Sunday E-dition: This time of year
By Tim Carl
NAPA VALLEY, Calif. — "This is my favorite time of year," my mother said early one November years ago. We stood gazing out the open front door at our house on Hudson Avenue in St. Helena. In the last few days the vineyard across the street had shifted from verdant summer green to a vibrant blend of yellow, orange and red hues.
I looked up at her and smiled.
"Mine, too," I said.
That was only half-true. Summer was my absolute favorite, but saying that seemed inappropriate and might risk breaking the spell of that rare moment when I had her all to myself. My father and older brother, Scott, were away on some errand, and she was not distracted with her seemingly endless activities.
She looked down and studied my face, her expression slowly shifting from a smile to something more serious. Putting her hand under my chin, she gently shifted my profile left and then right before dropping her hand and looking back outside.
In the distance, beyond our yard and the carpet of vineyards, the blue-green mountains rose before being engulfed in early morning mist and clouds.
A breeze had picked up, and the broad golden leaves of the enormous walnut tree in our front yard fluttered, a few dropping to the ground, joining many of their brethren that had started to form an amber ring around the ancient tree’s base.
"Smells like rain," she said.
I sniffed the air. All I smelled was the pungent aroma of the molding Halloween pumpkin that still remained limply on our doorstep, gray fuzz now outlining every incision.
"Well, we need the rain," I said, having heard my father tell our neighbor this a few days earlier.
She burst out laughing.
"Yes, we do," she said, putting one hand on my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "We do need rain, my little man."
Weeks earlier, I had spent one evening begging that my friends and I be allowed to go trick-or-treating without chaperones. My argument had been that being 8 years old provided me the experience and maturity to handle such an important undertaking and that armed with flashlights, emergency blankets and extra bags for candy, not only was I ready to join my cadre of school friends around the neighborhood, but my parents would also have an opportunity to spend time with their own friends without the need or bother of carting around a bunch of unruly preteens.
"So, do we have a deal?" I had asked.
My parents stood silent for a long while, my father kneading his forehead with his fingers before my mother turned to him and shrugged.
In addition to the items I had listed to my parents, my friends and I had stashed an enormous cache of Halloween-related items that we planned to deploy during the night's activities. Stored in an old cardboard box at the back of the barn were two bottles of Silly String to spray, a bottle of fake blood, a dozen eggs that had been aged for maximum aroma impact, and a pack of firecrackers that Todd had miraculously procured during his family’s summer trip to Montana. In what seemed both unbelievable and a distinct motivation for moving there someday, he had purchased the explosives legally at an outdoor fireworks stand without the consent of any adult.
Our plan was to head out after dinner, grab as much candy as we could and then join the teenagers at the gravel pits, where we’d throw eggs and light off the fireworks before running back to change into different costumes for another round of candy-gathering.
We had agreed to meet at the barn.
That night, as I dined with my family, my brother wore an uncharacteristic grin and my father departed from the table early.
"Well, I should be heading out," I said, pushing my chair back from the table.
"Not so fast," my mother said, her eyes narrowing. "I'd like help with the dishes tonight."
My brother got up, plate in hand, gave me a small bow and headed to the kitchen.
"Tonight? Mom, it's Halloween, and my friends are going to be here soon."
She sighed deeply and then clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth.
Just then my father walked into the room. He held a box. The box.
"Know anything about this?" he asked, putting it on the table.
I chewed on my lip preparing my excuse, but the glare from my mother told me that it was better to remain silent.
Out of my parents' view, Scott leaned against the kitchen doorway, grinning widely. As my father lectured about the consequences that my friends and I could expect from our deceit, my brother dangled a square pack of firecrackers from his fingers like the pendulum of a clock.
Days later, at the doorway with my mother, unable to pass the threshold except for school or chores, the first drop of rain fell and then another. Eventually we'd close the door and she'd head to the kitchen and I'd go to my room. For those few moments, however, we watched the rain begin to fall faster, and she wrapped her arm around my shoulder and pulled me in tight.
Last week
Last week Napa Valley Features covered a range of subjects that included Lisa Adams Walter's article on a Napa duo producing plant-based gourmet cheese. A breaking news story reported that the Calistoga Depot will suspend its public operations this winter with plans to reopen in March 2024, although private events will continue. The publication also featured its first letter to the editor, expressing concerns over PG&E's power shutdowns. To submit a letter, readers are encouraged to use the new online form, keeping in mind that presenting an alternate perspective is necessary for consideration. Rosemarie Kempton brought readers closer to local artist Paul Youngman, and Loni Lyttle from Advanced Viticulture Consulting offered an in-depth look at the 2023 grape-growing season. If you have an event to include in our Friday Weekender, please send us the details using our new online form.
This week
In the upcoming week readers can look forward to Sasha Paulsen's profile of a local coffee roaster and a detailed count of the wine producers in Napa Valley. Additionally, historian Mariam Hansen will present a piece on the intriguing history of James Dowdell. The Weekender section will continue to feature local events, for which submissions can be made using the provided form.
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Tim Carl is a Napa Valley-based photojournalist.
Your growing up stories always hit the mark.!
Dave
Not on my screen. Nor have all of my questions been answered.