For almost 15 years she was the official guardian of the scraps, greeter and love sponge at the Beazley House.  

She took her duties very seriously and never missed a day of work. It was a job description she could have written herself, if she’d only had opposable thumbs. She was perfectly suited to her innkeeping career, having been born with a seemingly insatiable appetite for crackers, a ready, welcoming smile and a starlet’s love of attention.

Although she knew she wasn’t allowed in the kitchen, Sissy would deftly position herself between the dining room door and the kitchen counter where the guests’ dishes came to be cleaned off before washing. She had a better understanding of the laws of gravity than an MIT grad student.

Never mind that we all had to step over her, she was on post, on duty. And if we failed to recognize her “cracker count” was short for a given morning Sissy was quick with a cold-nose nudge to set the record straight.

Breakfast done it was time for a mid morning nap between Mom’s computer and the innkeeper’s desk. “The corner” was her snooze spot and we had better remember no naps began without a treat.

When guests began arriving in the afternoon it was “meet and greet” whether they came with a furry companion or, sadly, alone. While these new “family friends” were checking in, Sissy would dutifully stand close or lay at their feet so they could pet her, knowing they were missing their doggy companions.

If her “new best friend” was a particularly good patter he/she would be treated to the privilege of actually rubbing her tummy which would be accompanied by squirms and riffs of auto leg rotations. We called it “doing the Elvis.”

In her dotage Sissy had taken to longer and longer naps in the coolness of the car port , leaving active play with guests and their dogs to sister Autumn, “Tummy.”  This is not to say she completely abandoned the field of play. She would supervise and occasionaly steal the ball to allow her sister to rest and calm down. 

Her end came yesterday after a miserable week with her third attack of Pancreatitis. She still came to work, but hung out alone, sleeping fitfully on the cool cement. She would dutifully raise her head when we came to check on her. But refused to eat or drink, or even move.

After work she was happy to be loaded into her beloved PT cruiser (read den) for the ride home. Still refusing food and drink she accepted a couple of treats as we petted her and cleaned her up for her final performance.

She would parade one last time down the street, checking messages and stopping to look both ways before crossing. She was slow, but smiling. Then it was into her rolling den for the last trip to the vet.

A lady to the end she was released from this world of pain as we gently rubbed her, our tears washing the way. And in a moment she was gone.

Every time friends visit we get the opportunity to become our guests all over again.

We can see our valley through their eyes. We can test our restaurants and taste our Napa Vintners’ wines.

This past weekend was no exception. Dear friends came from near and far. We needed no special occasion, no momentous birthday or anniversary to remind us to celebrate the gift of life.
The first night we went to Uva Trattoria in Napa. This lively, locals favorite is perfect for large and noisy groups like ours. We know we will be treated like favorite family and we won’t offend others when the wine flows and the laughter grows.

Not only is the service great, but the food is excellent and a very good value. Uva waives corkage on the first bottle of wine we bring and charges only $10 there after. And if you buy THEIR wine corkage is waived accordingly.

Uva’s food reflects the Italian influence of its name. The freshest of seasonal ingredients are offered as specials along with dishes for which customers return time and again.

While we didn’t need any help with entertainment, Uva features Jazz and other music Wednesday, Friday and Sunday evenings.

The rest of the weekend we hosted barbecues at Laurel Hill, our residence. This required that we shop at the Farmer’s market and, of course, go wine tasting.

Wine tasting is a bit like kissing a first date: you find out a lot with just your lips.

Grant at Jessup Cellars had graciously invited us to his Yountville tasting room. Even though we are very familiar with Jessup wines (Grant pours regularly at our Friday night wine tastings) we look forward to tasting Jessup wines ANYTIME.

Not only is Grant the consummate host, but he has helpers as beautiful as his wines. And they are knowledgeable without being boring or over bearing.  Andrea Wolfe, a dear friend as well, took over part way through our nearly two hour tasting. She led us through Jessup Zins and ended our visit with Port and chocolate.

The next day Carol ventured out into the Valley after showing off downtown Napa’s new River Front and the Oxbow Market Place. For anyone who hasn’t been in Napa in the last 6 months, there’s been quite a change. Gone are the construction zones which tied up traffic and blocked views. In their place are beautiful new buildings and a river walk all the way from Veterans Park to Napa Mill. Granted most of the new buildings  await tenants because of the soft economy, but they are waiting patiently.

After strolling and sipping at some of our downtown tasting rooms, Carol ventured to Mumm Napa Valley for some of the bubbly. Mumm offers some of the best values in sparkling and still wines and a view to die for. Our guests always find the free photo gallery with a standing Ansel Adams exhibit  fascinating.

My friend Eddie Zale and I visited the tasting rooms of Girard and then Hope and Grace in Yountville on a busy Sunday afternoon. Our welcome was a warm as the Indian Summer and the wines spectacular.

Ahhh, the Good Life!

I only need to smell smoke to feel the heat that nearly killed me 30 some years ago.

I was a young photojournalist working for two daily newspapers in Reno, Nevada covering a wildfire named “the Comstock”.  A writer can conjure a scene after it’s occurred with descriptive phrases, but a photographer needs to witness it.

As the first (and it turned out only) Reno newspaper rep on the scene I was aware I would be responsible for more than just capturing images of burning brush. Because I had graduated from the University of Nevada, Reno’s Journalism department I was expected to write the story as well as shoot the pictures, even if I couldn’t spell.

The fire was roaring up steep hills and box canyons as it climbed Geiger Grade headed toward historic Virginia City, the original Comstock lode.  Firefighters with the Bureau of  Land Management (BLM)  crewed a brand new,  specialized machine dubbed the “Dragon Wagon” for it’s reputed ability to fight fire with invincibility.

The Dragon Wagon was no where in sight so I ran to catch up with an old fashioned hand crew manning a lowly pickup truck.  As I rounded a blind curve,  ahead of me stood the fire crew its path totally blocked by fire and thick smoke.

Deciding I had taken enough pictures after all, I turned and ran back around the curve, only to find another newspaper’s photographer running toward me, choking on the solid wall of smoke blocking the only way out.

We scrambled aboard the pickup as it inched its way further up the canyon. As the smoke folded us in its smothering shroud, I heard my companion scream he was on fire. One of the firemen doused us all and yelled to stay low. As I pressed my face into the hub of a spare tire in the truck bed I wondered if I could stand the heat much longer.

We were stopped now. The driver blinded, suffocating with us;  we could do no more than hold on.

As the cinders burned holes in my wet clothes I gasped greasy air and listened to the tall sagebrush crackle and hiss.  The fire pushed us down like a giant hand.

Just before blacking out I was conscious of being doused again, and being able to breathe without choaking. The smoke was lifting, heat abating as the fierce flames had consumed all available fuel.

The fire had burned completely over us, turning us into sooty scarecrows.  My stinging-shut eyes opened onto a scene of  blacken destruction, 6 foot brush reduced to scrawny tendrils. We inched up the road.

Ahead, off the road and impaled on a still burning clump of sagebrush was the  “Dragon Wagon, ” engine still running, it was abandoned, its doors open. The crew was no where in sight.  So much for invincibility.

Looking over the cab of our fire truck I noticed the heat which had scorched us had deformed our conical red light,  melting it like a gum drop. The view from the truck was of a blacken landscape, still smoldering. In the distance we could see the bedraggled, but uninjured crew from the ill-fated “Dragon Wagon.”

Looking into their sweat-streaked faces as they approach, I recgonized the emotion I was feeling: an overwhelming sense of relief. We had all survived.