The Ash Creek Papers

It was either my Sophomore or Junior Year at Union when I took a Graphic Arts course with Arnie Bittelman. For the most part it was a photography class… and I would learn how to develop my own film and make my own prints… and I actually learned something about composition and use of light and shadow.

My first 35mm camera was a hand-me-down from Alan (he was also into photography and had moved on to a better camera), and on a February weekend home I took Ellen over to Hammonasset Beach in Madison. I had decided that this would be a suitable location to pursue my art.

The day was spectacular. The sky so blue that it hurt the eye. Sun so bright that it set every object into steep contrast of light and shadow. I thought it was a perfect day and location to be shooting in black & white.

I loved the quiet of the beach. The cold air and blowing sand bit into my skin, my eyes teared and I couldn’t stop my nose from running… what we do for our art. I start taking shots… just of sea grass, of the boardwalk, a tipped trash barrel looking like a cornucopia for the seagulls. Plenty shots of Ellen, the collar of her short coat brought up to protect her ears from the cold… hands thrust into her pockets. Funny… for someone who always photographed so beautifully, she was very self conscious of being photographed.

And somewhere during this “shoot” something else caught my eye. A solitary woman walking along the boardwalk. No… she is not alone. She has a leash in her left hand and now I see her companion. A dog is sniffing about the beach. Not a fancy breed; but a Yellow Lab mixture is my guess and very happy to be off lead.

The woman is wearing a long dark coat with a shawl lapel, she is wearing a silk scarf on her head, sunglasses that nearly covers her upper face & red lipstick. She wears thin gloves and there is a swing to her arms that matches her firm determined step.

She walks past… and I begin shooting. The dark figure receding into the sun, casting a shadow against the sun drenched planking, the edge of her scarf spirited away from her face by the stiff breeze off the water.

I love everything about a beach in winter. Its solitude… and spotting a person who shares in its appreciation is never a violation of that solitude.

I go back there again… this time to take my troubled mind to run on its wooden boards.

I don’t like to run, although I have done a fair amount of it over the years. The most important thing to running distances is establishing a breathing pattern, next the stride and arm swing… and then, once those issues are resolved, I worry about not tripping… you know, if you don’t pick your feet up off the ground… you stumble on a stick, turn your ankle on a rock… stupid stuff.

The fact that there was a lengthy period when I was running 7 to 10 miles every day may come as a surprise. Ask Jonathan Mix… we competed in the 440 for Hamden Hall… an event Jonthan would usually win. An event in which I would usually finish third (I think I finished second exactly once… I think we had a Meet against the Jewish Home for the Aged). The fact that I completed the 440 was a miracle in itself… I was tired just taking our team jog lap before the start of a meet.

But somehow I find myself on that boardwalk again, on an another brilliant day. The sky so flawless it has to be an indication of the existence of God. It’s not February; but a warm month… and I fall into my breathing pattern. I see no one on the sand, no one in the water… nothing to distract me from hearing my breaths, to make sure the cadence is correct. My stride is put to what I reckon is an 8 minute mile… my arm swing counter balances the stride and my fingers are loose and open.

I have gone what I judge to be two miles… the minimum distance it takes for me to forget that I am running. The dunes to the right hold tufts of sea grass against the breeze and the area beyond the hillocks is completely hidden from view… in the distance you can see the salt marsh and tiny cottages spaced along its fringe…

Now, it’s merely a matter of putting one foot in front of the next. Hear the footfall on each board like the crack of a snare drum. The boards have long since turned a weathered grey… the effect of hours of sun, sand and sea… but in the bright sun, even the dull colour reflects white…

The boardwalk is an endless ribbon softly undulating as it traces the long shore line… one step after the next, sweat stinging the eyes, a re-check of stride… more steps, more miles…

The path now takes its turn, the boards pivot to the sea… not a raised quai; but rather a simple causeway kissing the top of the water… just to run toward where sky and sea meet. Step after step, one more mile to do, and another, and another… further and further out to sea… then I see the figure.

Each stride on the wooden path brings me no closer. Is it stationary, or perhaps moving away at the same pace? I try to blink the sweat away… to clear my eyes. I pick up speed to close the distance between us. The breeze strengthens off the water… and I can faintly see the impression of a scarf lifting in the wind.

It’s been a long time…

“Don’t raise your voice,” she said. “If I have to say this again Alex, you will have to go to your room for half an hour with no music, no computer and no games!”

I shudder… that sounds like condemning the poor kid to Hell… maybe worse!

Alex, perhaps from past experience sees thru the vacancy of this threat and continues to splash water on his brother. “Quit it Alex! Mom! Tell Alex to quit it!” This was Nick.

“Alex! Stop it now or it will be an hour in your room… you’re disturbing that man!”

That man was me.

I will admit that the boys’ voices had an irritating high pitched quality that knifed thru the calm morning air. But I was certainly not disturbed. I was more off put by the Mother’s attempt at discipline. Maybe she thought there was a prohibition against shrill voices… You know, that sign with the pool regulations: No glass receptacles, No running, No diving, No laughing, No shrill voices (thank God peeing in the pool wasn’t on the “no” list).

The pool at Woodbury Hills is a quiet place. A dozen or so chaise lounges, three umbrellas, two tables with chairs. The pool area is surrounded by a combination of pine, shade trees and well manicured bushes. A tennis court set to one side. You can hear the birds chirping away, the hum of a solitary plane over head and on this morn the shrill voices of Alex and Nick.

I had gone to the pool to read some M.F.K. Fisher and to work on my base tan. Basically, to de-stress from what had been a stressful work week in a connection of several stressful work weeks.

Perhaps it was the young boys’ misfortune that there were no other shrill voices to blend with their own. No other giggles, no other laughter, no other plaintiff pleas for help. So in contrast to the peaceful setting of this pool, their loud behavior had the appearance of impropriety.

I am reading Fisher’s An Alphabet for Gourmets, I turn to the chapter “B is for Bachelors,” and think, “I wish there were 10 more kids in the pool.” Now the residents of Woodbury Hill might disapprove; but a pool is the place for hoots and hollers.

I think back to being a kid at Woodbridge Country Club. Of swimming and carrying on with Gary Moss. Of jumping from pool side into my Father’s waiting arms… one of many kids doing the same thing with their Fathers. I am sure that our voices could be heard from the neighboring road… our voices, and the birds… and the crickets & cicadas. This was summer to me.

And years later, when we would take our kids to the Jewish Community Center’s pool (50 yards from a part of Long Island Sound that so few swam in), the sounds of summer continued. The splashing, the “Lookit me’s”, the shouting and the parental threats, too. It was all good.

There was a splendid multi generational quality to those pools. Moms, Dads, the Kids & Grandparents. At the JCC it was easy to separate the “happy Grandparents” from the “crotchety Grandparents.” The crotchety ones were unhappy about being bumped into by a seven year old playing “Marco Polo.” The happy Grandparents would simply laugh and continue their swim to the deep end.

There is no deep end to escape to at Woodbury Hill. A thrown tennis ball comes uncomfortably close to me… part of an invented game Alex and Nick have devised. I applaud their creative skill. Invented games are so much better than established ones. I wonder what punishment the Mother has planned for this malfeasance. I was wrong. No threat this time… “Alex, play your game at the other end, away from the man.”

The man? Do I really look the corporate type?

The serenity of this setting might have been lost… if that’s what you came looking for. Me? As I say, I was there to hit some Fisher and grab some “rays”. And I got some sounds of summer as a bonus. Hey, you can’t beat that.

Zack assured me that my brief visit to California wouldn’t be complete without a visit to Sonny McClanes on Wilshire in Santa Monica. I thought that I had fulfilled all the obligations for an “LA Badge” by hitting an In and Out Burger. But the way that I look it… now that I have been to Sonny McClanes I’m at least half way to California Eagle Scout.

When Zack suggested that we hit this saloon, and that the saloon had an “everything Boston” motif… Red Sox, Patriots, Celtics and Bruins, I nearly fainted… I mean LA is neutral turf, no? Why are we heading behind enemy lines? There can only be one reason… this place has to be good.

Now… I don’t know LA… and there have been citizens that have pointed out that places I “know”, I don’t really know. But my initial read on Sonny McClanes was that it was closest LA had to offer to the dart and beer joints that Zack had at his beck and call in the Village (that’s New York, for those of you who don’t know).

So after a splendid dinner at Il Moro, we picked up Anders and headed to Santa Monica for a “night cap”. I do not love beer, nor do I throw darts (or is the correct verb “shoot” or “hurl” or “fling”?)… so the service of beer and the quality of the “dart lanes”, or is it “dart pitch”, or maybe “dart venue”, is lost on me.

I drink beer only to slake a thirst, not for enjoyment.

Darts? Not permitted when I was growing up… you could put out an eye… or if you slipped and fell you could break your neck. In either case, my parents and Mommie Soph in particular, regarded this activity as highly dangerous. Only ill behaved boys, who probably had BB guns, too (and didn’t do well in their homework) fooled around with darts. Mommie Soph also didn’t approve of archery.

So here we are at Sonny McClanes… a pitcher of Bud, karioke going full tilt (why do people who are “three sheets to the wind” think they can carry a tune?), a game of 8 Ball in progress… and two dart boards currently in use.

Beth has brought her own set of darts. I guess this is the norm among dart enthusiasts… it’s like having your own bowling ball or pool cue. Hers were in a simple case; but I can imagine that the “fancy Dan’s” sport their darts in cases of Corinthian leather with a handle.

Meanwhile, the mere fact that Beth has her own darts I find a bit intimidating. Zack would tell me later that between the two, Beth is the superior player (or maybe Beth told me that).

While Zack and Anders arrange their game with a pair of contestants, Beth and I talk… she tries to explain the scoring, which I think I understood (my Mother tried to explain scoring in Mah Jong to me once… I think I threw up).

On this night, Beth was not involved in the competition, although the boys used her darts (which I assume is not as bad as using someone else’s toothbrush). Our responsibility this evening was to consume beer and watch. During a lull in the action, Beth mentions that she is a better player if she’s had a “few”. Apparently, inhibitions drop, you throw your darts pure and clean, without secondary thoughts. But there is a critical point when too much hops impede accuracy.

I can relate to that. When I am at Ash Creek, scribbling a few lines, my best words… colourful adjectives, snappy verbs and funny nouns come to me a third of the way into Wild Turkey number two. By number three my ideas begin to fade and my penmanship suffers.

Our attention is back to the contest. Maybe Zack and Anders didn’t bring their “A” game on this night… or maybe these guys were just better. Granted, I don’t know the nuances but it looked like the guys from NYU were getting pasted.

It was nice to see that their opponents were gracious in victory. It turns out that it was a father and son team. We were introduced and it was handshakes all around.

We finish our beers and I look about the room.

The folks seemed to be there for the beer, for the karioke, for pool and darts… and not as an endorsement of Boston sports.

And then again… nothing “Boston” was happening that night so that the “Nation” was not out in force… or maybe this is a very lonely out post of the “Nation”… confined to the saloon keeper.

Yeah. That must be it. Screw him.

Still… I’m going to claim my LA Badge for “Drinking Behind Enemy Lines.”

When you live in the East, States are of sensible size. A three hour drive from Norwalk, CT and you can be in any one of 8 different States (although it would take another half hour to get to UCONN, reminding me of the line “you can’t get there from here”). A three hour drive from Los Angeles puts you in wine country just north of Santa Barbara… not a bad place to be; but well within California’s borders.

It’s just that Easterners can fall into the trap of thinking that California is just one State… just bigger… as opposed to thinking that California is really ten or twelve States and unfortunately the Governing bodies ignored realistic divisions.

To be honest, if I were a resident of Santa Ynez, Buellton or Solvang, for example, I would vote to separate… the hell with LA and San Fran… A plague on both your houses!

On my recent trek across the Hudson, Zack had organized a trip to wine country… the area featured in the book, and most importantly, the film Sideways. Coming from inside the wine industry, I will tell you that the film has made a startling impact in our business. Interest in Pinot Noir has sky rocketed, and sales in Merlot has tumbled.

I loved the movie. And while I recognize that terrific wine is made in many regions of California, my preferences for wine remain in Bordeaux, Tuscany and Spain. Still, the region around Santa Ynez is compelling and the wines are certainly worthy of sampling in the numerous tasting rooms. I haven’t been to Napa or Sonoma for years… but “Sideways Country” strikes me as less pretentious. Absent is that sense of self importance that infects the better known regions to the North.

The Lafond Winery was our second stop, our party (which in addition to Zack and Beth, included Anders — like Beth a Ph.D. candidate — and Michelle — a brand new Doctor) quickly commandeered two picnic tables for my favorite repast: “plowman’s lunch”. Our banquet included six different types of cheese, dried salami, a baguette, healthy crackers with seeds, tomato & mozzarella salad, grapes, apples & pears. For a beverage: Sanford Chardonnay or Lafond Santa Rita Hills Syrah… or both if you were so moved. I enjoyed both.

The tables were off by a shade tree and offered a good view of a vineyard and the hills beyond. Our lunch was easily paced and surprisingly filling… we pushed on to complete the winery portion of our expedition in spite of the lethargy that followed the feast.

If you want a name of a winery to seek out… try Gainey. They make a very good Sauvignon Blanc that spends some time in oak giving it more of a Bordeaux feel, and less racy than the fruit driven examples coming from New Zealand. It is one of the best Cali Sauv Blancs I have tasted. The wine of the day, however, went to Gainey’s Syrah. Deeply hued, dark fruit and cocoa on the bouquet, seamless transition to the palate. Tannins well integrated, supple and bright with no hard edges on the finish. Well structured, not just a simple jam jar.

For dinner that night we chose AJ Spurs over the Hitching Post. Both restaurants were made famous by Sideways. The restaurants are yards from each other and they are in fact a pleasant walking distance from the “Windmill” Motel. And when you make the walk over to the restaurants you are subjected to razzing from the local citizenry, who honk their horns as they pass.

Anders and Zack had been to both restaurants previously and said that the Hitching Post had a better wine list; but they liked the food better at AJ Spurs. Spurs has to have the largest taxidermy collection outside of New York’s Museum of Natural History. Complete animals… a Bison, a Polar Bear, a Grizzly Bear, a Lion… they were all over the place & more on the wall. This was not going to be a place to ask for a veggie plate.

Nor was I going to ask for a Pink Squirrel. I enjoyed a Bombay Martini served in my own souvenir shaker (I love the extra “dividend” that stays cooling on ice ’til adequate space is cleared in the glass). In deference to Sideways we selected a Pinot Noir to enjoy with our dinner. The dinner was in fact delicious and ample. I can’t recall having a better Rib-eye.

Not everyone loves wine as much as I do, and you don’t have to be a wine lover to enjoy the village of Solvang… even though it sits square in the middle of Wine Country. After we checked out of the Windmill (AKA Days Inn) we headed to the Danish Pancake House in Solvang for breakfast.

It was one of many places along the street that catered to the early breakfast and lunch crowd. We had a 20 minute wait to get our table… plenty of time to inspect the neighboring wine tasting/gourmet food/chotchke place next door. This was one of many “tasting rooms” available in the Village… wines tasted did not come from a single winery; but rather from a selection. Real good idea.

The breakfast was splendid… crepe-like Danish pancakes, fresh fruit, eggs benedict, plump Danish sausages and the sun shinning on it all.

After, it was time to stroll… which seems to be the municipal pastime of the Village. The various buildings look like they have been plucked from Copenhagen… a lot of stucco (and faux stucco) and pitched roofs. This leitmotif is not confined to a single street, but extended to side streets and secondary avenues as well.

Yes, the place has a “touristy” feel. But I could overlook the obvious commercial aspects for this important reason: no national chains. No Dunkin Donuts, no Starbucks, no Walden Books, no GAP, no Baskin Robbins, no Taco Bell… no, no, no. You get the idea.

Not too many places like that around anymore… Taos, NM comes to mind.

The drive back to Los Angeles was not as much fun as the drive to the destination… although we had one more stop to more or less complete my first visit to Los Angeles in 20+ years. Before we got home we stopped at an In and Out Burger. The only items on the menu are burgers, fries and soda. Not bad.

The only thing missing was a bottle of Ch. Cheval Blanc to enjoy with our burgers. That would have truly completed our Sideways tour.

But I think we did just fine. I can’t wait to do it again. I just wish that “Sideways Country” was a bit closer to this side of the Hudson.