Left Coast Cowboys

I must be getting old. It seems only a short while ago, I could get through an airplane flight and a full day of sightseeing and still manage to post a 1000 word essay every night (with pictures!) We just got back from a whirlwind trip to Minneapolis to stand as Godparents and it’s taken me days to put up a post about it. (I’m going to blame technology since the old laptop is moving slow these days and is still trying to upload pictures to Flickr.)
My lack of posting doesn’t mean the trip wasn’t noteworthy. Because it was on so many levels. First that whole Godparent thing. We, of course, are standing Godparents to The World’s Most Beautiful Baby who you will remember from this post, and this one and this one. Now everything I know about this whole Godparent thing comes from The Godfather. I distinctly remember that you have to renounce Satan loudly in a cathedral while someone swings incense over you and you are having your enemy rubbed out in an intercut scene. I’m sorry to report that there is no renouncing and incense in Methodist Churches, especially not in the Midwest. But I couldn’t think of anyone I wanted rubbed out, so that alone kind of had the scenario crumbling.

The World’s Most Beautiful Baby wore a christening gown that had seen service for 4 generations of the mother’s family starting in 1918. The gown is now the texture and delicacy of gossamer butterfly wings. Which was appropriate for a child who seems permanently sprinkled in Fairy Dust.

Amelia May in Great Grandmother's christening gown. And sprinkled with Fairy Dust.

After the ceremony, Amelia May was changed into the christening gown worn by her father back in Sixties England, so she really covered the style gamut in Christening Attire. The venue was the Hennepin Avenue Methodist Church in Minneapolis, site of many family baptisms and weddings. In fact, there is a stained glass window dedicated to the memory of one of Amelia May’s relatives.

It’s been awhile since I’ve been in the Midwest proper (I took the Southern route mostly for our cross-country road trip two years ago.) But from what little I saw on this whirlwind tour, I’m glad to say, that the great thing about the Midwest is that the cliches are all true. We drove through neighborhood after neighborhood of neat little houses, with well-manicured lawns, picket fences and streets where kids rode bicycles under shady mature trees. I felt like I was in a Norman Rockwell painting. Andy remarked that it looked as if the American Dream was a lot easier to achieve in the Midwest.

Another thing was the trash — or lack thereof. We decided if you played Highway Bingo on Minneapolis’s streets and highways, you couldn’t include discard items of any kind. There were none. I mean none. I told Andy, if we saw a piece of trash we’d have to pull over so I could photograph it, as it would be the only piece of trash existent on Minneapolis highways. It’s not that California highways are littered. They are actually pretty clean.

At the Lake, Amelia May wore her father's christening outfit. And a chiffon scarf which we thought would make people think she was one of Michael Jackson's kids.

But you usually see the Sheriff’s Work Program crews out there in their orange jumpsuits. Or you see the orange plastic bags full of trash neatly stacked and waiting for pick up. In Minneapolis, there was no evidence whatsoever to indicate that there had EVER been any trash. This leads to only these conclusions:

1. All trash is magically picked up at night by invisible crews of Keebler Elves and hobbits.

2. There is no packaging in Minnesota, therefore no trash.

3. There is a force-field in Minnesota that automatically locks car windows in the closed position so they can’t be opened to dispose of trash.

A typical summer day at Minneapolis's lake: picnickers, kids, a Dixieland band in the Victorian bandshell, swing dancers...and guns.

Whatever the reason, Minneapolis has to be the cleanest city in the world.

Yet, despite their tidiness, there were hints that you can’t dismiss Midwesterners as not having an edge.

Apparently, Minnesota has a “conceal carry law” which means any law-abiding adult can be issued a concealed weapons permit. So the local churches have to post “No Guns Allowed” signs to keep worshipers from being accidentally shot during the first hymn.

Later after the baptism, when we went to a lakeside park that sported a Jazz band performing in the bandshell and crowds of kids, dogs, swing dancers and picnickers. We ran into this fellow.

On the front, his T-Shirt said, "I just neutered my cat and now he's a Liberal". I was going to ask him if I could take his picture, but Andy said he might suss me out as a Californian.

.

What kind of mind thinks, “Gee, I’m going to the park where people are picnicking with their kids and elderly people are swing dancing. Better bring a gun and at least two ammo clips.” I’m not even going to dwell on it.

But I did notice that instead of trash, Minnesota’s highways are crowded with little bunnies. Bunnies everywhere. Bunnies that apparently eat everyone’s gardens and are real pests. Obviously Minnesota doesn’t have our coyotes and Bob Cats and Mountain Lions to keep those bunnies in check. Is there a bunnie season that could be instituted so all those gun toters don’t have to take their guns to churches and swing dancing venues?

Leaving that burning question aside, we also had a bit of a gourmet introduction to Midwest food. Of course, Andy insisted that we go to a sports bar and have a burger and beer, but that’s not the highlight. Minneapolis is home to two former San Francisco residents who are very serious food bloggers. Kathy (see her site here) is committed to shopping locally and making those Midwest in-season ingredients into incredible creations. (When I say serious, I mean serious. They belong to Internet cooking challenge groups with names like Daring Bakers, Cookie Commandos and Delta Force Diners. Actually, just kidding about the last two, but these are not your casual food bloggers.)

Fig and Pig ice-cream anyone? That’s homemade ice cream with Midwest bacon and figs in it. Pretty much covers all the important food groups: sugar, cream and BACON.

But the piece de la resistance was an authentic Bakewell Tart which she had the moxie to serve to two Englishmen. I should warn those of you who are not constantly around Englishmen of a certain age that they are like Mikey on the old Life Cereal commercial. They don’t like anything! Or they have this highly developed sense of nostalgia that says nothing made on American soil is going to be as good as they remember it being back in England.

Things were looking dangerous as Kat brought out the tart and Rob said, “Well, does it have jam in it” sure that an American would overlook this important ingredient.

“Yes, it has jam”, Kat replied with only a hint of a smirk, “Home-made strawberry balsamic jam from local organic strawberries.”

Needless to say, her Bakewell Tart has set a new standard to which all future Bakewell Tarts must aspire. Andy and Rob pronounced it an “Excellent Pudding”, pudding being what English people call any “made” dessert regardless of whether it’s a cake, a tart or an actual pudding as we would know it.

So thanks Midwest. It was great to see you again. It’s okay to live up to the cliches when they are all good ones. We’ll be back.

See pictures of Amelia May’s Baptism here. Pictures of our Dinner with Foodies Matt and Kathy here. General Minneapolis photos here. And get that Bakewell Tart recipe here.

As I have for the last twenty or so years of my life around this time, I am again serving jury duty. And there is something very wrong with this picture. I’ve done the math and it just doesn’t add up.

A little background: when I moved to this city, one of the first things I did was register to vote. Which immediately put me in the jury pool. At that time, you were eligible to be called every two years to serve for two weeks. So every two years, to the exact day plus one, I would be called in to serve. And I did serve. Most of my friends and co-workers used to laugh at me when I responded to those inevitable summons. 

“Just ignore it. They’ll never notice. I just throw those things away.”

But I couldn’t. I was taking this whole “cost of citizenship” thing pretty seriously.

This city will have to go to Judge Judy style courts when I switch residency to Sonoma. 'Cause Judge Judy don't need no jury.

Then about ten years ago, San Francisco decided it needed to widen the available jury pool because too many people were either skipping out or not registering to vote to avoid service. So they expanded the pool to anyone who had registered for a driver’s license. And changed service to one week not more than once in a calendar year. Great, I thought, I’ll be called on to serve less.

No such luck. Now every year, to the day plus one, I get my summons. Oh, there were a few years when I got two summons in a calendar year. Pointing that out just got me a deferment until the full calendar year break was achieved.

Then this year, for the first time in two decades, I missed my summons. Did I mention I live with a non-citizen who thinks things like jury summons and voter pamphlets are junk mail? Well, this was the one year my summons got thrown into the recycling where I happened upon it a week after I was supposed to have reported.

Believe it or not, with all my jury duty service, I've never been picked for a trial. Don't think I've missed much. Attorneys this entertaining are seldom arguing in San Francisco courts.

“Don’t worry about it,” said my British husband. “You’ve served enough. They’ll just call someone else.”

Nope, next thing I know, I’m getting an official reprimand from the high court saying that sheriffs will be at my door with handcuffs and a warrant if I don’t call to reschedule immediately. I called.

So here I am at the Superior Court of San Francisco on the last day of my week of jury duty (unless I get picked for a jury, in which case I have to serve the term of the trial.)

As I’ve said, I’ve done the math and it just doesn’t add up.

As I look around the Jury Waiting Room, there are maybe 100 of us. Let’s say only half of us called this week are here and the others are home on stand-by. That makes 200. And there are two courts in San Francisco, so let’s double that to 400 potential jurors tapped in a week.

Now let’s assume, on the high side, that there are 50 weeks out of the year when juries are convened. Four hundred times 50 equals 20,000 jurors needed in San Francisco in a calendar year. The latest Census data puts San Francisco’s population at 808,976. Those are the people who have returned the Census form, so we can be sure undocumented aliens are not counted in that data. But let’s assume, for the sake of argument that more than half of those are under 18, not citizens, incapacitated or otherwise unfit for jury duty. Let’s be really conservative and say the available jury pool is 300,000 in any given year. So let’s divide that available jury pool by the needed 20,000 yearly jurors. And in a normal rotation, that would have me being called once every 15 years.

ONCE EVERY 15 YEARS! Okay, I’ll be really generous. I’ve got this Brit in the house who is not a citizen. So I’ll take on his shirked jury duty. That’s still once every seven or so years.

Yet, I’m called every single fricken’ year for the last two decades.

Clearly I’m one of the last of a vanishing species: a citizen who will actually show up and serve.

Which leaves me worrying about what will happen to the justice system in San Francisco when I switch my residency to Sonoma in the next few years.  Clearly the jurisprudence system will collapse into anarchy and criminals will roam the streets without fear of trials or justice.

I feel it’s my citizen’s duty to give you early warning now. Get guns.

NOTE: I’d be happier about serving jury duty if Sammy Davis, Jr. were Da Judge:

Fun Fact: The “Heah Come Da Judge” routine wasn’t developed by Flip Wilson, Sammy Davis Jr. or Laugh In. It was a “Chitlin Circuit” Black comic named Pigmeat Markham, who had a hit on Chess Records with the routine. His catch-phrase was appropriated by Davis for Laugh In, which lead to Markham being picked up as a Laugh In regular for a year. You heard it here!

This is not generally a current events blog. I reserve my snarky political commentary for Twitter. Which, I know, confuses people who have followed my recent steady stream of 140 character “roasts” of The Luv Guv Mark Sanford to this site. Only to find, not politics, but grapes, coyote poo and terriers. (Although The Luv Guv did shovel a lot of poo when he used “hiking the Appalachian Trail” as his cover story.)

Still some news events just have to be addressed here. Mostly those to which I have some personal connection. So I can’t hear the sad news that today Farrah Fawcett lost her courageous battle with cancer without posting something. Farrah was, of course, a Pop Culture Icon thanks to her role on Charlie’s Angels. After The Burning Bed, everyone was also aware that she had formidable acting chops.

Something from my British friend's large collection of Farrah memorabilia. He says she typified the All American Girl.

But she had something else. It wasn’t as simple as boys wanting her and girls wanting to be her. No, speaking as one who was a girl in the Seventies, her Angel heyday, it wasn’t that we wanted to be her. We wanted to be her friend. Because, in spite of her sexiness, what Farrah projected was a lot of niceness. Of course, if she’d been transported to your high school, she would have been the most popular girl. But she would have been nice to the Math Geeks and let the unpopular girls sit at her table in the lunch room. You could see yourself playing tennis with Farrah or going to the beach or just talking girlfriend stuff. She was undeniably sexy, but her sexiness seemed real and natural and athletic. And given an extra glow by all that niceness.

My friend and former business partner, a Brit, has one of the world’s foremost collections of Farrah memorabilia. He’s said that, in some ways, he came to America to meet a girl like Farrah, who he’s says is a Brit’s idea of the All American Girl. Pretty, athletic, nice, great teeth and able to be a pal. If you went camping and it rained the whole time, she wouldn’t grouse about her hair. If you wanted to watch soccer on a Saturday, she’d probably make popcorn, put on sweats and sit on the couch with you.

The overwhelming thing about Farrah? She just seemed like a genuinely nice girl you'd want to know.

I found her recent home movie about her struggle with cancer almost unbearable to watch. But what struck me was, not her obvious courage, but the fact that, in a fickle place like Hollywood, she had so many long-term and loyal friends. I don’t think the tabloids have ever reported anyone saying a bad thing about her. In fact, I remember one gossip column item from way, way back. Maybe even back in the Seventies. It reported that one friend of hers said that the closest Farrah had ever gotten to meanness was being mad at her maid for something. The friend asked Farrah what she was going to do and Farrah said, “Well, this week I’m not going to help her fix her hair.”

Apocryphal or not, that’s how I want to remember Farrah. As a really, really nice Tri Delt from Texas who could always be enough of a stand-up girlfriend to fix her maid’s hair.

Rest in Peace Farrah Fawcett. I’m sure in Heaven there are a lot of people who are thrilled that such a nice tennis partner has shown up. And lots of them will be lining up to have their hair done.

With fruit harvest just around the corner and grape harvest only a few months after that, I’m making lists. Lots of lists. About all the things I need and the stuff I need to do up at Sonoma. But the other day, it really hit me what I need most. Some Wacky Country Sidekicks. It all started when I got the old Claudette Colbert/Fred MacMurry classic, The Egg and I, from Netflix. Most people my age will know the author, Betty MacDonald, as the author of the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle books. But she also had a town to country adventure in her early marriage when her husband bought an old farm up in the wilds of Washington’s Olympic Penninsula and transported her up there, without electricity or running water, to start a chicken farm. The Egg and I is the chronicle of that adventure. The movie is probably even more famous as it introduced the characters of Ma and Pa Kettle. The duo were so popular Marjorie Main and Percy Kilbride were tapped to do a whole series of sequel movies.

If you’ve never seen the movie, Ma Kettle is a big woman with what seems like dozens of kids and a farm falling around her ears. Pa Kettle never can do much but borrow everyone else’s tools and create complete disasters whenever he “lends a hand”. Hilarity ensues.

The wonderful character actress Marjorie Main as Ma Kettle and Percy McBride as Pa Kettle.

The Egg and I was, according to some sources, one of the inspirations for the Boomer TV classic Green Acres. I’m still trying to figure out who the Ma and Pa Kettle characters were supposed to be in that one. But no matter, Green Acres had plenty of Wacky Country Sidekicks. Which just proves my point. You transition from City to Country and you must have Wacky Country Sidekicks.

Wacky Country Sidekicks, at least according to Pop Culture, always had a schtick. Ma Kettle’s was that she was always stirring up some mess in a big kettle. Then she’d yell out her catch phrase, “Come and Git It” and dozens of children would stampede through the door knocking down whatever visitor was clueless enough to be standing in the way. Of course all my contemporaries remember Green Acres characters like Sam Drucker the store owner who also serves as a newspaper printer/editor, volunteer fireman, constable, justice of the peace and postmaster. Basically, nothing got done in Hooterville unless it went through Sam Drucker.  Then, of course, there were the elderly neighbors, Fred and Doris Ziffel, who “adopted” a pig named Arnold as their “son”. Arnold understood English, lived indoors, and was pampered by everyone. Like all good 1960s children, Arnold was an avid TV watcher and a big Western fan. Seems one of the main running jokes on Green Acres was that only city transplant Oliver Wendall Douglas seems aware that Arnold is livestock.

Apparently it's an urban myth that the cast and crew barbecued Arnold the Pig after the series was cancelled.

Of course, Wacky Country Sidekicks are great comic relief when you are living out in the country. But as I thought back on these golden examples of the genre, it occurred to me that there was really another dynamic to the WCS. Seems like the sophisticated city slickers were always doing things wrong, getting bamboozled by livestock and having things fall apart all around them. Then those Wacky Country Sidekicks would show up, and with surreal logic, somehow put everything to rights.

So THAT’S why we really need some Wacky Country Sidekicks. We’re already down with that doing everything wrong and stuff falling apart schtick.

So calling all Wacky Country Sidekicks! You are needed at Two Terrier Vineyards. Here’s the deal, we agree to overlook the fact that Arnold is a pig and you don’t mention that Oscar and Lucy are terriers.

Hey, as long as we’re in full Boomer Nostalgia Mode, when we get horses, we’ll need one of these:

Apparently, the Wacky Country Sidekicks have all gotten lawyers, because all the Green Acres theme song videos have been removed from YouTube. But how about this one:

A good week of heat and things are exploding up at Two Terrier Vineyards. So we loaded the terriers into the ATV and drove around the spread to see the progress. Some of our fruit trees are looking as if they are still settling in and won’t be producing a crop again this year. Others, like the Pluot, Peach and Nectarine, are nearing ripeness. So far my Mylar bird deflection devices seem to be working. No beak pecks in the fruit so far, but perhaps the birds are just waiting for the peak of ripeness. As are we.

The view from the orchard to the Lower Vineyards which are Grenache and Mourvedre.

Then to the Upper Vineyard, where Lucy gives terrier-scale to the growing Cabernet vines.

Fruit is looking good. Too good. We're struggling with soil that is a bit too fertile, so we'll be cutting off the water soon.

Then a stop at the crush pad and wine cave to inventory our supplies. Looks like we'll have a bumper harvest this year and we need to be ready.

Oscar did his bit: killing a mouse in the wine cave and showing the coyotes and foxes who's boss.

Good thing Oscar's marking. Because judging from this calling card, the coyotes are back.

Quick check of the lavender fields showed all is blooming there.

Then back down to Lake Charles, where the water lilies are thriving.

And dragonflies are mating.

At least in Sonoma, all’s right with the world.