Dear Pretties.  Some Halloweens are dull, I’m not a big Halloween person.  I liked them more when I lived in neighborhoods where people came to the door; that’s been awhile.  This one looked to be dull, what with its rain and loud 2nd-grade party on tap at 1, but then a package arrived.

Tolstoy, or maybe it was Socrates (or maybe neither) said there are only two stories — “someone takes a journey” and “a package comes to the door.”  There’s nothing like a package at the door and everytime I get one I vow to pay it forward.  I will this time, I will!  My package had some candy and toys for the kids, but also, a signed Wordy Shipmates! 

I have issues with Ms. Vowell, you know.  I’m not going to kid you.  I grew up smart and clever in a red town and I played the exact same xylophone solo in the marching band, so why she gets all the attention I don’t know.

Still, a present!  A fun thing to read!  There’s an audio copy, too, that goes to A. for his long rides in cars.

Earlier, I worked and was fitted for glasses, in that order.  I’m sad to say my book is going very much like the McCain campaign.  It’s erratic.  I change style / message / substance sometimes twice a day.  I pull in characters off the street without vetting them, it’s caused some embarrassment.  My book is cranky and tries to use glitz to hide its lack of substance. 

I think what’s in order for my book is a guest spot at SNL, I’ll call them today.  JM has already got this Saturday, but the week after that I’ll have my book go on.  I think it’s just what my book needs.  A little levity while it tries to regroup and find its voice again. 

30 Rock next.

[Thank you, H.!  You're the best.]

I’m sorry, H! — It was Tuesday after three, I was picking phones up on Tuesday.  I blew it, I should have called you.  Yesterday after three we were running around. A party there, something here, another thing three blocks down. But today between 2:45 and 4:00, I’m going to call. You’ll be leaving work or on a bus or maybe walking around on rainy streets, is it raining?

I’m focused on small things again today, it’s the week of small things. Remembering, for example, to put the check in the mail. And petting Scruffy and polishing a chapter and roasting the beets from CSA for beet salad lunch. That’s all, that’s enough. I’m working in the front of the house, which is more scenic but less connected. My connection is slow and creaky from here, who cares. There’s a router I need to buy, but it’s not on the small list.  It’s on another list called “Requires Too Many Steps.” That list is kept in a drawer.

The small list is watching the bird that just landed on the dead plant outside, and being happy someone found something useful in the dead plant. Small. Small potatoes, small words, small animals and people, everything this week: small.

Today, 70 years ago, martians invaded New Jersey. I wish they’d invade Bills Street. In a small way, though, I wish it smally.

Oh, I had a strange dream about A., or maybe not so strange. Cheri, a girl I went to high school with moved in, she took a room downstairs. One day before lunch I walked by her room and she called me in, she was furious. She accused me of unpacking her suitcase and arranging all of her clothing, perfectly folded, into drawers. I laughed. I told her she obviously knew little about me; that I was the last person on earth who would take something from a suitcase, much less fold it and put it somewhere. I told her it was likely A. who folded her into drawers.  After that we grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch.

Here are some shadows.

Voting early is dumb, I oversold it yesterday.  Now there’s nothing to do all week, no taking time off from work Tuesday, no cookies.  Do they have cookies when you vote?  They should.  I don’t like cookies, I like the idea of them, though. 

I haven’t voted in a booth, ever, so I don’t know how it goes, except that people seem to do it at libraries.  Is that where you go? 

RSG has written some wonderful words about Prop 8 on her blog.  It’s dumb, we all know that.  Deep down in their hearts, even Prop 8 supporters know, that not only is it wrong, it’s really dumb.  They should mostly feel silly. 

I read the script of one of the pro ads:  Dull bigoty parents exchange horrified looks when their precious princess tells them  — GASP! — sometimes men marry men, and women marry women.  She learned it in, good God, SCHOOL of all places.  Scary.  [Revisit Loving v. Virginia for fun.]

So, I’m a parent.  And my kids are cute and precious, and while there’s not a chance in hell their Catholic elementary school is going to talk about the real world, I have no problem doing it.  Gay marriage, or love is not a big dramatic sit-downy thing.  It’s much easier to talk about people who love each other than to explain why we blow people up in wars, that’s one I have trouble with. 

C. sent the kids a kid’s book, a bio of Elton John.  It’s a really cute book and I don’t know where she got it, but on page 35 Elton holds hands with a boy.  And then he loves the boy and later he marries him.  You can imagine how traumatic it was to have my children — right here in their home! — see a boy hold hands with a boy. 

I didn’t have time to call a conference with my spiritual leaders and district representatives, and hypocritical bigoty community pillars, so I winged it.  I told them this:

“That’s Elton’s boyfriend.  Sometimes boys have boyfriends and girls have girlfriends and sometimes boys marry boys and girls marry girls.”

Now, of course, they’re ruined and will be boinking sheep or maybe Scruffy before puberty hits, we all know about slippery slopes.  But whatever, I gave it a shot.  They looked at each other and giggled and shrugged their shoulders.  Then we played Battleship and I cheated to help G. win because that can be one hell of a long game.  All in all there was very little horror.  

These are simple matters.  If some of us weren’t so bats**t crazy, just think what kind of tolerant generation we could raise.  Sigh.

I voted today.  Voting is fun, I’m all done.  I put my ballot in the mail and my local vote-counter people should get it by 5:00 tomorrow, is what I’m thinking.

Also, my front door squeaks.  It’s a brand-new door, months old, not even a year.  That’s a human year, though, in door years I think it’s 30.  I squeaked when I was thirty, and then I stopped.  Perhaps it will stop. 

I’m focusing this week on little things because big things are too much for me:  economies, relationships, my VISA bill – too big.  So little things.  Ladybugs, for instance.  I’m focusing on lady bugs and my CSA box and the trees across the street.  And also bikes, I’m riding my bike across town to pick up the kids.  And I’ll kick leaves on the way home and light the pumpkins tonight, in the back.  If you want to see the scary pumpkins lit up (knife-work by G. and Jr.), come around to the back.

I need to call Heather.  Heather, if you see this, know that I’m calling you.  Very soon. 

ML and RSG, if you see this, I’m still on for Saturday if you are. 

H., if you see this, call me after 3:00.  I’ll pick up all of the phones. 

A., if you see this … well … have a nice drive home.  Look for little things.

 
[Photo: Anthony DiFalco]

Anna asked for a crisp, fall poem, so here’s a shot.

Yesterday we pressed some grapes,
The sun was out we all wore capes.
We didn’t, really, we’re not that silly,
had crab and wine and felt just fine.

I did press grapes, though.  Well sorted them, actually, a machine pressed them.  What I did was pick all the leaves and spiders and sticks out so you won’t have to drink spiders and sticks with your wine.  Wasn’t that great of me?  I left the bees in, though.  Bees don’t hurt anything. 

The press broke around 1:00, I think.  “Broke” is dramatic; let’s say there were complications around 1:00.  I don’t have specifics.  If you’re helping and it’s not your wine or grapes or press you don’t have worry yourself with details, Todd and Caroline do that.  The good-for-nothing help, instead, hits the tasting room until the details work out.   

It was 70 degrees, I think, which means the world is almost over because that isn’t supposed to happen in Oregon on October 26th.  And there was lunch, there’s always lunch, lunch is something else.  (I’ll put more pictures up later, probably on Flickr, stay tuned.) 

There were 20 or 30 of us — workers, families, and friends – and we had ceasar salad, and bread and big bowls of steamed crab.  We drank, of course, wine. 

Harvest lunches are lovely things, I want to have one every day.  Caroline is brilliant, she said, “let’s do a cookbook of harvest meals.” Yes, let’s!  Let’s do a cookbook of harvest meals and A. will take pictures, let’s start it today.  I’ve decided no one should eat unless they’re at a great, long table, with wine and 30 people and worry-free.   

I sat across from Patricia who, along with her husband, owns Whistling Ridge Vineyard so she grew some of the grapes getting crushed and pressed, just not the ones I sorted though.  And I sat next to Cullen, who is young and there for harvest and sleeping on a mattress on the floor in one of the buildings reading Sontag.  (The Benefactor).  He might go to Ireland when it’s over, he’s not sure.  I envy his “not sure.” 

Dean started driving his motorcycle around and A. and I went home to feed the kids.   

The net of it all as that A., I’ll bet, wishes we farmed. 

[Biggio Hamina Cellars, ADEA Wine Company]

Some mornings I drink three cups of coffee, some mornings I manage only one.   On still other mornings I drink two big cups, why is that?  Why do my caffeine requirements change erratically day-to-day? 

One learns the strangest things, sometimes, in the morning.  You, for instance, learned my coffee consumption is inconsistent.  I learned that Jim Jones, for a time, sold monkeys, he was a monkey salesman.  Who knows what sorts of things we’ll discover this afternoon. 

Despite the scary fog advisory this morning, Commander Cody, the Cheerleader and I, plan to walk over to L.’s.   But first I’ll make breakfast and drink coffee.  I wish A. were here today, I miss him.   The spiders, for the most part, seem subdued. 

[Original teresa difalco poetry to the first of you to correctly guess how much coffee she's had before 8 --AM, PST.]

I’m not playing with grapes today, contrary to plan.  One of us is sick, and it’s not me or Jr. or A.  It really sucks, because now I’m here.  And, not to belabor anything, but seriously … FOUR major overfed spiders are camped out in prime traffic areas.  And the three of us are going mad.  There’s no school so G. and jr. get a taste of this, this daily repugnance I face.  What you people who live here don’t realize is that I’m on that wall every day, protecting you, providing the blanket, or whatever that shields you from the abomination, killing the evil-doing spiders and bees before you come home to the life of carefree bliss and serenity you enjoy.

Not only that, some things overflowed.  That’s dreadful, too.

Spiders, and plumbing, and ants and crane flies … and other domestic horrors.

I definitely need more funding, I’m calling A. 

Happy …

Birthday

… M!

Okay, so you-know-who with the guns and the disfigured sentences now says the election is in God’s hands.  Will someone please ask her how that works, exactly, and whether or not it constitutes fraud?  Is God even a registered voter?  And if so, what county?  Is he voting in a mail-in state or does he have to go to the library?  I don’t think it’s fair, either, if he gets more than one vote, is anyone monitoring that? 

This is the kind of stuff people lose sleep over.  I mean, what if He needs a ride to go vote, who’s picking him up?  I’m assuming he doesn’t, he lives in Oregon right?  Isn’t he a white woman who writes stuff all day and has a dog and a cat and spiders in Oregon?  I think that’s God, I’m pretty sure.  So if he’s in Oregon he can just mail his vote in and he won’t have to wait in line anywhere, but if the election’s in his hands, I still don’t think he should get more than one vote.

Plus, I thought the war was in his hands, should he be running the election when he’s so busy with the war?

If you know anything about this, write me here.

Between crane flies and other small adventures, I’m making wine.  Well, I’m watching someone make it, same thing.  Todd Hamina is letting me shadow him through harvest.  Or maybe longer, I didn’t tell him that yet. 

It’s harvest right now, did you know that?  Grapes are coming off vines and turning to juice.  It’s called “Crush” — Crush 2008, I want a t-shirt.  This is the glamorous part, I think.  Most of the rest of it goes on slowly behind closed doors, listening to Supertramp.

Last week when I was there, Todd squished pinot noir grapes through his toes and made me drink what came out.  It was, for lack of words, amazing.  Pure, sweet, fruity grape juice.  Maybe it was just his feet.  

I missed his first processing last week, when the grapes pull up in a truck.  I’ll catch the second one tomorrow — red grapes, then white on Saturday, I think.  I wrote it down somewhere. 

Craig Camp has some words about Todd’s pinots which I showed off recently (2007 Ana) with cassoulet, to embarrassing praise.   If you’re local, you already know where to get your own.  If you’re far away, like M. and H., you can order it here. 

More later.