Another fabulous full day wine tour on a cool late April day. Guests Denise and Chico had driven from Anaheim to Santa Barbara to celebrate their 25th anniversary. They called Captain Jack’s Tours yesterday after finding us on Yelp and were all set to join others on a public tour.

Lucky for them, another couple had cancelled, so when I picked them up at their hotel they were thrilled to find out that their “public” tour had turned into a “private”.

As we drove north on 101, the heavy fog didn’t dampen their spirits as they marveled at the natural beauty of the Gaviota Coast, still mostly green from the rains that fell on the area this year.

Our first stop was Mosby Winery that sits at the entrance to the Santa Rita Hills AVA (American Viticultural Area) on Santa Rosa Road. I had mentioned we might get a glimpse of Mr. Mosby, the 96 year old owner, and right as we got out of the car he pulled up in a cart he was driving around his vineyard. In the year I have been giving wine country tours I had never met him, so I took this chance to introduce myself and my guests, who were delighted to meet “the man”.

Once inside the tasting room the guests were impressed by the depth of knowledge displayed by Zack, the young man who poured Mosby’s Italian varietals. Good fortune was with them again as they were the only customers during the 40 minutes spent there.

Following the Mosby Vineyard was the Andrew Murray tasting room. Even though she was busy with another couple, Taylor immediately greeted us with a warm welcome and set two glasses with menus on the counter. As my guests enjoyed the Andrew Murray setting, I gave them some privacy and returned to the SUV to continue listening to my downloaded book, Origin by Dan Brown. After about 20 minutes I returned and took their photograph in front of Murray’s personal wine collection, a massive 20 foot wall of wine bottles laying in custom made slots. I’ll add a photo later…..

The next stop was Rancho Olivos for olive oil tasting. I pointed out Mattei’s tavern as an old stagecoach stop, (reminding me that my husband and two children were currently at the Stagecoach Music Festival in Indio.) I drove through Los Olivos to give them a glimpse of the quaint town, then headed back to 154 to Roblar Road to reach Shannon’s olive oil tasting at Rancho Olivos.

The Corqis were there to greet us on cue, as was Bailey the Irish setter who spends 99% of her day lying beneath the olive oil display in hopes of a piece of bread accidentally being dropped. Shannon’s olive oil is remarkable; my favorite is the garlic rosemary. My guests purchased a few bottles then allowed me to show them the woodpecker granary tree. Thousands of acorns have been embedded into this tree by a family of woodpeckers. It is really quite fantastic to see. Again, I’ll add a photo later!

We then left and headed for Solvang. Denise and Chico had never heard of the village before, and as we drove into it they had to laugh. It looks like some sort of amusement park that needs at least one rollercoaster. I pointed out the small copy of The Little Mermaid statue (photo?!), then led them to my friend Harold Welch’s Caribbean restaurant, Hummingbird’s. They ordered the Jerk Chicken and told me it was the best they’d had.

After leaving Hummingbird’s we walked to Sort This Out Cellars, a wine tasting room that provides small production wines. Alana is the main pourer and dons rockabilly clothing and a hairdo to match (green in color). She is also extremely knowledgeable about the wines she pours which my guests appreciated. Their favorite was a warm cider they ended up purchasing a bottle of, planning to save it for Christmas. We’ll see if it lasts until then….

Our final stop was Roblar Winery. It is usually much more crowded than it was today as it is very popular with large groups. There was plenty of space at the bar for my guests and Maria greeted them warmly. They took their time with each glass, wandering the grounds and meeting other visitors. One they met suggested they buy a “Reserve” red wine. After returning inside, Maria offered them a taste of the reserve and they agreed it was delicious. They bought a bottle (or two?) and looked forward to enjoying it at home in the near future..

As I waited for them to complete their time at Roblar I ran into two other drivers that I have met over the past year. It is always fun to compare notes. Each tour company does things a little bit differently. Now that Billy and I are soon to own Captain Jack’s we want to offer the best possible tours and choices for our customers.

As I dropped Denise and Chico off, I told them what a great day it had been for me and they agreed. I gave them the name of a couple of restaurants in Santa Barbara where they might want to dine before heading back down South. They were so grateful for the day and repeatedly told me it was beyond what they had expected. This is what I love about my new life as a tour guide. I meet the nicest people! I must say I am so happy to have found the courage to say goodbye to my career as a children’s Library Teacher and head into the touring business. I’ll never forget the day I followed Captain Jack home. But that is a story for another day…..(you can reach me at embracesantabarbara@gmail.com)

Last weekend I rode my bike to the park where Earth Day was being celebrated. One block was coned off for people to test drive electric bikes on one side of the street and remote controlled skateboards on the other. Having spent thousands of hours during the late seventies and eighties on a skateboard, I thought it would be fun to try one. Riding a skateboard is pure joy.

I approached the table where the company’s rep, probably in his late twenties, was instructing a kid about seven years old how to use the control. He rode the skateboard down the block and back, then left with his father.

The rep  looked at me suspiciously, then told me the electric bikes were on the other side of the street. I told him I wanted to try the skateboard. He hesitated, pursed his lips, then grabbed a clipboard and told me I’d have to sign a liability waiver. After that, he told me I’d have to wear a helmet, and asked if I’d ever ridden a skateboard before. I just said yes.

He fiddled with the controller, gave me instructions, and said to be careful. He told me the speed range was from 1 to 15, but that he set it low for my first try. He handed me the controller then reached for his phone, no doubt ready to call 911.

I stood on the board and pushed the “forward” button. The skateboard crawled ahead at a snail’s pace. I had to put my foot on the ground to push so it would go faster. When I returned to his station I asked him what speed level he had put it on.

“Four”, he said.

“Can you bump it to 14?”, I asked.

“Sure…..”, he said hesitatingly.

I knew I had better not fall off, now that I had pressured him to increase the speed so much. I jumped on, locked my stance, and sailed away. Now we were talking! I was supposed to stay to the right of the line of cones, but as no one else was in the lanes, I couldn’t help slaloming between them as I got closer to the end.

When I returned to the start, not only the skateboard rep but the electric bike rep and a few others who had noticed me were all staring at me in shock with their mouths open. So not only did I walk away with a rush from skateboarding, but an added bonus of the rarity of impressing the younger generation!

I knew how hard it would be to raise kids. Up until I said “Yes” to my husband’s marriage proposal, I had already decided not to have kids. I liked kids, and got a teaching credential because I liked teaching kids, but to take that work home with me was not on my agenda. The man I married changed my mind. He was able to convince me that not only would he be a great dad, but he would weather any storm our marriage went through. So far he has been right.

We had a son, then a daughter. Sleepless nights, five straight years of diapers changing, instantaneous decisions, homework, meals, laundry, friends, teams, vacations, life lessons–it was NOT easy and it did NOT fly by as many people say. We worked hard to ensure that our kids’ lives were the best they could be. The experience left me exhausted, as most parents would agree.

Throughout their childhood I did my best to keep my life in balance by having an occasional “date night” with my husband or spending time with friends for a weekly beach volleyball game, a hike in the mountains, a walk on the beach, or a movie. Where those friends are now I really don’t know. I was more often than not the one to initialize a get-together, and a lack of reciprocation gets old.

Our son is now 19 and a freshman in college; our daughter is 16 and a sophomore in high school. One month ago she received her driver’s license, and we’ve given her access to a vehicle. She’s pretty good about responding to my texts, but she needs me not. That is where Duke comes in.

Duke, our 5 year old labrador, came into our lives four years after Murray, our first lab, died. My husband enjoys duck hunting, and duck hunters like to avoid going out into the cold water to retrieve the dropped duck, so having a lab is key. Duke and my husband go duck hunting for a couple of days about three times a year.

For the rest of the year, when I am at home, Duke is within inches of me. I assume this is because two times a day I feed him, walk him, and play with him, none of which the others in my household do on any regular basis.  As I write this he is lying on the floor with a small part of his paw on my foot, and thank goodness for that, because the lonely feeling that creeps into my heart after my daughter and her friend thank me for dinner then head out into the night is real, but I look over at Duke and know he looks at me as if to say I am not alone. As happy as I am that the hardest parts of child rearing are over, I am alone. A lot. And it’s going to take some getting used to.

My mom and I take a walk a few times a week. She has been alone for a number of years, and I can finally relate to what part of her life has been like. Thankfully she is one of the most positive people I know. She constantly reminds me about how much the world has to offer and how good it can feel to continually educate oneself by going to museums, reading books, and in her case, as an artist, creating things. One of my passions is talking to people, and I’ve been lucky enough to have started working as a docent/storyteller/tour guide on a monthly vintage train car that goes from Santa Barbara to San Luis Obispo and back. That fills one day. And Duke is always happy to see me come home.

I have discovered a new area of pain. I felt it once in July and it has happened again.

My son left yesterday for his Freshman year of college. There have been numerous posts on social media by other parents expressing sadness about their kids leaving for college, but I truly thought it would be different for me. I had already been through the goodbyes since he spent seven weeks in summer school at his University. I was mentally prepared not to see him until a planned trip in November, but he surprised our family recently with a post-summer school visit for two weeks. I was convinced that the second goodbye would be easy. I was wrong.

On July 3 I flew with him to Boston to help him settle in and, because I am a teacher, to take advantage of my summer break and spend a few days in an area I was excited to explore. We arrived after midnight and stayed just outside of town with a relative who helped us navigate the train system the next morning. There was a stop within a block of his dorm. He is playing basketball for the school’s team, and since the actual move-in day was July 3rd, we walked into a suite that was already filled with his three freshman teammates.

As we entered the suite they each stood up to meet us. My son had spent some time conversing with them through social media, so maybe that was why there didn’t seem to be any awkwardness. It felt like he walked into an “Insta-Fraternity”, and I knew immediately he was where he was meant to be.

One of his coaches gave us a ride to Bed, Bath, and Beyond so we could pick up items we had pre-ordered for his room. After figuring out how three large boxes and four people would fit into a sedan, my son told us he also had to grab something at Best Buy. I figured it was a new phone charger since he had forgotten his at home but it turned out to be a bit larger in size. Apparently my husband had suggested he purchase a television monitor for his video games. At that point I knew I had no say in the matter, but I did get a kick out of watching  his coach struggle to fit the 50 inch monitor into the trunk of his car!

After we got back to the dorm I realized I was unneeded. Thanks to our Boston area relative I wasn’t alone, so we said goodbye to my son and we left to explore the city.  It wasn’t until that night when I lay down in the bed he had slept in the night before when the tears started flowing. Even though I knew his dreams of playing basketball at a Division I school had come true, I couldn’t stop crying. Even though for the last couple of years I had rarely seen him around the house, I couldn’t stop crying. Even though I was sick and tired of his dirty dishes being left in the sink and his dirty clothes left all over his floor next to his unmade bed, I couldn’t stop crying. Even though he had begun to shut me out of his personal life for the last couple of years, I couldn’t stop crying. And I had a pain in a new place. It felt like it was between my heart and my stomach, but I figured that was from the rich Italian food I had eaten in the North End that day.

I got a few hours of sleep and felt much better the next day. I took the bus to Cape Cod, had a fabulous visit in Brewster, got a “Locals Tour” of the Cape including historic Provincetown, and enjoyed the high speed ferry back to Boston the following day. I met my son for dinner and was able to introduce him to two of my friends from high school who now live in the Boston area. It was a lovely evening. I spent my last night in a hotel near his school, and caught an early plane the back to California.

Fast forward seven weeks. I came home from a long day helping at my daughter’s school with registration. I was ready for some time on the couch and some channel surfing. The house had just been cleaned, so I wondered why there were two duffel bags on the couch. My first thought was perhaps they were discovered under his bed or in his closet by the young student who was now renting his room and needed the space. Then I noticed a new pair of basketball shoes attached to a strap on one of the bags. Could he have left such a nice pair of shoes? I looked away, then looked once more at the bag with the shoes and noticed the name tag. It was a tag from his University, so at that moment my whole body shuddred as I realized there was a good chance he was in town. I called his cell phone, asked him where he was, and sure enough he was in town. I was overjoyed.

For the next two weeks I found dirty dishes in the sink, dirty clothes on the floor of the spare room he moved into, and rarely saw him at home. I was able to twist his arm into accompanying me on a bike ride on the beach at low tide one morning, but that was the extent of any one on one time I got with him. On the morning of his departure back to Boston, our immediate family (plus two of his friends who showed up unexpectedly) had breakfast at a favorite local restaurant and he was asked what the highlight of his two week break was. I asked if it was the bike ride with me, knowing it wasn’t, but he made us all smile by saying that everything about his break was great.

After breakfast we stopped at his pre-school to take a picture that was similar to the one that was taken the day he started pre-school. Then I drove him to the Airbus pick up spot for his ride to LAX, after which I drove about one mile before I was teary eyed. The pain that came with the tears was again in that place between my heart and my stomach. I guess that spot has been saved for this feeling. The feeling of losing your kid but knowing he was where he should be.

Embrace Santa Barbara

My friend Terry and I went on a field trip yesterday to the Santa Maria Valley. We are docents on the Central Coast Flyer which travels between Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo once or twice a month. Passengers enjoy traveling along the Gaviota Coast, through Hollister Ranch, Vandenberg Air Force Base, Jalama, Casmalia, the Santa Maria Valley, the Edna Valley, and stopping in SLO for about an hour before heading back to Santa Barbara.

California Highway 101 cuts away from the coast at Gaviota and does not deliver a coastal view until Pismo Beach, so train riders see sights not commonly seen. Not only is it a treat to see Pt. Conception and Point Arguello, but the area looks like it did thousands of years ago and allows one to step back in time. Terry and I have done extensive research on the history of the many Chumash villages that thrived along the Central Coast, and have collected stories handed down from J.J. Hollister, great-grandson of Colonel W.W. Hollister and some from present and past military personnel stationed at Vandenberg.

A few months back an elderly passenger told us about her childhood growing up in the Santa Maria Valley. Betteravia, a derivation of the French word for sugar beets is presently the name of a road but was once also the name of a tiny town. It housed the Union Sugar Company to process those sugar beets. As a high school student on her way to Santa Maria High, the factory would be boiling the tops of the sugar beets so the cows could more easily digest them. Unfortunately, the stench that came with this process was almost unbearable, so a clear memory of hers was of every passenger having to hold their nose as the bus passed the factory!

We exited the freeway on Betteravia and headed to a gathering of the “Friends of the Santa Maria Railroad”, a short line that travels to and from Gemco near Van Nuys. Our guide, Nathan, explained to us that incoming trains bring freight such as John Deere tractors, liquid fertilizer, propane, lumber, and drywall. Outgoing freight other than empty containers can be frozen strawberries, broccoli, celery, cauliflower, and artichokes, but most of the vegetables are shipped on trucks.

After that enjoyable visit we headed to the small town of Guadalupe (population 7,500). Our goal was to visit the Dune Center so we could be more informed about the dunes we ride past on the trains, and where a few movies had been filmed such as The Ten Commandments in 1921. To our dismay, the Center was closed due to plumbing problems. Terry suggested we instead walk through the cemetery we had passed earlier. What surprised us the most was the number of cultures that were represented and how they were all mixed together rather than in separate sections as we had both seen elsewhere. We saw names representative of Swiss-Italians (Tognazini, Pezzoni, Tomasini, Morgani, Spazzadeschi), Japanese, Norwegian, Chinese, Danish, Mexican, and Philippino!

We then headed over to the Guadalupe Historical Museum where three local men (all in their nineties) warmly welcomed us while tending their bi-monthly Saturday barbecue. Inside the museum we were greeted by Dolores and Richard. Dolores had lived her entire life in Guadalupe and spent the next 45 minutes showing us historical artifacts and photos on the history of the town.

We then headed to the Oso Flaco Preserve, once a thriving Chumash settlement and visited by Spanish Explorer Portola. We saw white pelicans and other wildlife as we walked along a man-made boardwalk that stretched at least half a mile to the Dunes. At the beach one can see Pt. Sal to the left and Pt. San Luis to the right along with the “five cities” (Grover Beach, Arroyo Grande, Pismo Beach, Oceano, Shell Beach) and Avila Beach and its pier.

After we left Oso Flaco we took a quick drive back through Guadalupe to get a glimpse of the original K-8 Guadalupe Union School (kids went to Santa Maria High School until Righetti was built), designed in the gorgeous Spanish Revival Style (it is now the City Hall). We then found highway 138 and headed to Orcutt, where Terry promised an unforgetable meal at the Far Western Tavern, an establishment that originated in Guadalupe. (It was moved to Orcutt in 2012 by the children of the founders because of retrofitting issues on the building in Guadalupe).

The meal was incredible, not to mention the homemade potato chips served as a free appetizer. We headed home exhausted but thrilled to have spent the day learning so much about our northern county. We look forward to our next train trip on Saturday, September 3 with Chocolatier Maya who will give us a history on chocolate, where she purchases hers, and will of course indulge on samples of her chocolate. Any interested parties for this trip or future vintage rail car trips contact Terry at 680-0397.

After Dad moved out, we (my mom and my younger brother) had to downsize into a smaller house. After living in Samarkand in a five bedroom, four bathroom, we ended up in a three bedroom, one bathroom on the “glamorous” Westside, as my mom called it, on Mountain Avenue.

It was the summer of 1976, and my brother and I got to know the neighborhood by riding our bikes all over the place. Harding Elementary School was right across the street, and a lot of kids hung out there during non-school hours. There was handball, swings, basketball, four square, and a lot of pavement instead of grass. This was ok because we liked to skateboard and there was plenty of room to do that.

Mostly it was boys who hung out at the school, and I noticed that a few of them were there every afternoon around 5 p.m. They all had big white canvas bags lying next to their bikes. The bags turned out to be for newspapers, as each of them had a route with anywhere from 50-100 customers.

I thought that sounded fun, so I signed up to be a paper girl. Every day except Sunday 72 papers would be delivered around 3 p.m. and I was supposed to have them delivered to the houses on my route by 5:30. I would sit on my front lawn, fold the papers, stuff them into the bag, then slowly lift the bag over my shoulders so I had a protrusion of papers in front and in back of me. It was pretty slow going for the first 20 houses or so, but then the load would lighten and I would twist the bag around so I could take papers from the back.

The worst part of having a paper route was collecting the monthly fee. Here I was, a 12 year old girl walking the neighborhood at night with cash in my pockets. Besides the obvious danger, doors were often answered by elderly people who could not come up with the $3.75 fee and would ask me to come back another time. Needless to say, homework did not get the attention it should have.

It took about five minutes to collect from each customer so with 72 customers the minimum amount of time it took was about six hours. The News-Press would send me a monthly bill, so I would collect what I owed and hope that every other customer would pay me because that was where my profit lay. I am sure there were more than a few customers who knew they could just keep sending me away and eventually I would give up.

Sometimes the other carriers and I would have races that we would plan during school (we all went to La Cumbre Junior High). We all received our papers within 15 minutes of each other since we all lived within a few blocks. It would have been a funny sight to see from the air: four or five newspaper carriers racing around the neighborhood trying to deliver papers as quickly as possible. Whoever got to the schoolyard first was the winner. There were probably a lot of newspapers in bushes on those days.

On Sundays the papers had to be delivered by 7 a.m. Once in a while my dad would show up and help me pile the papers into his BMW 2002. It had a sunroof and I would stand on the passenger seat with my upper body sticking out of the sunroof. He would hand me papers and I would throw them from the car. That was always fun. Then he would drive me home, drop me off, and I would go back to bed.

I believe I only had my route for about a year. My mom still lives in the house on Mountain Avenue and I can still remember which houses were my customers. Some I can still remember their names, or the stories they insisted I listen to as I waited on their front porches while their spouses rustled up $3.75. But I will save those for another post.

November 1, 1975. I was sitting on my bike seat with my feet touching the ground. Just sitting there deciding what to do next. The bike was a red Schwinn 5-speed Stingray. The gear shift sat on the crossbar with a big black “5” on it. I was probably leaning back on the banana seat, spinning the sissy bars around when all of a sudden I looked up and saw my dad drive the Volvo down Las Positas toward the stop light at State Street.

My heart leaped! It wasn’t often that I just saw my dad away from home without knowing I was going to see him. I raced down the path, across the TG & Y parking lot, keeping my eyes on his car as he turned left on State. I was a few cars behind him, riding the wrong direction on the sidewalk, and saw him turn left on Broadmoor Plaza. I knew that street was a dead end so I was sure that I would catch him!

What a thrill it would be to see him! How happy he would be to see me! I wondered where he was going? I was about 100 yards behind him when his brakes lights went on as he neared the cul-de-sac. Then it hit me: he was moving out. I had been pedaling pretty hard so as I glided closer and closer to him I realized that it hadn’t been such a good idea to follow him. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a thrill to see him. Maybe he wouldn’t be happy to see me.

As my bike came within feet of the Volvo he was just stepping out of it. He looked at me and his face sank. He most definitely did NOT want me to see him moving out.

“Oh, hi dear.” Big sigh. “I didn’t want you to be a part of my moving out”.

“It’s ok, dad. I can help you!”.

I don’t remember pedaling back that day but I am pretty sure my vision was impaired by the tears I had held in while I helped him carry boxes up the stairs into his apartment.