my friends, my sisters, my sisters’ friends, and so on. It was a proud milestone for us, having made it through some rugged times as so many couples do. That included me being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis a few years after we were married and having to give up my career as a newspaper writer. It was clear that if I didn’t slow down, the disease would quickly take me down.

We had survived so many things, in so many ways, that when our anniversary came around, we decided to treat ourselves to dinner at the Culinary Institute of America’s CIA at Copia restaurant.

A bit of background: Before the CIA came to town, a self-consciously highbrow “food museum and educational center” called Copia opened on that site in 2001. Their exclusive attitude failed in Napa, a community with sensible, working-class roots. Making a mistake so many places make, Copia failed to include the locals in any sort of planning. The place was operated with a sense of elitism that fell flat with many residents, and when the Great Recession hit, Copia closed and filed for bankruptcy. No surprise there.

The 80,000-square-foot facility—next to the pulsatingly lively Oxbow Market where the Napa River bends—sat fallow like a skeleton, waiting for a new owner. The place had been empty for so long that many people were ecstatic when the CIA, headquartered in Hyde Park, N.Y., opened there. It had a good reputation at its Greystone location in St. Helena for training up-and-coming culinary students to become savory or pastry chefs. At the Napa site, they’d be offering culinary classes to the public and more.

The CIA opened a culinary store, cooking classrooms, a theater and The Restaurant at CIA Copia. About a year-and-a-half ago, we had tried the restaurant. It had just opened and they were serving small plates such as roasted oysters in shallots. We were delighted to be able to try so many dishes (so much so that we lost sight of our bill). But the food and service were excellent. Since then, the restaurant had scrapped the rolling carts and switched to a regular menu. No matter. It would be good, we decided.

We made reservations for 6 o’clock on a Sunday evening. When we arrived, the place was already lively. Nearly half the tables were filled. The bright young hostess, very polite and efficient, sat us at a tight table for two. The minute we sat down, the table started wobbling. I don’t mean a little bit. It was rocking like a concert. We asked to move and the hostess quickly found another table. Odd, I thought, that a high-end place would have such a rickety table. It will get better soon, we thought.

Then the waiting began. After five minutes without anyone stopping by, somebody showed up with glasses of water. But no one came back. Several food runners (not servers) were charging around the dining area but we couldn’t get anyone’s attention. In the open kitchen, the cooks were busy and the flames sizzling. Someone—I think it was the assistant chef—finally noticed our frustration. He came and asked if he could get us drinks.

That was impressive. He took our order and we were delighted. It was going to get better. But 10 more minutes went by. No drinks. And still no server. The food runners (whose job is to bring the food to the table, not take orders) still charged around as if in a daze. They barely looked at us, their eyes averted, as if they knew everything was going wrong that evening.

We thought it would get better, because after all, the CIA is one of the most renowned culinary institutes in the country, successfully training bright chefs for thousands upon thousands of dollars in tuition. Surely an organization like that would likely be prepared for just about anything at its own restaurant. But that was a false assumption.While I want the Becoming Napa blog to remain mostly positive, sometimes life slaps you in the face and it does no one any good for it to go unreported.

Finally, we flagged down a food runner and asked if we could we get some bread. Her face lit up and with quite a bit of charm she said: “Now that’s something I can do.” She came right back with the bread. “Could you get us some drinks and, of course, a server?” I asked. “I’m so sorry about the wait,” she said. “We have two servers, but they took them for two private parties in the back.”

I was stunned. Why would you pluck the only servers from the restaurant where the clientele has the highest of expectations? Something had gone very wrong that evening. The CIA touts its cooking and wine classes. With a 75-seat theater, the concepts could be limitless and the teaching phenomenal.

But right away, I felt the teaching had gone out the door.

Finally, Jim stood up and said he would go to the bar (in the lobby) to see if he could at least get our drinks. By now we’d been there nearly 30 minutes and had yet to see a waiter. At the bar, Jim discovered our drinks hadn’t even been poured. The bartender looked frazzled.

Meanwhile, I was still sitting at our table praying it would get better. Instead, a young couple walked in and were seated at a table next to us. After a moment, a server walked to their table and took their order! She never even looked at me.

That was it. I marched out and told Jim we should leave because it was never, I’m sad to say, going to get better, at least on that evening.

On the way out, I told the hostess the experience ruined our 30th anniversary dinner plans. She apologized profusely, but we knew it wasn’t her fault.

Having worked in restaurants, I know that management has to plan for the unexpected. Sometimes employees don’t show up or the kitchen runs out of a key ingredient. Or someone accidentally books two large parties at the same time.

So it was a sad moment when we walked out because most of us want the CIA to be successful. It makes sense for the institute to be here, but it’s not going to work if they cannot manage the unexpected.

Outside, we wondered what we should do. We didn’t want to just go home on our anniversary. So we called Torc on Main, a place we’d been to once before that was just a few minutes away.

They seated us immediately and gave us an abundance of attention. Casual elegance defines this place along with excellent food. Our 30th anniversary dinner was saved because Torc was ready for people to walk in.

Our friends ask if we’d ever go back to the CIA.

I think we might. I’m sure the kinks eventually will be worked out. We just won’t go back on our anniversary—the 31st or any other one.

Posted 10/25/18

On a drive from Napa to Mammoth Lakes in early October, we took Highways 4 and 120 through the foothills and over the crest of the Sierras. The winding road took us by historic towns, forests and lakes bursting with hues of emerald and mauve. When we finally reached Yosemite’s back country, we were reminded that the national park offers plenty to look at even when you choose to avoid the mobs in Yosemite Valley. Here you can see why our hearts melted at what Earth’s great forces—in this case, glacial carving--can do. We'll share more photos of our five-day stay in Mammoth.

Because so many Californians live west of the Sierra Nevada range, its eastern slopes are less familiar to most residents. Certainly for those of us living in the Bay Area, it’s a relatively easy drive to the western foothills with their lakes, streams and historic Gold Rush towns.

Probably because we lived in Southern California for so many years, Diana and I have often visited the Mammoth Lakes region along U.S. 395. We’re not skiers, so our preference is to visit in the summer and early fall, when literally hundreds of hiking trails are easily accessible. And spectacular views are available everywhere.

The eastern side of the Sierra, shielded from Pacific storms, is much drier than the western side. Forests are more sparse, streams are smaller and the high desert to the east isn’t far away. And the landscape, I think, is more dramatic. While the slopes on the west rise gradually from the Central Valley, on the eastern side they rise much more abruptly from the valleys and canyons below. If you want to find out more about this area, we recommend “Mammoth Lakes Sierra: A Handbook for Roadside and Trail” by Genny Smith, originally published in 1959 and updated several times.

“The Dead Fish”?!?  Really Now…

Discovery happens only when you’re willing to embrace it. Sometimes, you’re not ready.

That’s how I initially felt when our niece, Ann, recommended a restaurant with startling views and an even more startling name: “The Dead Fish.” It’s embedded on a hillside in the little town of Crockett, overlooking the rugged Carquinez Strait across from Vallejo.

“The Dead Fish?” my mom said. “Who would want to eat there?”

Apparently, Jim and I would. I wasn’t sure at first, but Ann’s pitch of good food and sweeping views attracted us.  We decided the scenery alone might be worth the 30-minute trip. If I was really lucky, there might be something I’d want to eat, since I don’t like fish – even dead ones.

Still, Jim and I wondered: What was behind that name?

As it turned out, on the evening we planned to go Ann had to work late. But we decided to embark on this fishy adventure anyway. Once we crossed the bridge, we took the very first exit and climbed one steep block to the restaurant.  Wisely, Ann had suggested to make reservations, because the Dead Fish parking lot was packed to the gills.

   It was only 6 o’clock on a Thursday evening, but inside the restaurant “very busy” was an understatement. Thank goodness we’d called ahead. (One thing I’ve learned since moving here: No matter what day of the week, make reservations.)

  As the hostess swept us in, we could see nearly every table was full. Here’s a big part of the reason why: Enormous windows make you feel as though you’re outside, as if you could reach out and touch one of the Carquinez Bridge’s twin towers. The setting is a spectacular feast for the eyes with views of the strait, San Pablo Bay and hilly terrain that rivals some of San Francisco’s.

“I don’t even care if the food is good,” I said as we sat down. “This view makes it worth every penny.”  It’s not cheap to dine here, but sometimes in life you just go with the experience. This was one of them.

Surrounding us were people who were obviously enjoying their experience. A young couple feasted on a platter piled with crab, mussels and lobster, happily cracking and crunching away.  And the restaurant seems especially appropriate for fun and special occasions. In the approximately 90 minutes we were there, we heard servers singing “happy birthday” at least three times.  

No surprise that at the Dead Fish, seafood dominates the menu (their specialty is whole crab).  But there are other choices: prime rib, osso buco, a hamburger (called the Dead Burger), baked chicken and, to my delight, eight choices of what they call “Live Salads.”

I’m quick to notice little things that set a restaurant apart from others. While many places shy away from serving bread with the meal anymore (if they do, it costs extra), I was impressed to see a man churning in and out of the kitchen with with piping hot baguettes. The minute he was empty, he went back for more.

Yes, I’m a bread person, and the baguettes practically melted in your mouth. We smiled as we munched away. If this was a precursor to what was in store, we were in for a memorable evening.  Maybe even the salad would be memorable.

Perusing the menu headings, you recognize the humor. “Drink Like a Fish” cocktails have sharky names like Crabby Mood Martini (vodka, peach schnapps, orange and cranberry juice) and Hot to Trout (prosecco, blood orange mimosa cocktail).  The list of beef selections is called “Other Dead Things” and features an upside-down cow with X’s for eyes. Another heading is “Recently Demised Fish of the Day.”

Once our broad-shouldered waiter, Chris (think football size/not fat), had entertained us with hellos and cocktails, we ordered our food.

Jim chose Dungeness crab cakes while I ordered the Apple Salad: spinach, apples, sun-dried cranberries and walnuts, doused with a raspberry vinaigrette and topped with chicken. 

I have salad a lot when eating out because I don’t care for red meat or seafood.  After we ordered, I thought about the things I dislike about some restaurant salads: wilted lettuce, limp vegetables and skimpy portions of other ingredients that add nothing whatsoever. (So often when I order a salad with bleu cheese, I can’t find the cheese.) I’m always on the lookout for the perfect salad, but rarely does it come to the table when chefs scrimp to save costs.

When our food arrived, I had to force myself to pull away from watching one of the ships plying the strait. But what a surprise when I took my first bite of salad. The spinach was fresh! The apple was crisp and flavorful!

I’m still rather surprised Jim ordered crab cakes, since he makes his own and our friends rave about them. But after a few bites, he pushed back from his plate and said: “These are the best crab cakes I’ve ever had.”

Finally, getting to the bottom of all this fishiness, the chef tells a story on the back of the menu:

“When I was a boy growing up in Italy, I loved to watch my grandma work in the kitchen. The catch of the day, whether it be calamari or crab or a variety of fresh fish, was like magic in my Nonna’s able hands.

“Now my Nonna was a little Italian grandma with a big Italian heart. Friends, neighbors, even local fishermen all knew if you made you way to Nonna’s when you smelled that wonderful fish cooking, you’d be welcome to a plate.

“With so many people coming for her cooking, Nonna couldn’t be bothered with small details. She never followed a recipe. She just stirred and sampled. And she never remembered the name of the fish she used.

“Whenever I would ask ‘Nonna, what kind of fish is this?’ she would shrug her shoulders and smile: ‘It’s a DEAD FISH!’ ”

And that’s the answer to this fishy mystery.

The Dead Fish, 20050 San Pablo Ave., Crockett; 510-787-DEAD (3323)

 Posted 9/15/18

The battle has raged all morning. Two white-tailed kites fly, swoop, soar and dive at the larger invader. After many failed attempts, the kites still can’t shed the giant raven. He flies directly at their wings while the kites swoop and scrape and dash back to charge the big black bird again. Despite the two-to-one advantage, the kites seem to be losing, but their endless desperation makes me wonder: What are they protecting?

Yes, it could be territorial (kites are naturally like that). But the gray-and-white birds (with round black patches on the underside of their wings) won’t quit. The raven roars back again and again and again. By now, Jim has joined me in witnessing the action. “Maybe they’re trying to protect their chicks,” I say.

Then a squat-winged and apparently uninterested duck (reminding me of a cartoon character) enters the picture. The duck probably has no quarrel with the raven, but still the human side of me says out loud: “Maybe that duck will help.”

Stupid idea, really. The duck slowly flies on, appearing bored by the flash and clash of wings in the sky. I’m disappointed. But then something amazing happens…

*   *   *

I’ve never been much of a bird watcher. Honestly, I could never comprehend the lengths people go to look for them and the thousands of dollars they spend on travel and equipment. Years ago we visited Belize, a Central American bird paradise. People flock to its jungles to look for scarlet macaws, keel-billed toucans and motmots (colorful relatives of kingfishers). Still, it seemed a bit loony to me. Unlike cats or dogs, birds are much harder to befriend. I’m happy they are, because it means most can enjoy their freedom. I appreciate animals that can survive without the human touch.

Years ago, when our son was just past the toddler age, he became interested in birds. He loved all sorts of animals, and we gave him scores of plastic ones to play with, including a royal-blue kingfisher (a cute bird with a feathered crown on its head).

One day, Ryan tugged at my waist. He had the kingfisher in his stubby little hand. He pointed to a specific book in his room, which I pulled down from the shelf. He opened it to a picture of a kingfisher!  I was stunned.

Soon I began to take notice of the birds in our coastal Southern California neighborhood. Red-tailed hawks often perched on lampposts or dotted the skies, riding the coastal winds. Kestrels hovered in search of prey and Cooper’s hawks made themselves known here and there.

This led us to buy a beautiful book that became like a bird Bible to me: The Sibley Guide to Birds, written and illustrated by David Allen Sibley, whose father, Fred, was a well-known ornithologist. At the age of seven, David began watching birds and drawing them. He grew so accomplished that he became the writer and illustrator of this incredible guide to North American birds. It took more than five years to prepare, not including research he did in the field.

He’s the first person that could explain to me the whys of bird watching. (I mean, why do people do it?) This is what he says in his book:

“I kept on bird-watching for those two decades [as he prepared his field guides] for all the reasons that anyone watches birds. Birds are beautiful, in spectacular and subtle ways; their colors, shapes, actions, and sounds are among the most aesthetically pleasing in nature. Then there is the adventure of seeking out scarce species in remote wilderness or in specialized habitats close to home; the wonder of seeing thousands of birds pass by on migration; the excitement of finding some stray from some far corner of the globe. The predictable and the unpredictable events in birding make every day unique.”

Sibley’s guide contains 6,600 illustrations and 810 species descriptions, sketched and painted in various stages: juvenile to adult, in varying colors, female and male. The book truly captures the spectacular variety of North American birds.  

I try to have kids look at everything, because one never knows when the next David Sibley will come along. Maybe Ryan was the next David Sibley! For years we carried the book in our car trying to figure out what we were seeing. Ryan was much quicker at discovery (once spotting a bald eagle in the Napa sky), so we became a small family of bird watchers for a few years until his interest in raptors dwindled, shifting to soccer and baseball. I guess our interest dwindled, too.

But then Jim and I moved to Napa. Our backyard looks out on the Napa River wetlands, a gentle landscape that’s part of an interconnected watershed system that drains into San Francisco Bay.  The wetlands were restored several years ago to alleviate the flooding that was a chronic occurrence. The area is publicly owned and maintained (a very good thing as it’s likely to remain into perpetuity), and so far it seems to be working.

Hundreds of birds can be seen here every day, and the drama can be heavier than the worst (or best!) soap opera. Take the two mourning doves that nestle on our fence, softly cooing. Looks like a love story to me!

In the thickets are hares with giant hopalong ears, foxes, raccoons and sometimes even coyotes. I’ve seen a cat grab a poor mouse and carry it off in its teeth. A harrier hawk (or what I thought was a harrier) overhead, scattering smaller birds instantly. The snaking river, quite a fowl attraction, brings a great egret here daily for a late afternoon hunt. I watch him stalk and snatch up what appears to be a frog, holding it in his beak for a few seconds before his gullet enlarges as he gulps it down.

When we moved in last August, we heard murmured conversations that would grow into a musical chorus as Canadian geese cackled at each other, and I missed it when they departed on their migration.

Turkey vultures play prominently on the scene. They’re huge and glide slowly above rooflines. It can be a shock seeing their V-shaped bodies roosting atop lampposts in the neighborhood, like a scene out of Dracula. Some people fear they’ll snatch their kittens and small dogs. But that’s something more for hawks, falcons and owls. It’s true vultures look menacing with their naked (featherless) faces, and they hiss sometimes, but beyond that they eat mostly dead things.

As I sat and watched, I would consult the Sibley guide, because our kitchen window is like watching a television monitor without the potential discomfort of yellow jackets, spiders or flies. The bird action is phenomenal but, even with the Sibley guide, I couldn’t identify most of them.

 It bothered me that our two visiting white birds remained unidentified but always appeared before the sun starts to lower his hips below the horizon. I’d get so excited when they showed up and consider various identifications: Are they adult northern harriers? Juvenile red-tailed hawks (which can be partly white)? Ferruginous hawks?

I had no idea.

Then one day we visited the Oxbow market, a popular attraction that’s dense with people on weekends attracted by the various foods from Hog Island Oyster Company, C Casa (a Mexican taqueria) and, of course, the Oxbow Cheese and Wine Merchant.

There at the Oxbow, we found a still-alive-and-pulsating bookstore, the Napa Bookmine. (It’s a small branch of the main store downtown.)  Wandering in, we saw a very thin, not very wide, book with colorful drawings called Birds of Napa County. We snatched it up.

My guess is most people living here in the valley don’t know this little gem of a book exists, and it came about in the strangest way. Like a woodpecker, this guide has whittled valuable information down to about 112 pages, containing only the birds that can be seen here. It helps lame bird watchers like me (who really don’t know what they’re doing). Because it’s light, the guide can be carried in the field.

After reading the first few pages, I had already learned that 350 species of birds have been recorded here; the valley is important for scores of breeding birds, and great horned owls hunt at night even in the heart of town. Even more surprising, there are two subspecies of a “dwarf replica” of the Canadian goose called the cackling goose. While their plumage is almost identical to the Canadians, their bodies and beaks are smaller.

At the heart of the guide’s production was a French illustrator named Hermann Heinzel, who had published other bird books with his extraordinary paintings. Under the guidance of local ornithologists, the artist spent weeks in 2005 hiking the marshes, the back country and the mountainous terrain in his quest to draw individual birds, including his favorites: Lewis’s woodpecker, the yellow-billed magpie and Lawrence’s goldfinch.

George Gamble and his brother, Launce, of the Gamble Family Ranch sponsored this stunning book. George, an ardent birder, took Heinzel on hikes as did many other birders. Heinzel also credits a book, Breeding Birds of Napa County (a publication of the Napa-Solano Audubon Society) as an excellent launching point for his work.

I say thanks to all of them who aided in making the book take flight. I was soon able to identify two of the eight species of finches (American goldfinch and house finch), but the truth is even these can be confused. I also learned that a flock of flamingos, possibly from Chile, arrived in the 1970s and thrived for a time off brine shrimp in salty marshes. Unfortunately, none are believed to have survived.

There are only a few things I can be sure of at this juncture. I recognize the large families of wild turkeys that travel through the brush, and I can now identify the white-tailed kites – simply because there’s nothing out there quite like them. And they visit daily, flying overhead.

It was these same kites, seemingly in desperation, that were hammering at the giant raven when the duck sauntered by, ignoring the dispute.

Then the duck did something extraordinary. Its pace changed sharply. It made a lanky U-turn and, slowly picking up speed, charged into the raven with its beak. Stunned and spinning, the black bird fled, waving its wings in a sloppy motion as if drunk or disoriented. In that instant, everything stopped.

Then the duck turned back toward the river where most of his buddies were probably hanging out, acting as if nothing had happened. The kites went off on their own business.

Jim and I looked each other. Had we really seen that?

If you want the bird-faced truth:  We had.

Posted 8/27/18

We had an exceptional day not so long ago. “Exceptional” because it’s odd that I would attend a cooking demonstration.

(a) I don’t really cook--I bake;

(b) I don’t eat anything raw except an egg once every blue moon, and

(c) I don’t eat any meat except chicken (my problem being I love animals so much).

            However, when the folks at Clif Family Winery offered us the chance to attend a presentation by their executive chef, John McConnell, there was no way I could turn it down.  I enjoy his creations too much. So, despite the fact that he would be demonstrating how to make lamb tartare (raw lamb), I came with my husband, my mom and our next-to-adopted daughter, Jennifer. It was a whirlwind of fun.

Chef John, who is simply a joy to talk to, smiles a lot and appears to enjoy life to its fullest.  He serves his creations at the gourmet Bruschetteria food truck outside the Clif Family tasting room in St. Helena.  I enjoy the casual, relaxed atmosphere there and the warmth of the staff. It’s the family ambience that so many wineries claim to have, but have allowed to become diluted along the way.

In the end, attending John’s cooking demo, presented at the Culinary Institute of America’s Copia theater in Napa, was a wise choice. What you like to eat, or not like to eat, doesn’t really matter. Chef John is quite entertaining. He teaches with humility (one of his favorite words) and wears it with charm. He also uses it when it comes to ingredients.

His humor was not lost on the audience, especially when he announced he and his wife have to drink several Bloody Marys on Sunday mornings to smooth out the chaos. You see, he explained, they have three daughters--ages eight, seven and four. Having grown up in a household with three daughters, I know what the chef and his wife, Claire, are up against. (It could be why my parents drank three cocktails every night.)

The cooking tips were excellent. While preparing Spanish Pimenton Almond Romesco (a Catalan dipping sauce based on red peppers and nuts), the chef mentioned how much he enjoys these “humble” ingredients, which include stale bread (yes, it must be stale), olive oil and finely grated carrots.

He encouraged everyone in the kitchen to use recipes “just as a guide” and to taste the food as you go along. “Play around. I encourage you to be playful,” he said, adding that Claire, also a chef, abhors that idea. She is adamant about following a recipe, he said, while he believes in taking the leap to experimentation.

Romesco, often paired with crackers, can be served with practically anything, he said. Tapas, a vegetable dip or a side dish would all be scrumptious with it.

I won’t spend a lot of time talking about how to make lamb tartare, but I do want to point out something I learned from Chef John’s kitchen that day.

(When chefs read the next paragraph, it will be like listening to fingernails dragging on a chalkboard. Very painful.)

Whenever I sauteed minced garlic, I would toss it into hot oil and leave it there to cook. Apparently, when it comes to garlic, this “technique” is not wise. The chef explained the garlic will quickly burn to a brown, bitter crisp. (Now that I think about it, he’s right…) 

To achieve a more subtle toastiness, he advised, start with a cold pan, add the oil and garlic and then turn on the heat. Cook it gently so “you can hear the garlic simmering and watch it as it turns gold,” he added while stirring away at the garlic.

Ahh, what a tip. When I tasted his Spanish Romesco it was creamy on the tongue. And so delicious I could have consumed an entire cup of it with the glass of rosé provided at the demonstration.

John would probably never have become a chef at all if not for a tiny miracle involving his Grammie Joan. Coming from a long line of chemical engineers (four generations including his father), that is where he believed  his future belonged. He started attending Iowa State University, where in his second year the school asked him to “shadow” a practicing engineer. The man was 30 and happy with his work. He hadn’t married.

After descending some deep stairs to the lab, John’s heart stopped.

The engineer was sitting in a tiny cubicle in a basement without windows.  This was where he worked for nine to ten hours a day. “I was scared as hell,” John quipped in an email. “I couldn’t allow myself to see that as my future…and decided to withdraw from the university especially because I was floating on student loans.” He soon left school to pursue another track.

I’ve always found it interesting to hear how people get into their careers. This is no exception. John’s next step was to think about his paternal grandmother, Joan McConnell. She had raised five children, working constantly to feed the family. The kids would cram into her kitchen to taste her food.

As a 9-year-old, John thought his Grammie Joan’s work was effortless, almost like chemistry. Even better, she allowed him into her kitchen anytime, where his eyes hungrily ate up what she was doing. “There was not a meal that was missed, from breakfast to lunch to afternoon snacks during card games, to deliciously satisfying dinners,” he said. Grammie Joan “did it all.”

“She made me believe that happiness can be delivered one dish at a time,” he explained. It was “infectious, especially learning how to cook from scratch.”

He soon enrolled in the New England Culinary Institute. After graduation, he moved to the wine country and landed an internship with Terra restaurant in St. Helena. That led to other culinary adventures, finally becoming chef de cuisine for the Michelin star-rated restaurant at the Campton Place hotel in San Francisco.

Perhaps his biggest adventure  was landing the job at Clif’s in 2014. It allowed him to spread his wings and engage in one of his biggest passions. He likes using local ingredients whenever possible, many of them coming from the Clif Family farm on Howell Mountain at the northeast corner of Napa Valley. 

Even at the St. Helena tasting room, herbs  and apples are planted outside. The owners, Gary Erickson and his wife, Kit Crawford, biked through Europe and envisioned bringing back the flavor of Italian villages where people shared good stories and wine. That’s why you can drop in at the tasting room for a cappuccino if you’re not ready for wine.

Linzi Gay, the winery’s general manager, said Chef John was brought in to run the Bruschetteria food truck and blend meals with the winery experience. He also collaborates with other staff to develop food products like spice blends, nut mixes, hot sauces and chocolates that are available at the tasting room and at stores around Napa.

But something even more special happened. They wanted a chef who could integrate the winery’s organic farm, work with farm manager Tessa Henry to bring the best produce to the food truck and work on a menu that can change daily.

You never know what you might find at the chef’s food truck. I recently discovered the Super Bowl 18, a protein-rich combination of green lentils, quinoa, a chopped egg, smoked salmon, broccoli rabe, sweet potatoes and almonds. Digging in, I was in my glory while others lunched on smoked salmon flatbreads.

And you may not believe it, but the chef says his culinary adventures and love for food aren’t so very far from being a chemical engineer, after all.

“Fast forward to today and my outlook and mental wiring haven’t deviated that far from the laboratories of school studying science,” he e-mailed. “In fact, now I still get to burn things and use my understanding of science and physics and apply them to the work of cuisine.

“My laboratory is my kitchen and my study is my palate and my logic is fueled by my ever present curiosity that led me to science in the first place. The question that started it all is the question I still ask today: Why?”

            I’m not sure why, but I’m sure of one thing:  I’m so glad he did.

Posted 7/31/18

 When it came to Jennifer’s future, we had been waiting.

We weren’t exactly sure what we were waiting for until she unveiled the creations she'd whipped up: delicious treats she could claim as her own in the foodie Napa Valley.

And on that day, when those three creations at last arrived—s’mores bars, lemon cupcakes with lemon cream cheese frosting and key lime bars with pistachio graham cracker crust—we were in a frenzy of delight.

How we waited for this day! Because like every parent, we and Jennifer’s mom wanted to know our kids can take care of themselves after we’re gone and that they’re pursuing their dreams.

Like me, Jennifer was a late bloomer. She endured hiccups, burps and paralyzing interruptions along the way, including family separations and a horrific car accident. For the past three years, however, she’s worked diligently to become a pastry chef with the ambition to run her own business someday.

It took painful years for her to discover this track (especially after the car accident kept her bedridden for nine months). At last she arrived at the juncture where she found her path at age 35 (although she looks 20 and still gets carded). Her future now is so clear we can taste it.

 We became close to Jennifer’s family when her grandparents, Papa and Mama, helped raise our son. After Ryan was born, I was very sick and had horrible days where I didn’t have the strength to get out of bed from multiple sclerosis. In the ensuing years, through thick and thin, our families’ bonds became closer. It became clear how much Ryan loved them and they loved him back. By default, our family grew. Ryan now had a big sister (Jennifer), a big brother (Chris), a second mother (Memi, their mom) and an extra set of grandparents. To this day, Jennifer still calls him “Baby Ryan,” and I love to hear those words.

This family became our lifeline, helping us with Ryan whenever they could. For all they had given us, we could never pay them enough. This we knew.

In the meantime, Jim and I watched the kids grow. Honestly, I don’t think any of us were too worried about Jennifer. She was positive, creative and so comfortable in her own skin that we nearly let her slip by without providing that gateway to the future. Mature beyond her years while still in her teens, she helped her grandmother with the toddlers she cared for, changing their diapers and playing with them. It seemed to come naturally. As she grew older, it was clear she had no problem expressing herself in a variety of situations, including job interviews. She was snatched up for a succession of positions working with children, none of them paying very much.

From the moment we met her at age 11, Jim and I knew she was the whole package—minus a tiny slice of the pie. It’s a place where many kids end up: trying to find their way and not sure where to turn. And when the adults around them suggest a direction, they resist, as many young people do, especially when it’s their parents offering the advice. (To this day I don’t know how my parents got me anywhere, but they did it and in my heart I thank them all the time.)

In the meantime, Ryan was one of the delighted toddlers Mama cared for along the way.  On many days Papa would drive the two blocks to our home to pick Ryan up when I was in bed.

Mama would teach him his colors, a little arithmetic and how to socialize with other children. Jennifer helped change his diapers and played with him. Chris became his best friend/brother and introduced him to the sport he loves to this day, soccer. Memi (Jennifer’s and Chris’ mom) shopped for his clothes, drove him to soccer games and called me every year to remind me to sign him up for AYSO.

The years went by. I started on a medication for the MS and was able to get out of bed more—a huge gift. Papa died before he could see his grandchildren grow up. Chris graduated from high school, went to Cal State Bakersfield on a full soccer scholarship and received degrees in business and kinesiology. Ryan graduated from the University of Michigan in sports management.

Meanwhile, Jennifer worked at the local Boys and Girls Club because, what a surprise, she loved children.

Finally, well into her 20’s, she began to wonder about a career. But the car accident held her back. As she lay in bed for weeks on end, there was lots of time to think. She realized it would take years to heal—in more ways than one. With nine fractures in her pelvic area, she knew her path would be about regrowth.

Her family moved from San Pedro (where we met) to Bakersfield, where she continued to recuperate. Soon she began taking care of children again at an affordable housing project. She couldn’t resist the little ones who needed her.  And so many of them needed her.

But I began to wonder if this was what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. While rewarding, helping kids paid very little, and there was still so much in her soul she had to explore.

One of my favorite stories is when she went to an arts & crafts store to learn how to make sugar flowers to grace wedding cakes. Her flowers looked succulent: every sugar creation stunning to see, every fragile petal in place, each detail intricate and refined. Finally, her instructors told her the truth: There was nothing more they could teach.  She was beyond them.

Finally, she began to think: Isn’t it about time I focused on myself?

Yes, Jennifer, it was. 

Three years ago, I approached our beautiful Jennifer about moving to Napa to pursue her culinary adventure. It made so much sense. She loved to bake and she could live with my 87-year-old mother.

We had been getting worried about Mom being alone, but she wasn’t interested in any of her kids moving in, thank you very much. Jennifer, however, was different. Mom could lead her life without someone telling her what to do and Jennifer could seek her career.

My parents had always been about helping others find their futures, and occasionally I tease Jennifer: “You’re lucky my dad isn’t around. He’d would’ve dragged you to college and set up your classes for you.” So many kids, all kinds of kids, need that push. 

Things with my mother fell right into place. Together, we invited Jennifer here and showed her all around the Napa Valley. We quickly realized the Culinary Institute of America was out of her league financially, but a woman there gave Jennifer an important piece of advice: Get a job in the industry and work for six months. Start with that.

Jennifer did. She was interested in pastry-making, so she returned home to Bakersfield and found a job at Sweet Surrender. That’s possibly Bakersfield’s most famous bakery, having been featured on the Food Network with the Matterhorn, a cake the Sweet Surrender website describes as “heavenly” with “three layers of dense fudgy deliciousness covered with our signature buttercream frosting and topped with a generous portion of chocolate shavings.” Perhaps what sealed the deal was Oprah Winfrey touting the bakery as exceptional, because every time we’d go there a line usually flowed out the door.

People came from all over the county, perhaps even the state, for scrumptious baked goods with names such as the Avalanche, a chocolate cake with mascarpone cream filling and topped with whipped cream and chocolate cake crumbles.

For the next two years, Sweet Surrender became an intense training ground, where Jennifer learned to run the customer counter, keep things hygienic, organize the displays to look tempting, supervise employees managing the orders, frost the cakes and run the bakery’s small boutique. But what she wanted more than anything else was to learn how to bake and come up with her own creations.

The owner had promised to teach Jennifer the baking end of things, but she became too valuable in other parts of the business, especially behind the counter with customers. The combination of her exuberant personality and fluency in Spanish brought in the local Latino community as an important part of the clientele.

Suddenly, the Napa area seemed so much more promising. The growth of the wine industry had sparked tourism, including restaurants and specialty food shops. Many restaurants had their own pastry chefs.

Within a few months, Jennifer moved in with my mom. She enrolled at Napa Valley college and was hired by Dean & DeLuca, the upscale grocery chain that opened in New York and expanded to several other markets, including right here in the Valley in St. Helena.

Jennifer got her wish at the Dean & DeLuca commissary. She learned to bake in another intensive training ground – a job she adores. She pours out daily doses of cookies, cakes, brownies, tarts, strawberry-covered chocolates and…the list goes on and on. Within a year, she had baked thousands of sweet Dean & DeLuca treats, and with each there was a learning opportunity. One day, she pulled some banana muffins out of the oven and the mixture fell on her arm, leaving a nasty pink burn. When she showed one of the chefs, he told her it’s not a good idea to show off your burns. It’s probably better to hide them so you can prove you know what you’re doing. Kind of a secret in the industry, he said. To this day, she wonders if he was teasing her.

Ahh…. still so much to learn.

We’re not Jennifer’s real parents but we feel like we are, and we’re so proud she took the leap! Living together has been a godsend for my mom and for her. Jennifer leaves for work at 5 a.m. and doesn’t return until late afternoon, so they both have their own space. We moved to Napa nearly a year later and could see they were doing well. In fact, they didn’t need us. One day, I told Jennifer I didn’t enjoy grocery shopping with my mom because I get tired so easily. Mom likes to go up and down every aisle. “Oh, I don’t mind,” Jennifer said. “I like to do that, too.”

No wonder they love their Costco trips together.

Meanwhile, Jennifer is learning everything she can about baking, enjoying every moment. Oh, and remember those desserts I mentioned that are her own recipes? I figured they’d be like every dessert: so sugary sweet you can’t stand it, or overly dry, or whatever. There had to be something wrong. There always is and it was our job to give her tips.

When we popped a bite into our mouths, Jim and I were amazed. She had taken them to the very edge of sweetness but hadn’t plunged over. They were so light and creamy you’d think they weren’t fattening at all (but don’t believe it). They tasted like they were floating on air.

My dad would have loved them. But more than anything, he would love that Mom was doing what they had always done: Prepare a recipe to get another soul out into the precarious world and help them find themselves.

And that’s the sweetest thing of all.

Posted 6/16/18

Cinemark policy posted on theater door

Outraged with Cinemark’s New Bag Policy

This was bad. Very bad.

 We were on our way to the Cinemark-owned Century theaters in Napa to celebrate Jennifer’s birthday. Dinner was on tap afterward at the new sports bar.  We were in spectacular moods on a gorgeous, wind-whipped day.

 My mom and Jennifer went inside to get seats while Jim and I grabbed popcorn and coffee. When I approached the ticket taker, she turned into a militant security officer, pointing at my bag. “You can’t take that purse in,” she said. “You’re not going in until you get rid of that purse.”

 I had been aware of a Cinemark policy imposed a couple of months earlier (and posted on the door) that bans purses and bags of a certain size.  But I’d taken in this purse several times without being stopped. This time, the employee ordered me to stand behind a rope away from the other customers as though I was doing something illegal.

 I started to protest with my husband saying: “We were just here last week, and they let her in with the very same purse.”

 Still, the employee ordered me to stand back. I decided not to move, because like everybody else I’d paid to get in. I finally stepped aside but not behind the rope, frustration filling me with the why of it all. It really seemed silly.

Then, to my good fortune, the woman behind me in line piped up that she too wanted to keep her purse, saying the bag was filled with medicine she would need during the movie. Overwhelmed and exasperated, the unpleasant staffer called for “backup.” Soon a manager came out. We began a new round of protests as he explained what he called Cinemark’s “no tolerance” policy.  

What Cinemark posted on its corporate website (and the door) was this: “In an effort to enhance the safety and security of our guests and employees…any bags or packages measuring larger than 12” X 12” x 6” will not be permitted into the theatre. Exception: Medical equipment bags and diaper bags.”

 Both of us pointed out we had medicine in our bags, so the manager relented.  In the theater, we settled into Amy Schumer’s “I Feel Pretty.” Ironically, the movie tells a story of women’s struggle with their self-image. Still, it was an unsettling and uncomfortable way to go to a movie. As it turned out, the ordeal wasn’t over.

As the audience poured out into the hallway after the movie, a nicely dressed woman  was complaining loudly.  “Look at that purse…and that one…and that one,” she said to her husband, pointing at several moviegoers with large bags. “Those bags are bigger than mine."

She explained to onlookers what had happened to her.

“They treated me like a criminal and forced me to put my purse in the car,” she said. “What if my purse got stolen?”

 And you know what? She received plenty of sympathy from other customers, including men.  I was glad she did because she was 100 percent, over-the-top right.

 Let me explain why this policy is not only bad but plainly ridiculous. First, the theater staff apparently had been given no training to make the situation better. I’d like to give you Cinemark’s reason for the ban, but the Napa theater management (and I understand that) directed me to the corporate office.  I phoned and sent an email, but neither was returned.

 It’s never a good thing when you have a theater employee scolding customers and barking out orders with no finesse whatsoever. This is especially true when the theater industry is reeling from competitors such as Netflix, Amazon Prime and Hulu.  Today you can watch movies in the comfort of your home for less money without worrying about terrorist shooters or that your bag is too large. That’s why so many have quit going out to the movies.

However, for the most part, Cinemark Holdings, headquartered in Plano, Texas, has done well trying out new concepts. They’ve opened theaters in smaller communities rather than just major cities. They’ve tried to lure back customers by serving beer and wine, cheese plates, gourmet coffee and ice cream along with adding 3-D screens.  Cinemark is the country’s third-largest theater chain (behind Regal and AMC) and reported about $2 billion in revenues for fiscal 2016.  In the United States and Latin America it operates 507 theaters with 5,746 screens.

 Perhaps that’s one reason Cinemark doesn’t seem very interested in what customers think about its “no tolerance” policy: The company is doing well. Maybe they’re angry about customers bringing in outside snacks in their bags. I get that, but many of us with health conditions can’t eat what theaters offer.

It might seem Cinemark, more than any other theater chain, would have a reason for banning large bags after it suffered a horrific domestic terrorism attack that jarred moviegoers worldwide. What should never have happened, did.

On July 20, 2012, a paying customer, James Holmes, went into the Cinemark Century 16 in Aurora, Colorado. He slipped out an exit, apparently propping the door open, and returned with gear stowed in his car. With images of “The Dark Knight Rises” playing in the darkened theater, he turned the next seven minutes into a bloodbath, releasing two tear gas canisters and firing an AR-15 rifle and a 12-gauge shotgun. He killed 12 people and injured 70 others.

 After such an incident you might think it’s understandable that Cinemark would ban large bags and packages.  But there are many reasons the policy is super bad (that’s more than just bad).  First, why now? It’s been nearly six years since the Aurora tragedy.  Further, preventing attacks is probably not going to work by dictating that bags of a certain size can’t be carried in. My mom’s purse that day was only slightly smaller than mine; she could have carried in the kitchen sink.

 Another problem: The Cinemark policy by default targets mostly women. I don’t know if Cinemark has noticed this or not, but nearly all recent terrorist-style attacks in the United States have been committed by men.

Hooray for this woman expressing her anger right there in the theater. Had staff called in the police, it would have only made the rest of us even angrier.

 As she continued to talk, the staff surrounded her, which was a bit unnerving. Nevertheless, she went on about the way she’d been treated.

And she wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

The surprising thing was the amount of support she received from other customers. “They did that to me,” one woman said. “Me, too,” said another.

 Out in the parking lot, people followed her and continued to express their support.

It’s so sad that it’s come to this. Cinemark’s approach to security is not the answer. It’s not even a Band-Aid—either for security or hidden snacks.

 The woman’s husband pointed out how easy it would be to carry in a gun without a bag.  “I could put two guns in each pocket and carry them in,” he said. “I could even put guns in my socks.” He added he would not be returning to the Napa theater, a sentiment many of us were beginning to share.

 I’ll tell you why this makes no sense:

Bags that are considered an acceptable size can still carry loads of items without much trouble and confused many people even further when they saw large bags getting in anyway. In addition, women tend to carry many things in their purses, medicines, combs, brushes, makeup and many other hygienic products you just can’t fit in small bags.

Often women (as I said this primarily seems to target women) don’t find out that their bags are too large until after they have paid for their tickets and their snacks and are headed into the movie. They should be warned before their purchase is made and told before they purchase their tickets. No, a sign on the door won’t work. It must be ticket sellers asking if customers understand the policy before they buy their tickets. At the self-service kiosks, the same question should be asked before a customer hits the “purchase tickets” button.

 This security measure isn’t really secure at all. It provides virtually nothing except perhaps a way to cut down on hidden snacks in larger bags. It wouldn’t have saved anyone from the Holmes incident. It comes off more as a bullying tactic than anything else. Most adults understand it’s a new world today and there will be more security measures.

 It seems security officers and bag checks make sense. Customers that day told me they’d rather have their bags searched than risk having them stolen from their cars.

 If Cinemark finds these bigger bags are a potential threat, then take it seriously. Do the full enchilada and not half a sandwich. Either make security a top priority or not at all. Because this policy is not working. It’s not coming close.

 Posted 5/25/18

A selection of Vallerga's gift items

I was at my hairdresser’s when salon owner Dora walked in and announced grimly: “Vallerga’s is closing.”  The news left everyone stunned.

What?!?  I’d been shopping at the grocery store on Solano Avenue for dozens of years. Some of the prices were a bit high (“very dear,” my English aunt would say), but for many of us it was worth it for a variety of reasons.

The small family-run grocery chain had served Napa for some 70 years and given its heart to the town. Many locals returned the love, befriending the staff and shopping there as often as they could. Locals went for the produce and choice cuts of meat and seafood. My husband enjoyed the wine and bread selections. Some people did all their shopping there.

For me, it was all about the gift section near the front of the store, where I’d been buying scores of items, especially at Christmas, for years. The selections were fun, whimsical and seemingly a bit chatty with different characters. Piled up high were colorful teapots and cups from London in bold oranges and blues along with striking paintings of cows, pigs and other farm animals.

These gifts came with character. My friend Susan, who runs a gift store for a nonprofit aquarium in Southern California, says each section of a shop must tell a story to pull customers in and keep them there. That’s what Trish Pudewell (the Vallerga’s gifts buyer) did for me. Every year for Christmas shopping, I’d beeline it to Vallerga’s. There was always room for surprises, such as when she carried beautifully knit ponchos in a stunning mustard-and-periwinkle pattern. I bought one for a friend. When I went back to get one for myself, they were gone!

Over the years, Trish always managed to find items that provided a walk back in time to your childhood: small purses, interesting wallets, cookware, travel mugs with birds in feathery hats. Although the gifts were only a small section of the store, Trish had loyal followers. I found it like opening a book of fairy tales and walking inside. I took my time perusing the shelves crammed with matchbooks, tea towels, windchimes, garden trinkets, candles, mixing bowls and so on.

Of course, when shopping for gifts, I can’t help but find some for myself. (You know the old “one for you, two for me” syndrome? I’ve got it bad.)

One day I spotted this darling nesting bird candle for $4.95. It was a perfect Christmas stocking gift for my mother (and me!). Later, thinking about it some more, I decided it would make a great gift for lots of people, as a gesture of thanks. But once again, when I returned I saw a woman place most of them in her shopping cart. At least I was able to snap up the last one.

Last Christmas, knowing my cousin, Nancy, loves snowmen, it was a slam dunk to buy a beautiful large bauble for her. Hanging from a small tree, it was a hand-painted scene of a snowman dancing on a golden evening surrounded by other critters in a cold forest. It seemed magical and timeless, conjuring up a simmering stew of early memories that recharged my batteries. Trish’s store, like Susan’s, did that for me.

Nancy loved her gift when she opened it on Christmas Eve. “Oh, look at this snowman,” she chortled. “I love snowmen!”

(I went back to get one for myself. Gone.)

When Jennifer moved in with my mom to pursue a career in pastry baking, she became part of our Christmas family. I bought her measuring spoons in the shape of little champagne bottles. “These are so cute,” she exclaimed with a big smile.

I can’t tell you how much I’m going to miss Vallerga’s gift shop. I have no clue where else to find such fun, thoughtful gifts. (I’ll have to go to see Susan.) OK, so maybe most of them were gifts for myself. But that’s fine.

I purchased little bronze mice there, their heads pitched up with pride. The 3-inch-high figurines now decorate our bookcase shelves, holding library signs like “Classics” and “Fantasy.”

A brilliant sunflower-colored pillow (with a set of feathers on one side and a rooster on the other) sits on our burgundy-red sofa.

I use my Mason Cash mixing bowl constantly, sent baby blue mugs from London to my niece for Christmas and urged my family to buy gifts for me there. Trish’s displays spoke to me. I found the prices were affordable. So often when I walk into expensive gift shops, I turn around.

When Vallerga’s announced it was closing, many customers cried, some in disbelief. The family had served the town for decades and now they’d be erased to backdoor memories. Just before the store closed in March, one employee (David) asked another (Annie) to marry him, right in front of customers. (She said yes!).

“Say it ain’t so,” groaned a shopper on the market’s Facebook page. “My family has been shopping there since we moved to Napa in 1954. I still buy all of my meat and produce there. Produce is picture perfect and I’m going to miss the specialty items no one else has. Thank you for being such a great reliable place all of these years.”

That customer reflected the sentiments of many. It was a painful time, as though the last roots were being ripped out of old Napa’s heart.

Fortunately, I bumped into Trish just a few days before the store closed and was able to tell her what her gifts meant to me. We talked for several minutes, and she said her heart was broken. She was going to miss the place, but she hoped to start up again somewhere else. “Where?” people kept asking me, but at the time, Trish didn’t have any plans locked down.

I hope she finds something soon.

In the meantime, one of the few remaining independent grocery stores has been whisked away, and soon we will all be shopping at Amazon Prime or something like it.  That seems so very sad.

Joe Vallerga’s granddaughter wrote on the company Facebook page how much they would miss their customers.

“Hi everyone, this is one of Joe Vallerga’s grandchildren, Leigh Burns, writing to you on behalf of my family. There are no words to express the experience of the past week. While closing the store is heartbreaking, at the same time, we are beyond humbled, overwhelmed and full of gratitude for the outpouring of support and love from our customers and community/family.  We are also thrilled for Annie and David!!!! As you know, all of our employees are like family to us.”

I can honestly say that was true.

Posted 5/6/18