Left Coast Cowboys

Anyone who’s been following my blog knows I’ve been under pressure to buy a gun, mostly from the British contingent. As my friend Rob says, “You’re an American. It’s part of your culture.” The plan accelerated two years ago when Republican blog chatter started claiming Obama was going to clamp down on gun ownership. I’d never thought much about having a gun, but when it suddenly seemed as if it was going to stop being easy to get one, I thought more seriously about getting myself armed up. What? You don’t think an East Coast educated Liberal needs a gun? Ever seen Jimmy Stewart in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance? I rest my case.

And you see that’s been my problem. I’ve been basing my gun choices on my favorite cowboy stars. If Clint, John or Gary were packin’ it, I was ready to buy it. My other mistake, apparently, was to work backward from whatever it was I wanted to kill — which was, basically, nothing. Seems that’s the wrong approach. Or at least that’s what they told me today down at The Last Gun Shop.

I'm not sure why it's called The Last Gun Shop. Maybe because you have to get nearly 70 miles outside of San Francisco to find one.

Some situations just call for full disclosure. So when the young (and heavily armed) young man behind the counter asked, “How can I help you”, I spoke right up:

“Can you help a Liberal buy a gun?”

Yes, this pistol-packin' gal here and above is Jane Fonda in her role as Cat Ballou. A great Western comedy, complete with Lee Marvin in a dual role and a drunken horse.

That brought all the tough guys, many in camouflage jackets, crowding around the counter. Clearly I was not a typical visitor to gun shops. Even shops this close to Wine Country. (It should be noted that the town of Napa is actually a lot closer to hunting territory than it is to sipping territory. You have to go up the Valley a bit to find Cabernet instead of Calibers.)

“Well, do you have any idea what kind of gun you are looking for?”

“I kind of had my heart set on a Belle Starr/Miss Kitty sort of thing. You know a derringer. Maybe with a pearl handle.”

My nice young clerk wasn’t even going to dignify this with an answer. So I tried another tack. That full disclosure thing.

“See, I’m living part time out in the country. Alone. And there is a Mountain Lion on our property.”

As he reached for a shotgun that looked as if it would take down a buffalo, I quickly added:

“Oh, I don’t want to shoot the Mountain Lion. In fact, knowing Mountain Lions, I don’t think I’d even see it if it decided to leap off a ledge onto my neck. Actually, we’ve had some break-ins and I was looking for a gun for protection.”

That led to a completely different gun case. But still a series of firearms that looked entirely too deadly for my tastes.

As I gingerly tried hefting some of the rifles, I worked up the courage to make my real goal known:

“You know, I think I just want to scare someone away. What would happen if I shot someone with this gun?”

The answer was short and to the point: “He would die.”

“Um, do you have something that would just spray a little buckshot but not really kill or maim anyone? Kind of like the gun Dick Cheney used to shoot his friend in the face.”

As soon as I said it, I expected a sneer of contempt. But never underestimate the kindness of Gun Shop people.

“Look, why don’t we find you something that’s big enough that the Bad Guys can see it. And that is loud enough that it scares them.”

That's how I found myself holding a pump-action 20 gauge Remington shotgun.

“I think this is going to be the right gun for you”, said my new Gun Shop Buddy. “Listen to the sound of this pump action.”

You know that dramatic Tschhhhhh-Tsch sound when The Man With No Name pumps up his gun before the gunfight? That’s the sound this gun makes.

“There”, said my Gun Shop Buddy, “anyone sane and clean who hears this sound will know you mean business. You won’t even have to fire a shot.”

“Great”, said I, “Just what I want. A pre-emptive firearm.”

“Of course, if a meth-head is coming at you, you’ll completely re-evaluate your desire not to shoot anything.”

Hmmmm. Maybe. But I’m hoping the combination of terrier howling and now my completely bad-ass Western sounding pump action rifle will keep all but the baddest dudes away.

So now I just have to wait out ten days while the ATF checks out if I have any felonies to my name.

Call me a traitor to my political affiliations, but I’m kind of liking the idea of being armed.

My only question now:

Can I get gun racks fitted to my Prius?

Addendum: If you’re stumped by my Liberty Valance reference, this’ll help ya Pilgrim:

As buccolic as I make Sonoma out to be, I’m not trying to say it doesn’t have crime or problems. It just seems we have a different kind of crime than the gritty urban crime I’m used to reading about in San Francisco and Oakland. Maybe I’m not clued in to the seamy underbelly of Sonoma, although I do try to keep up. The Crime Report in the Sonoma Index-Tribune is one of the first sections I turn to. That’s where I find gems like the big Saturday night crime spree we had a few months ago when a local deejay showed up drunk and/or high at Emmy’s Spaghetti Shack, proceeded to get into an argument with the owner, smashed one thousand dollars worth of turntables, then ran down the street to Sonoma’s only sushi restaurant and, for good measure, punched the owner in the face. We were all talking about that one for weeks. Last Friday night, three taggers were caught in the act of defacing the feedstore and, in Tuesday’s edition, the crime was still being hashed out on the front page.

Nearly a week after the "crime", this incident is still making the front page of The Sonoma Index-Tribune.

Yes, we have our own brand of crime. It seems to be largely victimless, mostly alcohol-fueled and quickly nipped in the bud by the excellent Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department. When I say we have a Sheriff’s Department, I really mean it. These guys are cast much more in the Wyatt Earp mold than they conform to any donut-eating stereotype. Years ago, before we had fencing, we had an ATV stolen. Within days, the Sheriffs had rounded up the usual suspects, recovered the vehicle, gotten a confession, led them in front of the Hangin’ Judge and organized restitution. You don’t mess with Western Justice.

So it was shocking and saddening to find out early this morning that we’d been hit by criminals. Although, thankfully, it seemed to be The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight. Since we wrapped up the harvest and got all our wines in barrels, I’ve been in San Francisco most of the time between Thanksgiving and New Years. That’s too many nights with lights out and, I guess, too much of a temptation.

Hey Evil Doers, don't you know this place is guarded by Attack Terriers?

Not to mention the Mountain Lion who hangs out just behind the building you burgled.

Apparently, about dawn the perps crept over from the nearby State Park and started jimmying open the windows to the garage/workroom. What they didn’t count on were John the Baptist and his right-hand man Louis. Especially as we race to get the drains and hillsides ready for our torrential winter rains, John and Louis are up here most days. And despite their Saintly names, you don’t want to meet John or Louis if you are wrong-doing. As near as we can tell, the two of them came roaring through the gate in John’s old muscle car, blasting Johnny Cash, just as the perps had wriggled their way into the garage. Apparently that was frightening enough that the perps threw themselves back out the window after doing not much more than tipping over some cans of paint.

It was probably the Johnny Cash that did it.

Although Louis says he and John had the windows down and were engaged in their usual trash talking. As John the Baptist says: “We’re not Librarians.”

In any case, the perps fled down the trail under the Mountain Lion’s sometime lair. Which could have been the cause of some beautiful Instant Karma. However, Joaquin (or Joaquinetta, as John, who’s seen her, claims she’s female) wasn’t in da house at this moment. Pity.

Although it seemed the crime-in-progress was thwarted, I drove up from San Francisco to survey the damage. Reaching back to everything I’ve learned from devotion to three franchises of Law & Order, I determined that the criminals were a disorganized pack of punks. They clearly weren’t competent enough to mount a quick, efficient operation that nabbed items of the most value in the shortest amount of time. Of course, that would assume that there HAD been anything of value for them to grab. Other than an old Ford truck with two flat tires and one dead battery, the garage mostly holds Andy’s large collection of bits and pieces of lumber. Judging from the way he hoards it and won’t let a bit of it be discarded, burned or used, he thinks it’s worth its weight in gold. I’m not sure what it would actually fetch on the open market. Or how, indeed, you would get it down a trail and past a Mountain Lion.

So I’m giving a sigh of relief that everything is intact and we don’t seem to have been targeted by Master Criminals. But that isn’t stopping John and Louis from debating whether they should stockpile weapons and spend a few nights up here. Fair warning: their trigger fingers are itchy.

I don't think you want to be looking at John and Louis down the barrel of a rifle, do ya PUNK?

Let’s just hope, for the sake of Criminal Sonoma, that they don’t deputize the Mountain Lion.

UPDATE

We just found out one of the criminals signed his name in the dust on the garage door.

File this under: Too Stupid for Words

Careful Fool. My posse -- Louis, Juan and John the Baptist -- are looking for you.

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.

It started with this article from CNN.com about a shortage of ammo as gun owners stockpile in the fear that Obama will ban guns or tax their ammo. Turns out President Obama has no public plans to do either (and probably has a lot of things on his To Do List before he gets to the issue of guns.) But it got me thinking: what if there were a fundamental shift in American policy and suddenly it wasn’t as easy as going to a gun show and flashing some ID to get a gun. I never really thought about getting a gun, being a San Francisco Liberal and all. But then, I always assumed I could get one pretty easily if I wanted to. Now that I’m living part-time in the country and now that there is a hint that I might not be able to get a gun, I suddenly want one.

My British friend, Rob, has been urging the purchase of firearms ever since we bought the place in Sonoma. As he puts it, “You have to get a gun. It’s part of your culture.”

Here’s my dilemma: I can’t really think of anything I want to shoot. But I still want a gun. It seems like a cool thing to have. I’d be sort of like Clint Eastwood. Except for the whole being 5′2″ and a woman part.

It should be noted that I'm less interested in the Dirty Harry urban gun above and more interested in an Outlaw Josey Wales gun.

I realize this is a very frivolous approach to a very serious purchase. And before the Interwebs jumps down my neck on this, let me assure you that, if I get a gun, I will go to the nearby rifle range and learn to operate it responsibly. Which doesn’t mean I’m not going to be practicing that badass twirling thing the gunslingers do. (The first and best example is the opening shot of John Wayne as The Ringo Kid in John Ford’s Stagecoach.) Then there is the holding the reins in your teeth and shooting two guns at once trick. (Also perfected by John Wayne. See True Grit.)

As you can see, my tastes are leaning toward the cowboy. But that does leave the question of what I’d shoot with it. We don’t have many cattle rustlers in these parts. And I don’t have any cattle. We did have an ATV stolen once, but the excellent Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department recovered it quickly. Apparently no shots were fired.

So again, what to shoot? The most dangerous thing around here is our resident Mountain Lion. But he’s rarely in evidence and we’ve evolved to a state the old Soviets would call “peaceful coexistence” with him. We don’t go running around on his hunting grounds at night and he doesn’t show up and kill us in the day. Besides, we’ve named him Joaquin, which practically makes him a pet. Nope, I won’t be shooting him.

If I had a gun, I'd name it just like Davy Crockett named his rifle "Old Betsy".

The second most dangerous thing on the property, then, would be rattlesnakes. But ours seem to be very gentlemanly. When we meet (which is infrequently), we have a short stare-down, then I back up, and they slither off. All very civilized.

I’m certainly not going to be shooting the deer. (Which I think is illegal around here anyway.) Besides Joaquin the Mountain Lion shows up periodically to cull the herd, so there is no need for ballistics.

That brings us back to the rustlers, or our modern day Sonoma equivalent. I’d have a hard time pointing a gun at a person, even if he looked like what the Westerns used to term “a no-good, sidewindin’ varmint.” Since the evidence shows that our “rustlers” seem to be kids bent on fairly harmless vandalism, they probably won’t be targets either.

But maybe I’m focussing too much on “game”. There are other reasons to carry a gun — even if you are an East Coast educated Liberal. Ever watched Jimmy Stewart in  The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance? I rest my case.

Sonoma even has what could pass as a saloon on the square. Well, Steiner’s Tavern COULD stand in for a saloon if you squint your eyes, ignore the TV screens blaring sports and just concentrate on the stuffed animals on the walls.

Watch out card sharps!

But not Maverick. The REAL Maverick gets a pass from me. It's the fake Mel Gibson Maverick who better watch out.

And nobody better be a-botherin’ our Sonoma version of Miss Kitty.

Although the real Miss Kitty always seemed capable of taking care of herself. I bet the Sonoma Miss Kitty is too.

Soon I’ll be standing by to keep the peace. With a gun!

This is me. Really. Not Annie Oakley.

NOTE: I’m not sure why I chose this title. This post is obviously about guns with very little if anything about money and lawyers, although there are times when both are nice to have. But it does give me an excuse to include this excellent version of Warren Zevon’s song, here covered by The Wallflowers.

Last week, Two Terrier Vineyards hosted a prestigious group: The McNabb Family of England. Old friends from way back, the McNabbs are also very knowledgeable about wine. Knowledgeable as in lifelong oenophiles with two members (Paul and John) being graduates of a prestigious and difficult wine course in France which I understand is aimed at training top level sommeliers.

You may ask if we were nervous having such distinguished palates at Two Terrier Vineyards. That is given that it was just a few seasons ago we created our first wines (with somewhat disastrous results.) In reality, this year is probably the last one for awhile where we can confidently expose our efforts to such a knowledgeable audience. You see, grapes don’t even come to the first hint of maturity for at least three years. Due to a late rainy season when we planted, our grapes are only two-and-a-half years old. The result, the wine we made this year, if good, can be attributed to our skill and innate winemaking ability. If bad, well, the grapes aren’t ready yet. That excuse will fade with the coming seasons, so this is the time to have experts expound with minimal damage to the ego.

So last Wednesday, with McNabbs in tow, we headed to Two Terrier Vineyards for a professional barrel tasting and analysis of this year’s vintages.

The tour got off to a slow start as John became enamored of my father's old Winchester rifle. As a former British Army man, John might be a valuable ally in my war against the foxes and gophers that are sabotaging my fava beans.

Then a brief detour of the architectural delights of the ranch — given that we haven’t yet gotten around to building traditional human dwelling places.

Here Andy (center) explains to Paul (left) and John about the amphitheater which is built with stones from the property.

Then a foray into the vineyards themselves to inspect how the vines were tied and trained.

Paul and John pronounced the vineyards "First Rate".

Finally, the moment of truth: the tasting. Reverently, samples were drawn from the oak barrels where most of our wines are currently resting.

This is what a serious tasting looks like. Can you sense the hushed tones and concentration?

Again, no trepidation on our part to expose our wine to these distinguished palates. If it’s bad, we can just blame it on those immature grapes.

The verdicts were:  the Cinsault was appley and too young, but John thought it may develop very nicely. The Grenache was ” just okay”, but the Mouvedre was deemed better. and the Cabernet was thought to have potential although too much woodiness. Unfortunately, that was our lowest yield grape, without enough to fill an oak barrel so it rested in stainless steel with the inferior method of adding oak chips.

Then in an interesting twist, John and Paul decided to take two of our Rhone varietals and make a Rhone style blend. They mixed two-thirds of the “just okay” Grenache with one-third of the better Mouvedre. The result: added structure to a wine that we will have to call “McNabb Blend”.

In our book, as completely self-taught novices, this was a major thumbs up.

But the best was yet to come. At lunch at Sonoma’s Girl and the Fig restaurant, Paul uncorked two gems from his extensive wine collection: a 1994 Chateauneuf du Pape white and a 1994 Pommerol. Some would say, these are two of the best wines in the last two decades.

As we oohed and ahed over this special treat, Ruth, John’s wife, finally spoke up: “Actually, these wines are fine, but I prefer Andy’s.”

Thanks Ruth. You’ll be writing the tasting notes on the label!

Paul shoots Ruth the kind of look you would expect from a wine expert who has just heard someone declare that Two Terrier wine is better than some of the best the French have to offer.