Back to the Hills, Part 4

Yes, it’s a wood-burning stove. Everybody has one up here. I was very surprised to learn they are still being manufactured. Granted, Sis’s original stove came from a WWII Naval barracks, but this one is only about 6 years old. Some company back east still cranks ‘em out.

Sarah, naturally, is a most proficient fire builder. First she tosses in wads of third class mail, and then graduated fragments from the tinderbox. When the flames are established, she hefts in the logs. It’s amazing how much wood that thing consumes in a night. After each trip to the bathroom (usually about 4) she has to stir it around and add a couple more pieces. So keeping the woodshed stocked is a necessity, as is carrying in enough wood for the night. Once, when a log was a bit too long to get the stove door closed, smoke filled the cabin and she had to open the transom up by the ceiling to suck it out.  And fortunately, it really sucks.

The real advantage to the wood stove is that you’ve got heat, light, and a make-shift cooking surface when the electricity goes out. That’s rather frequent, especially given the age of the breaker box out on a post between the cabin and main house, and the ferocity of the winter winds. This was the first time I’ve experienced storms here and I gotta tell ya…it brought back harrowing memories of Hurricane Ike.

Supper the hard way

Now for the disclaimer: No tree was harmed in the writing of this article. Ample fuel for the locals is available from storm-toppled timbers and the Sudden Oak Death (SOD) that swept through the region a few years back. Okay?
Hugs to all.

Back to the Hills, Part 3

As in January, it was my very good fortune to stop by Anita’s lovely home and gardens. Actually, this time it was over a week before we went anywhere. I was determined to keep Sarah resting and eating. (She’s one of those skinny-minnies who has to eat a lot to keep her weight up. Don’t ya just hate ‘em?) But then we got the go-ahead from the physical therapist: she could drive short distances with someone with her.

And thus it came about that we called on Anita, just a few miles away. If that went well, we’d make the 45-minute drive down to Gualala, the nearest town, to pick up needed supplies.

Loads of sweet, juicy oranges!

We were greeted enthusiastically by two dogs, two cats, and the slim, fit, and gracious Anita. (Is everybody skinny around here?) We were soon perched on her spacious patio overlooking sweeping mountain vistas. My dearest hope was that Anita was a coffee drinker. Sarah, a dedicated health freak, only stocks green and herbal teas. I was getting desperate.

Big, delicious rhubarb

But, after watching the cats dive into the pool (empty except for a thick carpet of grass and wildflowers) and staring at ravens strafing the garage roof where Anita throws dead mice for them, she inquired if we would like some tea. Oh, no. Surely her husband, at least, indulged in my favorite passion. “Does anyone around here drink coffee?” I blurted rudely.

Anita laughed and led the way to her kitchen. There, on her beautifully tiled counter, sat a nice, big coffee maker. I wanted to hug it. I was actually shaking as the robust aroma wafted forth.

A new breed of broccoli for me, but
just as tender and tasty as the usual.

As it happened, Anita and her husband both had coffee with me, but I by far drank the most. It was a lively visit, but as things wound down, Anita, as before, presented us with the fruits (and vegetables!) of her ample garden. There was a good-sized box of oranges, large bags of Swiss chard and broccoli, a solid head of purple cabbage, and the biggest stalks of rhubarb I’ve ever seen. I know I’m forgetting something…

Sarah declared herself fit for further travels, so we wound our way down the mountain in her produce-laden car. And I barely made it to the first bathroom in Gualala.

Back to the Hills, Part 2



The main house; now only used
occassionally by winery owner

The first task at hand was to prepare the grounds and big house for a company picnic. I did my best to cop the lion’s share, but Sarah worked harder on the enormous kitchen than she should have.  I was too busy trying to spare her the rest of the house to stop her! Luckily my husband and I ran a hotel in Galveston in ages past, so I’m actually pretty fast at that stuff.

Happily, the vineyard staff took care of the weeding and set up the camp circle, so all we had to do was the house. The next day a huge bus carrying the office folk trundled precariously up the mountain track. The winery owner provided box lunches for everyone, thoughtfully including one for me. They began the outing with a walking tour. Sis and I didn’t join them until they settled in for lunch.

They were an interesting group. The world of wine is alien to me, but I found them happy to answer questions on their individual jobs. Being an old Hoosier farm girl, I was most interested in the soil specialist. What did he test for? What was the optimal dirt and conditions for grapes? “Low stress” was the only thing I understood!

The winemaker explained that this particular vineyard grew pinot grapes, as in “Pinot Noir.” Then he gestured at the lower 40 and said that section was for experimentation. The grapes are sorted into three grades, premium, medium, and what-can-we-do-with-these? They had vintage bottles from the premises for tasting, and although I’m no particular fan of Pinot Noir, I found it quite good. The difference may be that it was premium grade, as in fifty bucks a bottle! Yikes!

Speaking of yikes, the winery owner and his wife had given Sarah three bottles of their finest as a get-well gift. She’d already uncorked a Chardonnay before learning it was a no-no with her meds. I gratefully disposed of it for her over the course of my two-week stay. But what to do with the Pinot Noir and the 2008 Napa Valley Red? Dare I try to take it home? Nothing to it, the winemaker assured me. Just pack the bottles in bubble wrap and put it in checked luggage. Seeing several nods of assent around the circle, I determined to try it.  All I’m risking is making a few of those dratted TSA agents much happier than they should be!

And So Back to the Hills

Returning to Sarah’s Mountain

View from the kitchen window

It was too good to last – Sis’s amazing recovery from radical cancer surgery. Not that the whole thing wasn’t miraculous. It was. But shortly after I left her in January, (A) her refrigerator quit, and she had to haul her stuff up to the bunk house to save it, (B) she’d just gotten back from a tiring round of doctor appointments down in Santa Rosa when she discovered this, (C) the next day was a lengthy one with repairmen and well diggers on the vineyard property she oversees, and (D) there’s the endless stress of dealing with insurance companies, pharmacies, doctors’ offices, and hospital billing clerks.

So late in February things started to go wrong. In acute distress she called a neighbor who rushed her down the mountain to an ER. She was hospitalized with fluid on the lungs, one of the places her cancer has metastasized. Drained and released the next day, Sarah came home to continue negotiations for a new refrigerator.

Less than a week later – back to the hospital. This time they surgically inserted talcum between the lungs and the encasing membrane to absorb and redirect. Egad. Has that ever been done before? For several days afterward she had what the nurses termed a garden hose stuck in her side to keep her drained.

This ordeal was followed by a week in rehab, and it quickly became clear they would be sending her home before she could fend for herself on a remote mountain. Worse, the winter that failed to materialize while I was there in January has now arrived with a vengeance.

So once again little sister (me) is throwing things in a suitcase and heading for the hills.

Happily, Sis has wonderful friends, coworkers and neighbors to offer transport, fill her woodshed, and carry logs in for her stove. They’ll hold the fort until I get there to handle the day-to-day meals and cleaning.

But this time I won’t take my laptop. There will be no trips to civilization to seek hot spots. You will see this and the succeeding blogs after the fact!

Springtime in Montgomery

Of all the times we’ve visited our daughter in Montgomery, Alabama, this is the first time in spring. We were totally unprepared for the floral display that greeted us: azaleas, snapdragons, geraniums, camellias, dogwood, bridal wreath, gardenias, and scores of other blooms I can’t begin to identify. The place is a riot of blossoms, and our daughter’s is the most colorful on the block. Not that she has time to tend flowers. Four grandkids live there, after all, ages 12 to 2. It just sort of grows wild.

Today, after an overly huge breakfast at the local IHOP (green eggs and ham!), we attempted to walk it off around the neighborhood. I love her neighborhood. It’s in the Dalraida district – very hilly with tidy middle-class homes nestled among towering pines and hardwoods. My daughter didn’t know the names of all the white and pink flowering trees and bushes but we enjoyed them just the same. Some folks who have the time for trimming and cultivating had neat hedgerows of solid blossoms.



Yes, the water's pink. Breast cancer month.



Other outings to more affluent areas like Eastchase found mosaic-like paved parks with fountains and statuary. Montgomery is a very beautiful city – with only one problem: the highly transient nature of their most popular eateries.



The kids, meaning Daughter and Son/law, were so eager to take me to the India Palace. By the time we made it up there, it was gone. No visit to Montgomery was complete without a night at Stevie-B’s pizza buffet. Gone. This time, before the GPS could zero in on the Pizza Hut, it was gone. Once there were even two What-A-Burgers, our fave fast food place. No more. Also vanished into Montgomery’s mysterious black hole: the China Buffet, Smoky Bones, Shoney’s, Lone Star Steak House, Taco Bell (one still remains, thank goodness), Oak Tree Market, etc. Why? Other businesses don’t seem to be suffering.

If the local newspaper, The Montgomery Advertiser, answers my Facebook query, I’ll let you know!

Where Does Space Begin?

Star Trek sonorously announces before each episode: “Space…the final frontier.” But where exactly does that frontier lie?

Well, according to the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale, the world governing body for this sort of thing, outer space begins 100 kilometers (roughly 62 miles) above sea level. This barrier is called the Kármán Line. Above that, the air is too thin for a vehicle to maintain altitude. So…once you’ve crossed Kármán, you’ve been to space.

Ah, but now the USAF weighs in. By military standards, Space starts 12 miles sooner, or 50 miles above sea level. For Americans, crossing that threshold makes a pilot an astronaut.

All of which gave NASA a bit of a headache. During the 1960s, 8 American test pilots flew the experimental X-15 above the 50-mile mark, but only 5 of them passed Kármán. Astronauts all by American military definition, but to the FAI, 3 hadn’t even been to space.

For nearly 40 years, NASA waffled on whether to recognize these X-15 pilots as astronauts. Then in 2005 the agency relented, finally awarding astronaut wings to the remaining three.

This info, including the illustration, was shamelessly copped from the March/April 2021 issue of Mental_Floss.

The Egg & I

Anyone who follows me on Facebook knew this was coming. I love this place. I eat here every chance I get!

The Egg & I was created in 1987 in Fort Collins, Colorado. Its name comes from a 1947 movie by the same name. A movie poster, featuring Fred MacMurray and Claudette Colbert, hangs by the cash register. Appropriately, the movie is based on the true story of author Betty MacDonald, whose husband informs her on their wedding night that he’s purchased an abandoned chicken farm. Also (FYI and TMI for us older types, it’s the movie that spawned the Ma and Pa Kettle series.) Now back to The Egg.

Open from 6am to 2pm weekdays (2:30pm on weekends) The Egg & I offers gourmet coffee, 100% pure-squeezed orange juice and a mind-boggling variety of menu offerings.  There are no less than six choices of benedicts, seven types of “Skillets & Scrambles,” and ten ways to enjoy “Omelettes & Frittatas.” There’s also a lengthy listing under “Eggs Olé” and don’t even get me started on the pancakes and waffles.

While the menu trends to the international, healthy, and unique (whole grains and elegant veggies like asparagus, spinach, portabella mushrooms, etc.) there’s lots of that he-man stuff, too. You know: steak, sausage, ham, biscuits & gravy, bacon, potatoes, and the like. The last time I was there, one of my brunch companions mentioned the outstanding hollandaise sauces. So I forsook my Santa Fe Huevos for a Parisian Benedict and, oh, was she right!
Of course, there is an assortment of non-egg dishes, too. At lunch, you'll find creative sandwiches, entree salads and hearty, homemade soups. But – and this is very important to me - you can always have breakfast for lunch! Okay, so I’m a breakfast freak…

So far only ten lucky states have Egg & I restaurants. If you don’t live in one of them (follow the above link to check) plan a road trip soon!