Just three weeks before summer chronology arrives, Anacortes has popped into spring. At 75° and clear blue skies, it’s about as nice as it gets around here. My past winter experience is very much like the pain of childbirth. If we didn’t forget it, if the pain stayed fresh and real in our minds, no sane person would put themselves through that more than once. But just as a bouncing four and a half year old boy starts becoming a communicative and participative joy, the beauty of spring with its sun and flowers in a myriad of colors and shapes vanquishes suffering.

 I can hear all you women out there saying, “Phhhttttt, what do you know of the pain of childbirth?” And so I will rewrite that and challenge you to accept that I know what I am talking about. My winter experience here is very much like the pain of lost love. If we didn’t forget it, if the pain stayed fresh and real in our minds, no sane person would put themselves through that more than once. We do, and even wounded, we still seek it out, like crack addicts seeking satisfaction.

 Well, winter is over and spring is here, and as my neighbor says, “It might not last long.” So my posture has changed. Even though you know it can’t last, enjoy it while it is here, like a blowhole in the ice, you can catch your breath through.

 I am slowly becoming an Anacordian. (Polka, anyone?) I like its broad streets and bright bars, and people who say, “Hi there” when they pass you on the bike path. It’s even deeper: polite punkish-looking kids who in another place would eye you sullenly and raise your guard, come up with an amazing ”Good morning!” as I walk by.

 I walk or take my bike almost everywhere, gasoline being the financial parasite that it is. I have often come up to an intersection only to have an automobile stop a quarter of a block down the street, waving me across. This has happened so many times that I feel it is part of the culture.  

It’s 2:47AM in the morning Monday night or Tuesday morning, whichever is correct, and I cannot sleep. I feel I have come to a tipping point in my life, arrived at because I realized while reading a copy of Wines and Vines, that I have no more passion for wine. Oh I like drinking it still, and have enjoyed several nice bottles with friends recently, but reading about all the processing and technical information, my reaction was, “I’m so flipping happy I don’t have to deal with all this crap any more.” It is EXACTLY the same way I felt when my career in Human Resources met an untimely end after a hostile corporate takeover in the 80’s. Come to think of it, I felt the EXACT same way when I left the Army in 1972, quite a good year for certain other things, too.

Perhaps my newly-discovered disinterest in wine making could be a natural evolutionary step in my life. Progression is a good thing, no?

 A few weeks ago, when the skies were cloudy all day I decided that if it was going to be nasty weather, I may as well take advantage of the situation and use it writing. I completed my fifth book, and have started outlining my magnum opus, a whopper that will totally consume all my creative juices and reveal, once and for all to friends and family why I am the way I am. If you read these pages faithfully, you will find out more as it becomes public. I believe I could be just as passionate about my writing as I was about making zinfandel, and like a new love, it will rejuvenate me and bring me back to the sense of self I have lost. Confidential comment?
 

Here’s a photo of my vegetable garden. Sugar snap peas, radishes, beets and  green beans

Writing Assignment
I am taking a creative writing course here at the Local Community College  and because this topic is one that rears its head from time to time, I thought I'd include this assignment for what I hope is your reading pleasure.

Small town blessings                                                             Paul Kreider May 20, 2011

The air was heated by the late summer sun. It was quiet and still, except for the wavy buzz of an early cicada broadcasting urgently for a mate. The wooden screen door slammed, the thwack! sound followed by the staccato thumping of sneakers on the gray wooden porch stairs. The cicada silenced abruptly.   Cicada interruptus.

 The worn sneakers dressed the feet of a small boy also clad in faded blue jeans with scuffed iron-on knee patches curling at the edges and a red T-shirt. He ran all out, down the stairs, across the small back yard, out the open gate and up the driveway until he reached the street. Still running, he turned right, zipped past Mrs. Munroe’s rose- covered house baking in the sun and into “the park,” an island of dusty property created by the looping circular street, set with houses that overlooked the unlikely space.

 The town had not improved this space in any way. It had no water fountain, no lawn or grass, no bench or bathroom. Just dusty dirt and a few enormous date palms most likely sprouted from bird-transported fruit from more orderly environs. The park’s main attribute was that the mothers who lived in the surrounding houses whose children played there could “keep an eye” on them.

 The boy ran to the center of the space and was met by his four friends. There were now enough for a game. In any other country of the world, the game would have been soccer. Here in the dusty park, it was kickball, played with all the spirit and energy others played their own games on hot sunny summer days in different countries.

 The game progressed with shouts and protestations, each participant trying to outdo the other. Rules were sometimes stretched to fit the situation; you actually needed six players for a real game of kickball. As the sun inched down in the west and shadows became longer, a sense of conclusion   blanketed the game. It was sealed by a mom’s voice from one of the surrounding windows, “Timmy, it’s time for dinner!” Game over.  The dust settled and, eventually, the cicada resumed his insistent plea.

 Later in his life, when people asked any one of the small boys, now grown, where he was from, his answer, “Berkeley, California” would invariably conjure up images of long-haired hippies, student riots, free speech explosions and mayhem. But it never delivered images of small boys playing kickball in a dusty park on a summer’s afternoon. 

Those of you who know me well will understand the significance of the next sentence. I am drinking my first gin and tonic of the season. It is actually the first gin and tonic I have had in my new home, and it may be the first one I’ve had in the Pacific Northwest since I have moved here, because those I had at the island with my brother and sisters were most likely vodka and tonics, a much tamer animal, at least when I am making them.

 Today was what I can only call a California day. The sun was out in the morning, instead of its usual hide and peek with low clouds until noon. For those of us here and now it was warm, thermometer says it was mid- to high fifties. I couldn’t resist continuing work on my latest project, building a raised bed in the middle of my back lawn, a bed in which I intend to grow food, using my formidable organic gardening skills, long dormant because of the flat I lived in in San Anselmo which only allowed me to grow in containers on the overly hot deck. In spite of that condition, I grew some very nice peppers (let me tell you in person some day how they were used) and tomatoes as well as an awesome cannabis plant of which I am still enjoying the fruits.

 I had doubts I would go to the trouble of constructing a raised bed here. After all, I am renting. But then I thought of all the efforts I had put into improving the garden at the home where I lived in San Anselmo, only to lose that.  And I thought about the effort I put into the winery vineyard and my small organic rented garden plot, only to lose all of that. And I thought of all the energy and love I have put into my personal relationships with gardens and with women, and how all of that is gone, swept away by the tsunami of change. Why should this beautiful spot be any different? After all, building the garden and building the relationships and watching them bloom and remembering were a big part of the enjoyment of the whole. Anyway, aren't we all just renting, all the time?

 So I approached this project with a good attitude, just as I have approached a new relationship. For the garden project, I resolved to use recycled and free materials. I scored some lumber from a concrete pouring form, some stakes and screws from the same location. Remembering to measure twice and cut only once, I resolved to do the same in my new relationship. As is almost always the case, I found I needed some more screws, three inch ones. So off to the hardware store on my bike, the price of gasoline is keeping me active, a side benefit of living on a small fixed income. At the hardware store a gin and tonic resonated in me, echoing from the time when I had a home and family where working hard was rewarded at the end of the day, having worked just a little too hard, you know how that feels? And a nice G & T takes the edge off and relaxes me and makes me think of different times when the Weber was hot and the meat was ready.

 I bought some gin and some tonic, and had to make two different stops to do that. Washington State seems dedicated to keeping even seasoned adults from the grasp of demon liquor. The state package store didn’t even sell tonic. However a priggish government is no match for a determined adult and I arrived home and refrigerated my prize, stored for the end of a productive day, as it should be.

 I made the rash decision to also mow my largish lawn, which I did with great effort, as it is up and down hill, in plain sight of the Guemes channel. As I dropped top my knees to weed the flowerbed, I reflected on how lucky I have been, how the universe brought me to a place where I can dig out dandelions, while the sound of seagulls and small surf splashes on the rocky shores maybe fifty yards from me. I really miss Marin sometimes, and I miss you all the time, and you know who you are, unless you don’t, in which case I think I will have another gin and tonic and sleep well and deep tonight with you, oblivious to what is going on,  in my dreams.

Life in Anacortes continues to flow at a slow and even pace, something I am enjoying after the anxiety filled years of the winery experience. My sister Jeanne says my adrenals need to catch up, so the mild life is recharging me. If you have seen the weather news for the Pacific Northwest, you know that I received a surprise snowstorm for Thanksgiving. I lived in the snow in Germany and more recently at Lake Tahoe, but it was a good wakeup call to remember how to act and dress when the real winter arrives in February.

It feels positively balmy today at   44° and I actually broke a sweat walking to the post office.  So I am hunkering down for a long winter, during which I have a couple of very specific writing goals. I will keep you informed as progress is reached

6:30 PM  I have just come in from sitting at a table on my front lawn, drinking a bottle of Beaujolais “Le Pot” (which is pronounced as “Le Poh” as you’d know if you'd read my book) while enjoying the view and ruminating on my new life.

 I dislike drinking even great wine alone (and I believe the Le Pot by Louis Téte is great wine ($15.99 at the Compass Wine Shop here in Anacortes) even though some of you look down your noses at Beaujolais, even Beaujolais Villages. It is what it is, light, flavorful, refreshing and low enough in alcohol that I can drink a bottle and change the light bulbs in my house afterward. Which I did, to low energy ones, all 16 bulbs. How many winemakers does it take….

Back to my ruminations: I was looking at this view while warm gusts tossed my grayish locks in the fading sun.  The wine was perfect, and although I was drinking it alone, my other self was talking in my ear, whispering sweet somethings that made sense to me and maybe to me alone. It was like, OK PK, this is the Universe speaking. That last thing we did, that thing in San Anselmo, we were just screwing with you. Our bad. But now that we have put you through that we are going to make this new life really great for you. And that is how it has gone every step of the way.

 My son Jesse, who is working part time for a moving company, and his roommate Bryce, loaded my 16 foot Penske truck with all my earthly belongings, and do I mean loaded. My plasma TV rode shotgun all the way up here, and I filled every inch of that truck. Good thing my friend Bill Jablon told me to check Penske rather than rent the 14 foot U-Haul truck I had reserved; this would not have fit in a 14 footer. Penske was way less expensive even with 100% insurance. But man-o-man, the gasoline! A half tank was $60.00 and it took a lot of them to get here. We stopped at Sweet Kathy’s for the night at Oregon and then Brother Bruce’s in Issaquah the next. As we crossed over the Washington border, it rained like crazy. Welcome to Washington. Despite the rain, coordination went like clockwork.

 We met the real estate agent at the house as planned the next morning, along with a hired hand to help Jesse unload the truck. I was not much help, nursing a bad knee. The house had been completely repainted, all traces of the previous tenants removed and the bathroom retiled.

It seemed smaller than I remembered, but my California king-sized Tempur-pedic bed fit in the big bedroom with a little room to spare. I am still unpacking boxes, and I have to tell you, the 800 square feet of clean storage space in the basement is very helpful to store tools, wine, lawn mower etc. It will be my winemaking site later this Fall.

 Getting broadband, electricity and garbage set up has had its trying moments, but it has finally all come together. The people here seem somewhat more serene than in Marin. When I called the Post Office from San Anselmo to arrange for my mail to be held, the clerk said, “Well, welcome to the area, Mr. Kreider” and today when I applied for and received my Washington driver’s license, which took start to finish all of 15 minutes, the lady behind the computer said, “Welcome to Anacortes.”

 I dislike drinking even great wine alone, and miss those of you -and you know  who you are- terribly.

Looks like I have some catching up to do. The winery liquidation process is in full swing. You can visit the auction site by going to our old website at rossvalleywinery.com and following the link to the auctioneer. The bidding does not start until August 24th, and will last only two days. I have spent most of my time in the past couple of weeks organizing myself to move to Washington, travelling up there to look at rental properties, packing up my flat here, saying goodbye to friends, having lunches and dinners and accepting best wishes. I wish I could tell you I am depressed, unhappy, fearful and discouraged, which is how most people seem to think I should feel. The truth of the matter is that I am enthusiastically embracing my new life and think this chapter will be very happy, and challenging. I do regret the distance I am building between myself and so many close friends, and I hate to think we will fall out of touch as inevitably we will, but then I receive a letter in the comment below, am touched and realize I have many talents and much to accomplish for, or at least to contribute to, those who want to travel down the wine making path. 

There are over 40 small wineries in the Far Western Marine Washington area where I am moving, and of course many more winery operations in Eastern (warm) Washington. Perhaps some of them could benefit from my 36 years of winemaking experience. It may be that there are countless home winemakers who want to turn their amateur attempts into gold.  I have been there and done that and think I could develop a small business out of it.  A very small business.

By marshalling my resources and considerable organizing effectiveness, I was able to find a wonderful place to live at a price I can afford on my fixed income. Here is what you see when you look out my front  door:   

Last Sunday was the Fourth of July and I was unable to add anything to this page because I was on an island in the San Juan Straits near the water border between Washington and Canada. Yes, I could have borrowed my brother's laptop and gone on-line, but I was separated from San Anselmo by more than simply the distance.  It was a welcome relief and as the silence and isolation washed over me, I felt as if I were floating in the water that surrounded the island, weightless and very much alone within myself. Surrounded by some of my best customers, my supportive family, including son Jesse, who drove the 800 miles north and back with me, I celebrated my 65th (yes, I know it is hard to believe, believe me) birthday and what I hope will be a less stressful life for me in my "old age." On the same day my faithful Blackberry died and then I was truly isolated, not a bad feeling, by the way.

Now that I am back in San Anselmo and having been  greeted by a informative Marin IJ article that ran in my absence (no comment from me due to the Blackberry), people are stopping me in the street to express their dismay. I know that most of this emotion is genuine, but there is also a discernable taste of fear in their voices and comments. If this could happen to Paul, it could happen to anyone. I believe that under-layer of fear is what keeps people’s money in their pockets, releasing it on only the most essential of essentials. The angst is palatable. People ask how I will live.

 My answer is “well enough.” My social security payments and my small pension from Crown Zellerbach will cover my basics. I have completed another book, which is published by Turner Publishing , part of a “Things to Know” series. My contribution is “34 things to know about wine” and I think it is a great resource for people who want to understand wine. It will be out soon, I have a prepublication copy. One hopes that there will be some income from that. And now that I have time I can work on promoting my other books, there is potential.