Sonoma Sojourn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My happy-girl resources are running low.

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

Enough, already!

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

A Volkswagon with sculpture as roof – fantastic!

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

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

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

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

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

Smokey: 10
Tulips: 0

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

It’s raining.

It’s pouring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take a look:

Clouds settling in over Napa ….

Gundlach Bundschu truck and winery …

Peace on earth – and everywhere else …

Oh boy. Packing for three months in Sonoma should be easy. But it isn’t.

For all intents and purposes, packing began last October, before I left for Singapore. I thought I was organized and efficient and pretty much done with my packing before I headed out; I would come home from Singapore and just add a few things to the piles I’d left in my bedroom and voila! I’m done packing!

So SO wrong.

From early December until yesterday, there were piles of clothes on my bed, on the wicker chest in my room, on the floor of my bedroom. My bathroom was consumed by all sizes of bottles: shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, hand cream, foot cream, antioxidant cream, creamy facial cleanser, eye serum, vitamins, prescriptions, perfume. Office supplies, greeting cards, iron-on transfers, ephemera to scan were scattered throughout my office. What about shoes, cameras, power cords for the MacBook, iPad mini, iPhone5, Dell computer, Kindle? Do I take the two boxes of hair color I have in the bottom drawer, even though I’m quite sure I could buy hair color in Sonoma?

How many black pants do I bring? I need tennis clothes, workout clothes, casual clothes (as in really casual) as opposed to casual clothes (when you’re going to dinner and you shouldn’t be wearing sweatpants, which qualify as casual clothes, even though the sweatpants are from Chico’s and look quite nice, actually, even though they are sweatpants). Do I need boots? I know the weather in Sonoma is likely to be nicer than the weather in Boston during the time I’m away, but if there’s no snow on the ground I’m happy wearing flipflops year-round. Ask people from California, however, and boots are worn from September through the end of June, when the cold weather ends. So how many boots do I bring? I’ll let you know — I forget how many I ended up throwing into the box ‘just in case’.

Then there’s Smokey.

I pack up the bicycle basket Steph and Lisa gave her to ride around Nantucket in. She loves the basket, at least on Nantucket. Hopefully she’ll love it in Sonoma, too. I bought a litter box and litter and food the last time I was in Sonoma (on my way home from Singapore in December), so I didn’t have to ship that. Still have to get a scratching post for her; will do that locally. Gave her a ‘tranquilizing’ treat this Saturday, Sunday, yesterday, and today (travel day); hopefully she is enjoying her flight underneath the seat in front of me. No food or water this morning before departure; I know she was confused because we have such a routine: when she hears me get up in the morning and go into the bathroom, she comes running up the stairs and waits until I’m done. Then she runs down the stairs and waits for me at the feeding station; that’s when she gets her wet food and her dry food — but not today. Whaaaaaaat????!

The Final Count:
I mailed out three priority mail boxes through the post office; eight boxes (small and large) via UPS; another box through the post office; and I am traveling with three checked bags. In addition, I ordered a printer to be delivered to Sonoma, as well as Unjury (my favorite protein drink). I hope all of these boxes and cartons don’t arrive at the same time … my landord/lady might abort my stay before I even unpack for fear of homesteading in the cottage.

Shipping costs were crazy high; I’m sure there’s a more economical way to do so. I’m also thinking I might have overpacked.

I’ll let you know.

My friend, Ron, tells me that EVERYONE experiences anxiety the day before they leave for a trip — even if the trip is only for a week. I have to agree with him now … the three days before I leave for Sonoma are fraught with anxiety – except for the visit on Sunday with my friend, Carole, who is recovering miraculously from pancreatic cancer and who looks beautiful with the sparkle back in her eyes and her voice strong again and her hair fabulous (it’s a wig, she tells me!!!!). I also visit with Hayes as Graham and McKenzie work on putting together a display case at the Studio. Nothing compares to hearing a baby giggle and sing and I swear Hayes said  “football” as we watched the Atlanta/Seattle game. There is nothing like the touch of a baby, too, and I take a million videos of Hayes to bring with me on this trip –I’ve already watched them so often I can almost mouth every word (every sound) he makes in them … but best of all, I can recall his sweet, soft touch when I see him onscreen.

Ron and I didn’t get into details about the level of anxiety one might experience when traveling for more than one week; my guess was that it might be exponentially increased when the trip is for three and half months. I now believe that to be true.

The weekend flew by with activities unplanned:  Aunt Ann (who is turning 98 in April) fainted at lunch on Saturday and was taken to the hospital. Alexis, Lisa, and I drove up to Beverly to see her — after so many years of good health, Aunt Ann began a decline into dementia that rapidly progressed over the past year. She is an inspiration in many ways: a NYC career girl at Esso (before it became Exxon), she never married, invested wisely, and traveled extensively. She’s now been retired longer than she actually worked; I don’t know if Esso/Exxon imagined paying her annuity and insurance all these years. In fact, I wonder if Aunt Ann might be the oldest (longest) retiree on their books!

Still extremely stylish, even at this age, Aunt Ann in her younger years was stunning. She took no medicines; she never needed them, and she wouldn’t consider taking an aspirin if needed because she suspected anything medicinal that was ingested could lead to addiction.

She employed incredible discipline when it came to eating: she made herself a healthy, balanced meal every night (even before balanced meals came into the national psyche), and she accompanied her culinary creations with a martini every night as well. Given that Aunt Ann lived alone most of her adult life, I found her commitment to healthy eating extraordinary, especially since my meals when I’m alone usually consist of bowls of popcorn or maybe an egg or maybe nothing at all. Vegetables? Don’t think so. Protein and carbs? Probably not. Martini? Well, yes … that IS part of dinner for me regardless of what I’m having (or not). I consider it homage to Aunt Ann.

It’s hard to say how many miles Aunt Ann walked during her 30+ years in New York. She would much rather walk than take a bus or subway if possible, and the combination of walking and eating well (she would add her nightly martini to that list) brought her into her 90s in phenomenal condition. Spry, agile, fearless when it came to going into Boston from the suburbs where she now lived,  Aunt Ann remained an intrepid and frequent traveler; it always surprised us and those who met her en route to learn how far she had traveled that day and how many buses and or trains it took to get there.

Now Aunt Ann lives in a “gracious retirement living community” on the North Shore of Boston and scoffs at all the residents who push through the hallways and down to the dining area behind metal frames on wheels — they are SO old.  These days, however, Aunt Ann’s mind has taken the hit that her body hasn’t, and Aunt Ann travels between the worlds of what was and what is. We work to keep her safe and happy, but the managers of the gracious retirement living community call us often to tell us she knocks on people’s doors during the evening or has the television on so loud (she’s lost two pairs of hearing aids within three months) that neighbors down the hall can hear it or that they found her outside the building at four in the morning — and when the cleaning lady knocked on the door this past Wednesday to clean Aunt Ann’s apartment, she was greeted by a very nude Aunt Ann.  And so, the gracious retirement living community managers have asked us to move Aunt Ann somewhere else by February 15; clearly seniority (in this case meaning that Aunt Ann was one of the first residents to join this gracious retirement living community when it opened in 2011) doesn’t mean a thing when one complaint too many is lodged against the woman living in unit 443.

Before we can move her, though, she faints at lunch on Saturday and the hospital calls us and we go to see her and she is agitated; she is tired of being confused like this and is DONE with being in this condition (she glides her finger knife-like along her throat as she makes this declaration). It is not the first time we hear this from her: her friends are gone, her eyesight is gone, her hearing is going — after a lifetime of bridge games and cultural events and the morning newspaper and extensive travel, what is left for her to enjoy?

Martinis. That’s what’s left: Tangueray and vermouth, stirred (or shaken) martinis.

Even as she lies in the emergency room, Aunt Ann wants a martini. In HER mind she hasn’t had one since Christmas (even though she has). Whenever we take her out to lunch, we instruct the bartender to water down Aunt Ann’s martini because a full-strength drink can quickly send her 94lb body into a drunken dither. Don’t make it TOO watery, though; Aunt Ann can assess its strength from the very second she raises the martini toward her lips.  Aunt Ann is gracious, however, and doesn’t ask that the drink be remade; she sips her martini and smiles at the ritual she’s engaged in for over 70 years. Some martinis are better than others; some smiles are deeper than others.

When it comes time to leave Aunt Ann on Saturday as she waits to moved from the Emergency Room, I tell her we’ll see her tomorrow. She shouts after us as we head down the hall, “Don’t forget the martinis!”. What the hell; why not?

And so Aunt Ann’s fainting spell absorbs precious hours from the weekend that I planned to use for the final preparations for departure. I fall behind the eight ball and don’t emerge until I put Smokey under the seat in front of me today on the plane. Forget the fact that yesterday was overbooked anyhow and I couldn’t get out of the office when I needed to, and forget the fact that the ATM machine kept spitting out receipts with zeroes on them and then flashed a message that my password was invalid and it doesn’t seem to care that I have NO money and need cash for the trip — and forget the fact that Linda, who has generously offered to drive me to the airport this morning, tells me she thought it was TOMORROW that she was driving me when I call to find out why she isn’t here 10 minutes after she was supposed to be.

It doesn’t matter: Smokey and I are on our way to our Sonoma sojourn.

I consider this the ‘Year of Me’, which is why I’m on a flight from Boston to Sonoma. Smokey’s coming with me; we’ve been through too much together to be apart now.

Before I leave, I tell Diane (my counselor of more years than I can remember) that this is all her fault. Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline as she drawls, “MY fault! Why is it MY fault?” It’s a compliment, I tell her. She is always able to translate my ramblings into succinct, brilliant declarations, and she didn’t disappoint a year ago when I sat across from her and wondered why I was feeling so unsettled, so disjointed.

The end of my 23 year marriage to Paul three years earlier had come as a surprise, even though we had been in counseling for several months (again). I thought we were getting through the vale of crabby conversations that had populated our lives for the past year or so and, in fact, I had fallen in love with him again as counseling progressed. I hadn’t seen the warning signs of his great discontent, and so his announcement that he ‘couldn’t do it anymore’ came as a complete shock to me. I was horrified, terrified, and very, wholly, completely sad.

I was embarrassed, too. Rejection rips away self-esteem and challenges you to love yourself (how can you be worthy of love – wouldn’t you still be together if you were worthy?). Intellectually I knew that I would be fine again one day, but I had no idea how long that might take.

It took one year to get out of bed (only a slight exaggeration,). No longer wife or partner, everything familiar to me had changed. Holidays became torturous; long-term plans to retire in Wyoming evaporated. I learned to pay bills on time and I learned to live as a single again (no one to pick up my dry cleaning while out running errands or to bring up extra chairs from the cellar for Thanksgiving dinner). My two sons now were married with families of their own; everybody and everything seemed to move on, to move forward … except for me.

It took the next year to consider the future. My financial future said, “Get a Job”; my emotional future said “Get a Job”. And so, through complete serendipity, I got a job. My assignment: manage the rental program for the beautiful homes of Nashaquisset on Nantucket.

What luck! What good fortune! A job where I HAD to live on the island 30 miles off the coast of Cape Cod for six months each summer.  Not just a seasonal job: a job that was year-round and which could be administered in the off season from anywhere with my computer. And for the first two seasons at Nashaquisset, I worked everyday except for perhaps two. During the summer season, it was seven days a week as I greeted rental guests and coordinated cleaning crews and sometimes unclogged a toilet or sink. Back in Cambridge, we worked on revamping Nashaquisset’s web site and revitalizing other marketing efforts as we aimed to increase weekly bookings for the 2011 season. I was busy: work took up a huge amount of time, and I dated a bit, and of course I needed to see my family and friends, and I tried to continue to make jewelry in my spare time — but there didn’t seem to be much spare time for that or for sinking into a good book or for just feeling happy.

So a little over a year ago, I sat in Diane’s office and wondered why — for as much as I had rebuilt my life — I felt stuck.

Diane’s succinct summarization went something like this:  “Find things that fill YOU up, Suzanne.”

Somehow I knew exactly what she meant, and that is when “The Year of Me” first took root.