Left Coast Cowboys

It’s not often I feel old. My nieces in their early Twenties are skeptical, but I tell them, as you grow older, you never really have the perception that you ever hit an age that your parents were in your lifetime. But now and then I’m brought up short by a comment or event that makes me realize I’m not technically young anymore. If young is defined as the generation that is currently shaping Pop Culture. Or the generation that the advertisers are falling all over themselves to attract. No, I guess I haven’t been that generation for awhile. I’m a bit too young to be a Baby Boomer, which is the generation that will never let go. As I’ve said before, I’m Generation Jones, that lost generation between the Boomers and Gen X.

But through it all, I never really feel old. Except for sometimes. And I’m not even counting those times that I mistakenly refer to “records” in front of a twelve-year-old who has never bought one. At least twelve-year-olds know what records are and vinyl still has a certain hip-retro-cool factor.

So when a “feel old moment” suddenly slaps me in the face, it’s all that much more shocking. I had one just a few days before Christmas.

Shopping for cufflinks for my husband, I stumbled onto a selection of cuffs made from old coins. Old American coins. When the young and perky sales girl tripped over, I said that I very much wanted to buy a set or two, but did she have some made with British coins.

No, she didn’t. But being young, perky and on commission, she noticed the pair I was fondling. I’d already decided that if I couldn’t get British coins, I’d buy this set.

Young and Perky wasn’t going to let me leave without a purchase, so she started the pitch:

“We don’t have British coins. But look at these lovely cuffs you’re holding. They’re made from very rare old Buffalo quarters.”

Buffalo QUARTERS? Rare? Old?

I know buffalo NICKELS were last minted in 1938 and the government started taking them out of circulation in the Fifties and Sixties. But they were still so much in evidence when I was growing up, that my brother and I regularly rooted through our dad’s change bowl looking for them. And found one at least every week or so. In fact, I still routinely check all my change as I expect to see one at some point.

I fixed her with a steely-eyed stare that I hoped conveyed the greater knowledge gleaned from a few more years of living.

“You mean those Buffalo NICKELS? The ones they say gave Buffalo, New York the nickname The Nickel City?” They’re not so rare. They were all over the place when I was a kid. And they were still worth…well…about a nickel.”

It's tough being Generation Jones. Just ask me and Barack.

Never try to show off in front of someone younger and perkier. At least not with knowledge. It doesn’t work. I couldn’t tell if she was surprised at the news that there is a nickname for Buffalo, New York. Or that she was shocked at being confronted by someone who had used a Buffalo Nickel as actual currency. And was still ambulatory and breathing without a portable oxygen tank.

Suddenly, in the middle of Nordstroms, I felt like one of the last survivors of the Great San Francisco Earthquake. You’re thrilled there are still a few of them around, but it’s tough to see them trotted out at gatherings for fear they may die in front of you.

I bought those Buffalo “Quarter” cufflinks. But the joy was gone. If I were now to find a buffalo nickel in the change dish, it would look as sad to me as my tattered old Mouseketeers hat the last time I saw it in my mother’s attic.

Now THAT makes me feel old.

Just like I’ve never watched sitcoms, I’ve also never watched “contest shows” like American Idol. (Although I’ll be making an exception when Donny Osmond joins Dancing with the Stars later this month.) However, you couldn’t turn on the TV, glance at the InterWebs or listen to the radio (even NPR) any time this summer and NOT know that Paula Abdul, one of the original celebrity judges, was forced off AI through unceremonious dissing by the producers. Then the drama escalated. Would the new judge be Posh Spice or a never-ending rotating roster of guest hosts? Or maybe Michelle Obama? Or my personal vote, Queen Latifah, who could insert some real ‘Tude and give Simon the smack-down he richly deserves.

Well, I can finally answer this season’s burning question. The new Celebrity Judge is ME. I am the new Paula Abdul. Well, not on American Idol. But on The Fox Terrier Network, possibly the largest on-line community of Fox Terrier Fanciers. And I’m judging their photo contest, not anybody’s singing. But pretty much the same thing really.

Start polishing your photography skills, grab a Terrier and enter the Fox Terrier Network photo contest.

Yes, I am the Celebrity Judge for the Smooth Fox Terrier category. There are also two other categories: Wire Fox Terrier and Terrier on the Move. Then I guess we three judges meet for a complete smack-down free-for-all to determine the “Best in Show” photo. Now THAT would be good reality TV. If only it were being televised.

The contest has categories for Smooth Fox Terrier, Wire Fox Terrier and Terriers on the Move. Question: Are Terriers ever NOT on the move?

In any case, the contest is open. And I encourage all of you to sign up. You don’t even have to have a Fox Terrier. Only photographic access to one. And three dollars per entry. Which all goes to Fox Terrier rescue.

Which brings me to another interesting subject: when exactly would a Fox Terrier need to be rescued? For those who don’t know them, Fox Terriers are very large dogs in very little bodies. Think twenty pound Rottweilers. In fact, if Obama had only not ignored my excellent advice, he would have gotten a Smooth Fox Terrier as the First Dog. A Fox Terrier is one serious weapon in your arsenal. Give all those heel-dragging Congresspeople a one-on-one with the First Terrier and…well…we’d have Health Care reform.

I'm told this contest is not about photographic skill but about capturing Terrier Personality. Question: Are Terriers ever NOT personality-forward?

But back to Fox Terrier Rescue. Apparently many Fox Terriers do have to be rescued. You can read about some of the Terriers the group has helped here and some of the stories will break your heart. So it’s a worthy cause and little enough to contribute. Less than a decent sized latte. And since we judges are taking time out from our…er…highly paid and high-profile careers (in my case, the glamorous washing of wine vats) to donate our time, well, it’s not much to ask, is it?

So get those shutters clicking. Here are the rules and there is an incentive for early entry by September 15.

I’ll have to take it on faith that you are jumping to participate. Apparently, I’m not allowed to get on the site and look at the pictures until judging. (At which point all identifying names will be removed and each picture will simply be numbered.) Then I guess the fighting and sniping begins as we Terrier Judges start arguing American Idol style. And I’m assuming there will be arguing. It’s a Terrier contest, after all, and Terriers are all about the altercation. Besides, since I’ve staked out the Paula Abdul role, I’m assuming there will be a Simon Cowell. Randy Jackson, well, we’ll probably just ignore him. I mean, does anyone pay attention to Randy Jackson?

I just realize I’ve completely frightened myself by my encyclopedic knowledge of American Idol. Especially when I swear on a stack of chew toys I’ve never, ever watched it. (Well, maybe that YouTube clip of Susan Boyle.)

In any case, if you are fearing that American Idol will never be the same without Paula. Tune in to the Fox Terrier Network and join our contest.

It’s just like American Idol. Only without singing. And with Terriers. And I’ll be the one in the sequined dress doing face plants on the desk and gushing incoherently.

Now let me go see about my contract.

Weekends are times for kicking back. Except on a part time farm. Which is why I’m punting today and posting mostly pictures instead of writing anything. How about another tour of the spread? That’s always a good stand-by. What better place to start than with this Matija Poppy. I don’t know why, but these flowers always make me happy. We call them “Fried Egg Flowers” because they look like the centerpiece to a healthy farm breakfast. They are also loved by bees and butterflies, which is why we planted them. Although I wasn’t quick enough to capture any of those visitors today.

If you remember the wild and wooly look of a few weeks ago, you may be pleased to see that the vineyards got a haircut and a touch up. The vineyards were overgrown with weeds earlier…deliberately. The best wine comes from grapes that struggle, and apparently, repeated mulching had made our land TOO fertile. So weeds were allowed to grow to pull nutrients out of the soil. Their work is done now. Weeds are mown and the vines have been trimmed and tied neatly within the wires.

I’m in the midst of an ongoing photographic project to document the development of one specific vine, Vine 2 in Row 6 of the vineyard. It’s Cabernet and it’s coming along nicely.

But surprisingly different from the Cinsault.

Yet another varietal, the Mourvedre, isn’t even completely out of the flowering stage yet.

Then out of the vineyards and down one of the nature trails. Doesn’t this look lovely and natural?

Actually, it’s the work of a trail-making genius we affectionately call John the Baptist. He builds us trails by working from original deer trails and enhancing them with found objects. We asked him to “landscape as God would”. Apparently, he’s got God on a speed dial because he gets it exactly right.

Then we come to our amphitheater, built from all the stones that had to be dug out of the vineyard land.

Eric Clapton has yet to accept our invitation to play here. It’s not as if we could afford to pay him. But we would offer him a barbecue of Sonoma organic beef and Two Terrier corn and tomatoes. But so far, it looks as if our headlining act will continue to be The Mellow Stylings of Andy Paul.

Then back down another trail, where we passed this rock overhanging the path.

Whereupon, Andy looked up and said, “We could carve Obama’s face in this rock and have our own mini Mount Rushmore.”

Note, Republicans, this suggestion did NOT come from the life-long Democrat. It came from an Englishman, who is not a US citizen and who is a confirmed Capitalist. But I wouldn’t mind this plan. We could invite Barack, Michelle and the kids for a barbecue. Organic, free-range Sonoma beef and Two Terriers tomatoes and corn. We have plenty. As I don’t think Eric Clapton will be stopping by any time soon.

Up here in Sonoma on my own trying to set out my garden has not been as much fun as I thought it would be. The favas are infested with aphids, the Lady Bugs I bought are more interested in partying than eating them, and this is the stage where “gardening” is really about shoveling stuff. Turning soil, digging in compost, hauling stuff. After the dreaming stage of planning your garden and imagining the new recipes you’ll create with the produce comes the brute force and ignorance stage of just shoveling shit.

Then it struck me: this would all be so much more fun with a Gardening Girlfriend. I know it would be smarter to latch on to a girlfriend who is at least several years ahead of me in this gardening stuff. But I’d rather find another rank amateur. Then we can laugh at each others’ mistakes rather than becoming annoyed when one of us pulls up the radish shoots thinking they are weeds. Not that I think “Michelle Obama” and “rank amateur” have ever been used in the same sentence. I make no secret of the fact that I think Michelle can probably, not only do, but excel at anything she puts her mind and well-toned arms to. But in all the hoopla about the new White House vegetable garden, I haven’t heard much about Michelle’s experience as a gardener. Therefore, I’m assuming this is all new to her, too.

So Michelle, call me. Here are the Top Ten reasons I think we’d be excellent Gardening Girlfriends. 

Michelle, you can round up kids to do the grunt work. That gives us more time for Girlfriend Stuff.

1. Michelle, you have kids. When you have kids, you can always corral other kids. If you work it right, kids can be a great source of unpaid, enthusiastic and still physically flexible labor. (Which means you can work them day after day without them throwing out their backs.) Michelle, get Sasha, Malia and her pals over here and I’ll supply the shovels.

2. Like me, Michelle, you have a husband who hates beets and, if I’m reading between the news story lines correctly, won’t even let you grow them. Girlfriend, think how much fun we can have secretly growing beets and thinking of subversive ways to get our husbands to eat them.

As a girl, you must have read Misty. I know where she lives. Well, she's stuffed now. But still. ROADTRIP!

3. Roadtrip possibilities. At least four times a year, we’ll need to get together and do a garden-themed reconnaissance. Michelle, I’ll take you on a great tour of old California Missions. Many of them have wonderful kitchen gardens laid out in the original Padres’ style. You take me on a nostalgic drive through the rural, agricultural sections of coastal Delaware, Maryland and Virginia. I haven’t been there since I was a kid. We’ll go see Misty of Chincoteague and eat at Stuckey’s.

4. Wine. I’ve got it. We’ll drink it. Lots of it. Don’t worry, those kids will be doing most of the work.

5. You’re very tall, I’m very short. Jobs that are going to kill your back bending over, well, I’m already down there. Together we’ll make this whole thing much easier.

6.  Which leaves us much more time to do outdoor Yoga and Pilates. Or weight lifting. You’ve got to tell me how you get those arms.

Barack thinks Air Force One is cool? He should go sailing with Andy. We'll even try to rustle up these sails I saw in Yachting Monthly.

7. Things like tomatoes, hot peppers and squash that you don’t have the dry heat to grow well, my Sonoma garden can supply by the bushel. I can’t grow salady type things reliably. You do that. We’ll swap. Imagine the salads and Al Fresco lunches.

8. Your husband is the only contemporary American politician my British husband has ever admired. In fact he gave him the supreme (to a Brit) compliment of praising him with a nautical metaphor: he thinks Obama is “a steady hand on the tiller.” Hey, while we’re gardening, the “boys” can go sailing. We’ve got a boat in San Francisco Bay if Barack feels like living dangerously. Or they can opt for the easier “brie and Chardonnay” style sailing of Chesapeake Bay.

Bo won't be dragging you around after he spends a day at TTV with Oscar and Lucy. You'll have to carry him, he'll be so tired.

9. Dog training. You bring that unruly Portuguese Water Dog over to Two Terrier Vineyards and I have a few terriers who will slap him into shape. A day with Oscar and Lucy and, believe me, Bo will be too tired to drag you around the White House lawn as I saw him do the other night.

10. Did I mention about the wine. . .?

So, Michelle, just drop me a line here. Gardening BFFs 4EVER!

I have a Boston friend who is, as my grandmother used to say, “as Irish as Murphy’s cow”. She’s more than just Boston Irish, she’s “connected” Boston Irish, as in a Godmother in the Murphia. The tentacles of her influence and connection extend across the “pond” to Ireland where she visits frequently and has a vast network of family and friends. So when she wrote to give me the scoop on how our new President was being received in Ireland, well, I accept her word on its own authority.

She says the Irish view of President Barack Obama can best be summed up in this music video. It had me rolling on the ground and not just at the way the Irish pronounce his name “Bear-ACK O’Bama”. You’ll find the words below, should you want to sing along and do a little “Riverdance” step as well.

No one as Irish as Barack OBama

O’Leary, O’Reilly, O’Hare and O’Hara
There’s no one as Irish as Barack O’Bama

You don’t believe me, I hear you say
But Barack’s as Irish, as was JFK
His granddaddy’s daddy came from Moneygall
A small Irish village, well known to you all

Toor a loo, toor a loo, toor a loo, toor a lama
There’s no one as Irish As Barack O’Bama

The great Stephen Neill, a great man of God,
He proved that Barack was from the Auld Sod
They came by bus and they came by car, to celebrate Barack in Ollie Hayes’s Bar

O’Leary, O’Reilly, O’Hare and O’Hara
There’s no one as Irish as Barack O’Bama

By the way, should you find yourself in Boston and want to arrange a charter around Boston Bay, check out Maureen’s company at Smooth Sailing Yacht Charters. Did I mention that this gal is connected?