GOING NORDIC

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Jan/Feb 2007

Trading Alpine for Cross-Country Skiing

By Ginny Prior

There comes a time in everyone’s life when serenity trumps the party scene. When following the crowd is no longer cool. When, as Huey Lewis put it, “It’s hip to be square.”
As a skier, I figured this out a few years back, at Sugar Bowl. Carving my way down a popular run, a whistle stopped me dead in my tracks. Two hotshot patrollers were marking an obstacle. “We’re the fashion police,” one of them yelled. “You’re under arrest!” I blushed as it dawned on me that my hot pink ski pants might no longer be in vogue.
As I took time for lunch later that day, I saw women in their faux fur jackets with their Burning Love skis and matching pink boots. I saw teens with their designer grunge pants and Burton boards that cost more than my first car. I saw me in the mirror with gear from (gasp) the last millennium.
It was then that I had an epiphany. To continue my love affair with winter, I would have to tweak the experience—forgo the downhill speeds and the uphill lifts in favor of a sport that, until now, seemed too tame for a seasoned skier like me. I would have to go Nordic.
The Bay Area is blessed with some great Nordic skiing less than three hours away. One of my favorites is Royal Gorge, the largest cross-country ski area in North America. Off Interstate 80 at the Norden exit, Royal Gorge has a big network of trails on more than 9,000 acres. Some days you can ski on groomed tracks for hours without seeing another two-legged being.
Nordic skis are much thinner and lighter than downhill skis, and you’ll need a lesson if you’ve never tried them. Of course, rentals and lessons are available at most cross-country ski areas. You’ll notice, almost immediately, the laid-back feel of these resorts. No long lines for rentals. No tangle of poles and boots as you try to try desperately to get outfitted by lunchtime. A Nordic boot fits like a slipper. They’re so snug and comfy, some folks wear them all day—even on the drive home. And a snug, comfy fit means more time on skis, burning calories and getting toned.
There are several ways to ski at cross-country resorts. Some like to skate ski, with a motion that resembles speed skating and a workout that tones your buttocks…

To read the complete article, contact Ginny Prior

Luring in Luxury

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AAA LIVING MAGAZINE

MINNESOTA Jan/Feb 2007

A combination of hardy Midwestern mentality, a lake lover’s favorite food and jovial tall tales, ice fishing may be the quintessential Minnesota sport. Lately, it’s even gotten more comfortable.

On the surface, the idea sounds as though your brain may be experiencing a cold snap—fishing on ice in the dead of winter. But, then a 10-pound walleye tugs at your line, and things get hot in a hurry. Wait, is the sudden heat due to the rush of blood and adrenaline since you’ve snagged a big one, or did someone turn up the thermostat?

That’s right, ice fishing has evolved from the days when folks sat on stools with wool mufflers wrapped around their necks and transistor radios by their sides. Today’s anglers can sit back in only a T-shirt, watch TV, even sleep in a real bed.

“Ice fishing has come so far so fast. It’s unbelievable the technology that’s used today,” says Brainerd Lakes fishing guide Dan Eigen, better known as “Walleye Dan.” He has guided for 18 years in this fertile fishing region, where anglers catch limits of walleye, perch, northern, crappie and blue gill. When clients want the best fish house money can buy, he rents out his “tricked-out” SnoBear, a high-tech, motorized ice-fishing house.

“It goes 18 mph on two tracks and skis,” Eigen says, “and it’s got the same electronics that I’ve got in my boat.” Just pull it up to your favorite hole, and the house hydraulically lowers down to the ice with six holes for fishing. Add to that the thermostatically controlled propane furnace, stereo/CD player, built-in underwater camera and other fish-finding electronics, and you’ve got the latest in fish house technology.

If you want to spend the night, Eigen even rents sleeper houses with four beds, a furnace and rattle reels that “ding, ding, ding” to awaken you when you’ve caught a fish. “We’ll even bring out a TV and hook it up to the generator for you,” he says. “All you need is your fishing license and food.”

Such luxury is a far cry from the days when Brainerd Lakes resident Don Neumann fished out of his old Model A. “We used to buy these old cars and cut holes in the floor boards,” he remembers. When Neumann met his wife, Joyce, she put her foot down. “I told him it was too cold to fish outside, and I went and bought a wood-paneled ice-fishing house with a heater and curtains on the window.” Suddenly fishing was a lot more fun. They’d have couples over for cribbage and cocktails as their bobbers popped merrily in the holes near their feet.

Ice fishing means different things to different people. Not everyone wants an encampment, where flannel-clad villagers share steaming pots of chili and elect “seasonal” mayors. Eigen, for one, considers fishing a solitary sport in which you park your fish house on your secret spot and cast a mad glare toward any fisherman who pulls up next to you. If that’s your thing, then the thought of sharing the ice with 11,000 other anglers may not seem appealing. But for more than $100,000, maybe you’d sacrifice your bit of fishing heaven.

For 16 years, the Brainerd Lakes Jaycees have awarded the world’s largest cash prizes at their $150,000 Ice Fishing Extravaganza (scheduled this year for Jan. 20). A cannon signals the start of competition, which usually is held on massive Gull Lake. For three hours, anglers from all over the world drop their lines in the icy waters of their own, pre-drilled holes. Men, women and children all compete in this open-air event, where fish houses are banned and only live fish may be weighed and measured.

It’s a scene out of Grumpy Old Men, with folks wearing everything from screaming orange hunting jackets to fur-lined hats with animal tails. And that’s just the women.

The Ice Fishing Extravaganza crowds Gull Lake for only one day, but on 18-mile-wide Mille Lacs Lake, whole villages spring up for the entire season. “There are probably as many as 10,000 houses out there. People pull the 10-by-26-foot houses onto the lake, and they’ve got microwaves, TV’s, refrigerators—even beds,” says Eigen. With those amenities, some folks spend all winter in their ice-fishing house.

Of course, owning an ice-fishing house is not everyone’s idea of a second home. If you’d rather rent, there are dozens of resorts that will set you up in Brainerd Lakes. Cragun’s and Grand View Lodge, two of the bigger resorts in the area, each spread across acres of shorefront on Gull Lake. At Cragun’s, you can rent a four-hole house for $30 for four hours. Minnows cost $2–$4 a scoop. Grand View Lodge uses Eigen as the resort’s outfitter/guide, and he provides the ice-fishing gear, including his upscale digs, and guidance.

Wherever you go, you’ll find anglers have one thing in common: They dream of catching that legendary fish that every Minnesota lake seems to contain. In the Brainerd Lakes region, a 15-pound walleye caught in 1983 holds the record. Eigen, himself, caught a 13 pounder in 1992. But apparently, there are even bigger fish to fry—so to speak.

“In Gull Lake, there’s a fish we call Jingles that’s got so many hooks and spinners hanging off of her that when she swims by you can hear the ‘ting,’ ‘ting,’ ‘ting.’” And what would Eigen do if he caught Jingles? “I’d probably take off a few of her accessories and then put her back—and retire,” he laughs. Sounds like a fitting end to a Minnesota fish tale.

To read the complete article, contact Ginny Prior

NASHVILLE – MUSIC CITY AND MORE

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January 5, 2007

By Ginny Prior

NO MAN is as sexy as a man in a cowboy hat. I’ve had this conviction since my college days at Montana State University. But when it comes to studs in Stetsons, Montana’s got nothing on Nashville — where cowboys are crooners in a city that celebrates country music.

They don’t call Nashville “Music City” for nothing. Music is to Nashville what movies are to Hollywood. There are over 180 recording studios in Nashville, as well as the Country Music Hall of Fame, the Grand Ole Opry and literally hundreds of places showcasing live talent. It seems almost everyone in Nashville is either a musician or a song writer — holding out hope they’ll hit pay dirt.

Dolly Parton got her big break in Nashville, saying she was so poor when she left home she had nothing to lose. It wasn’t long before she was singing with Porter Wagoner on the Grand Ole Opry.

A kid named Elvis made his name here. He recorded some monster hits in RCA’s famed Studio B. Songs like “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” and “Little Sister” were smash records for “The King” and you can almost picture those late night recording sessions when you tour Studio B today. The studio closed permanently for commercial recordings the day after Elvis died in 1977, but not before producing a thousand hits for legends such as Roy Orbison, Eddie Arnold and Patsy Cline.

The Country Music Hall of Fame brings these artists and their music to life. One of the most innovative museums in the country, it takes you on a journey through time, from the early years of folk to the sounds of hillbilly, honky tonk and the more sophisticated strings and vocals that made up the Nashville Sound of the 1960s. The Hall of Fame houses a priceless collection of clips from radio, television and film that tells the story of America’s love affair with country.

It’s as much a timeline of our nation as it is a tribute to its music.

It’s billed as “everyman’s music.” A bottle of booze, a broken heart, an old yellow dog and a pickup truck. The key to writing a good country song is to tell a simple story — one folks can relate to. And while it wouldn’t be on every visitor’s list of attractions, you can pay a local writer to help you come up with your own country song. It’s more than just writing a couple of verses and a chorus. You need a catchy melody and a good hook.

The Bluebird Café is a favorite venue for songwriters. The night I was there, four of Nashville’s best were taking turns playing some of country music’s biggest hits. These guys, virtually unknown outside the industry, were singing the pieces they wrote that made millions for stars like Kenny Chesney and Travis Tritt. They sat in a circle and swapped stories and songs in a space that seemed more like my living room than a legendary nightclub. And their poetry touched raw emotions as they sang about relationships, motherhood, patriotism and faith.

I think I paid 15 bucks to see them that night — about a penny a tear.

It’s even cheaper to hear music in Nashville’s famed honky tonks. Sure as a dog is man’s best friend, these blue-collar bars have the music cranking, day and night. Walk into Roberts or Legends or Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge and grab a stool. What you’ll hear is some of the best live country this side of the Smokies — with no cover charge, just a pass of the cowboy hat.

But the “Mother Church of Country Music” is still The Ryman Theatre, home of the Grand Ole Opry each winter. The Ryman actually started out as a church, and the stained glass windows and warn wooden pews are still part of its charm. Even more heavenly are the acoustics, which make the live broadcasts sparkle. It’s a real treat to watch WSM radio broadcast the Opry live each weekend with some of the biggest names in country music gracing that historic stage. And just like the early days of the Opry, you never know who will pop in.

One thing is certain — Nashville has style. From its imaginative downtown skyline to its stately southern plantations, the city makes a statement. You can tour dozens of historic sites, including the beautifully restored home of President Andrew Jackson. Take a picnic and enjoy the lush grounds of Vanderbilt University, a national arboretum with tree-lined paths and rolling green lawns. Or take in one of Nashville’s most surprising sites — the world’s only full-sized reproduction of the Greek Parthenon, complete with four art galleries and a giant gilded statue of the Goddess Athena.

And while Nashville is known for its architecture, there’s something else catching the eye of folks who visit. It’s the sparkle of rhinestones on the outfits of country artists who order their clothing from Manuel. With just one name (think Cher or Prince) Manuel has been the tailor to the stars, here, for decades. He’s the guy who put Johnny Cash in black and Elvis in tight pants and Dolly Parton in her eye-popping blouses. His personality is as big as his creations, yet he still sews by hand in a modest downtown house.

And that’s the attraction of Nashville. It’s one of the most fascinating and cosmopolitan cities in America, yet it’s warm and inviting — and approachable. Like a man in a cowboy hat — it exudes charm.

NASHVILLE – MUSIC CITY AND MORE

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NO MAN is as sexy as a man in a cowboy hat. I’ve had this conviction since my college days at Montana State University. But when it comes to studs in Stetsons, Montana’s got nothing on Nashville — where cowboys are crooners in a city that celebrates country music.

They don’t call Nashville “Music City” for nothing. Music is to Nashville what movies are to Hollywood. There are over 180 recording studios in Nashville, as well as the Country Music Hall of Fame, the Grand Ole Opry and literally hundreds of places showcasing live talent. It seems almost everyone in Nashville is either a musician or a song writer — holding out hope they’ll hit pay dirt.

Dolly Parton got her big break in Nashville, saying she was so poor when she left home she had nothing to lose. It wasn’t long before she was singing with Porter Wagoner on the Grand Ole Opry.

A kid named Elvis made his name here. He recorded some monster hits in RCA’s famed Studio B. Songs like “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” and “Little Sister” were smash records for “The King” and you can almost picture those late night recording sessions when you tour Studio B today. The studio closed permanently for commercial recordings the day after Elvis died in 1977, but not before producing a thousand hits for legends such as Roy Orbison, Eddie Arnold and Patsy Cline.

The Country Music Hall of Fame brings these artists and their music to life. One of the most innovative museums in the country, it takes you on a journey through time, from the early years of folk to the sounds of hillbilly, honky tonk and the more sophisticated strings and vocals that made up the Nashville Sound of the 1960s. The Hall of Fame houses a priceless collection of clips from radio, television and film that tells the story of America’s love affair with country.

It’s as much a timeline of our nation as it is a tribute to its music.

It’s billed as “everyman’s music.” A bottle of booze, a broken heart, an old yellow dog and a pickup truck. The key to writing a good country song is to tell a simple story — one folks can relate to. And while it wouldn’t be on every visitor’s list of attractions, you can pay a local writer to help you come up with your own country song. It’s more than just writing a couple of verses and a chorus. You need a catchy melody and a good hook.

The Bluebird Café is a favorite venue for songwriters. The night I was there, four of Nashville’s best were taking turns playing some of country music’s biggest hits. These guys, virtually unknown outside the industry, were singing the pieces they wrote that made millions for stars like Kenny Chesney and Travis Tritt. They sat in a circle and swapped stories and songs in a space that seemed more like my living room than a legendary nightclub. And their poetry touched raw emotions as they sang about relationships, motherhood, patriotism and faith.

I think I paid 15 bucks to see them that night — about a penny a tear.

It’s even cheaper to hear music in Nashville’s famed honky tonks. Sure as a dog is man’s best friend, these blue-collar bars have the music cranking, day and night. Walk into Roberts or Legends or Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge and grab a stool. What you’ll hear is some of the best live country this side of the Smokies — with no cover charge, just a pass of the cowboy hat.

But the “Mother Church of Country Music” is still The Ryman Theatre, home of the Grand Ole Opry each winter. The Ryman actually started out as a church, and the stained glass windows and warn wooden pews are still part of its charm. Even more heavenly are the acoustics, which make the live broadcasts sparkle. It’s a real treat to watch WSM radio broadcast the Opry live each weekend with some of the biggest names in country music gracing that historic stage. And just like the early days of the Opry, you never know who will pop in.

One thing is certain — Nashville has style. From its imaginative downtown skyline to its stately southern plantations, the city makes a statement. You can tour dozens of historic sites, including the beautifully restored home of President Andrew Jackson. Take a picnic and enjoy the lush grounds of Vanderbilt University, a national arboretum with tree-lined paths and rolling green lawns. Or take in one of Nashville’s most surprising sites — the world’s only full-sized reproduction of the Greek Parthenon, complete with four art galleries and a giant gilded statue of the Goddess Athena.

And while Nashville is known for its architecture, there’s something else catching the eye of folks who visit. It’s the sparkle of rhinestones on the outfits of country artists who order their clothing from Manuel. With just one name (think Cher or Prince) Manuel has been the tailor to the stars, here, for decades. He’s the guy who put Johnny Cash in black and Elvis in tight pants and Dolly Parton in her eye-popping blouses. His personality is as big as his creations, yet he still sews by hand in a modest downtown house.

And that’s the attraction of Nashville. It’s one of the most fascinating and cosmopolitan cities in America, yet it’s warm and inviting — and approachable. Like a man in a cowboy hat — it exudes charm.

ON FROZEN POND

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AAA LIVING IN MICHIGAN, INDIANA & ILLINIOIS January/February 2007

by Ginny Prior

Bone-chilling gusts propel iceboats across frozen Midwest lakes, but the thrill of this winter sport may take you around the world.

An iceboater enjoying the chills and thrills of skimming across a frozen lake. Bone-chilling gusts propel iceboats across frozen Midwest lakes, but the thrill of this winter sport may take you around the world.
On almost any lake with safe ice you’ll see them: ice yachts being piloted across the shimmering surface at breakneck speeds. Well, hopefully not breakneck speeds.
Iceboats can go faster than 90 mph (the world record is 148 mph). With a hull that weighs just 46 pounds, most race boats glide at a respectable 35–55 mph with moderate winds. “When you’re going on a boat that light, you’re literally flying,” says four-time world-champion DN racer Ron Sherry. Come winter, the boats with their colorful sails billowing in the wind, will make their way onto Midwest lakes with thick, black ice that’s relatively free of snow.

To read the rest of this article, contact Ginny Prior.

Holiday Crab, Anyone?

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TIS THE SEASON to be — crabby. This time of year brings out the best — and the worst in people. Cars stack up between Starbucks and Albertsons like they’re in a Christmas parade.

Horns honk, tempers flair and expletives fly. Part of the problem is the Montclair post office, where mail employees and motorists alike find it perfectly acceptable to double-park. It’s a bottleneck anyway, and suddenly you’re down to one lane. It’s enough to turn even the jolliest old soul into a curmudgeon.

Then you’ve got the Raiders. There’s been no joy in Oaktown this year, with Randy Moss sidelined and an offense that runs like my daddy’s old Studebaker. Their Christmas weekend loss didn’t help. I counted five altercations, four stumbling drunks, three provocations, two rude dudes and the closest thing to a partridge in a pear tree — a guy who kept flipping the bird.

There is light at the end of the tunnel — or in this case, Highway 13. The holiday lights on Picardy Lane are a symbol of unity in a decade of dissension. It’s not too late to take the drive down Seminary to the sweet little street full of storybook homes, bedecked in bulbs of all colors. To me, it’s more than just a Christmas display. It’s a beacon of hope for the season and the year to come.

PARK PROGRESS: Santa’s elves have been busy in Shepherd Canyon Park. With cash from a Measure DD grant, volunteer Adrienne Bryant and her merry band of helpers has been pulling pesky cape ivy and replacing it with native grasses in the meadow above Escher Creek.
“Sometimes the progress is hard to see because we chip away at it a bit at a time,” says reader Mike Petouhoff, “but the effort is steady over time.” Speaking of progress — look for the city to expand the parking lot at the popular soccer park this spring.

ABOUT TOWN: Attention shoppers. Albertsons becomes a Save Mart sometime next year and customers are curious about the changes. Will it mean a warehouse-type store for Montclair? Most folks hope not, saying that kind of discount market would detract from the village charm. As it is, there has been an increase in theft since Albertsons changed hands and closed some of its nearby locations. Just the other day police caught a man trying to steal $500 worth of razor blades, a crime he readily admitted was to support his drug habit.

FURRY TRIBUTE: It’s with a twinge of sadness that I announce the passing of Droopie the dog at Thornhill Nursery. Customers remember Droopie as the hound who used to bound through the rows of plants and trees, keeping the wildlife in check. In later years, Droopie preferred napping by the fireplace or in a tucked-away corner of the hillside nursery. Droopie is gone, now — to that big dog park in the sky.

Got news? You can reach Ginny Prior by phone at 510-273-9418 or on the Web at www.ginnyprior.com. Ginny’s radio “ginettes” can be heard on Sirius Satellite channel 122 at 4 p.m. each Saturday.

White Winter Dreams

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I tend to look up a lot at this time of year. The winter sky is an amazing pallet of steel blue and gray, as ominous clouds race across the horizon. Each winter storm brings snow to the Sierra, and occasionally to Bay Area peaks. But never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d see an ice rink in Montclair.

Last week’s Montclair Village Stroll offered skating to little tykes, who really took to the experience. Most had never been on ice, and they looked more like bumper cars than skaters. But it reminded me of the times in Montclair when winter really embraced us. As in 1988, when it snowed during my Christmas open house. And a few years later, when big, white flakes swirled through the air as I did laps at the Hills Swim Club. And more recently, when we had enough slushy stuff to build a snowman in our neighborhood.

Winter is my favorite season. While some may hope for sunshine, I pray for snow. And if it spills over from Lake Tahoe to the Bay Area, then my season is complete.

AROUND TOWN: Montclair’s newest merchant is a punk rocker who moved to the Bay Area several years ago with her band “The Spam Grenades.”

Today, she owns Cinder Bischoff Designs in Ink at 5772 Thornhill Road, where her silk-screened clothing and artwork shines in the little gold shop with the T-shirt-shaped sign. Cinder’s creative streak can even be seen in her name. Her friends call her Cinder Block, a moniker she used when she helped start a music merchandising company in Oakland in 1989. That business ballooned into an operation that employs more than 150 people today. But for Generation Xers, she may be best known for her punk band Tilt, which toured with Green Day in the 1990s. Like most artists, Cinder draws from her life experiences. Her art “releases pressure,” as she puts it, and is considered deeply intriguing, if not downright violent. Perhaps it’s the perfect gift for that unique individual on our list. If not, it’s still an interesting place to peak in.

LIFE SAVER: Taylor Miller knows how to keep cool under pressure. As a retired Oakland police officer from the hills, he’s seen just about every emergency situation. So it’s no surprise to hear that he saved a life, recently, on a vacation in Amsterdam. His wife, Julie, says they were walking along when a guy literally fell to the ground right in front of them. Taylor gave the man CPR and started his heart in seconds.

“I’m sure the guy was shocked to see my husband on top of him, practically kissing him,” laughs Miller. But a stranger’s lips are a small price to pay for a new lease on life.

METER MADNESS: Raise your hand if you think the parking situation in Montclair is getting out of hand. Readers are complaining about the dozens of broken meters all over the village. Some motorists are keeping plastic bags in their cars to mark the mangled meters — but they’re still getting tickets. Talk about the Grinch who stole Christmas.

E-MAIL BAG: The controversy over a tree removal plan at Montclair’s St. John’s Episcopal Church has spawned at least one Web site and a documentary. Reader Molly Dutton-Kenny says Skyline High School junior Adam Brooks has started the Web site www. thornhilltreelovers.com. And a senior at Bishop O’Dowd, Scott Hanshew, is doing a documentary on the subject.

“You know it is an interesting story when even teenagers start standing up for trees,” Dutton-Kenny writes.

Winter Comes to San Francisco

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THE TOWN CRIER: GINNY PRIOR

Show at AT&T Park previews winter thrills

I’M SURROUNDED by snow as you read this — right here in San Francisco. I’m at Icer Air 2006, a pre-season ski event at AT&T Park. The same folks who blew snow down the streets of San Francisco last year have trucked in more than 200 tons of snow for this event, which features the top 20 skiers and snowboarders in the world. All I can say after watching the action is “Bring on winter!”

GREAT NIGHT OUT: I popped into a cool San Francisco club the other night and found it was owned by Montclair dad Ben Doren. Levende Lounge, at the corner of Mission and Duboce, is Doren’s first bar and restaurant and evolved out of his niche for hosting big parties and events.

“Entertainment was a big part,” he says, “but then we hired a chef.”

The food, I can tell you, is fantastic. And on Sundays they even have a “Boogie Brunch” with breakfast, Bloody Mary bar and a live DJ. Doren says he wants to open a second bar and restaurant in Oakland.

“I’ve got the liquor license and it’s good for 90 days,” he says, so he has to look fast. I’m hoping he’ll take a look at the Montclair Women’s Club building, which is on the market and crying out for a high-class entertainment venue.

Speaking of a great time out, Marlo Thomas is starring in a tasty collection of one-act plays at San Francisco’s Magic Theatre in Fort Mason Center. As a young girl, Thomas made such an impression on me with “That Girl” that I had to see her in “Moving Right Along.” She didn’t disappoint, with a poignant portrayal of a wealthy woman whose privileged life had stunted her emotional maturity. And while Thomas was brilliant, she didn’t overshadow the other talent.

Mark Rydell played a dark yet comedic role as a desperate writer in the first short play, “Killing Trotsky.” All in all, “Moving Right Along” is a fitting way for the Magic Theatre to celebrate its 40th anniversary.

E-MAIL BAG: Hills homeowner Chris Cariffe says he was amused by last week’s reader’s comment linking Montclair’s aging sidewalks to a lack of taxpayer money.

“Especially after opening up my $10K, 2006-2007 property tax statement,” he writes. “I don’t see that Alameda County can be operating on a ‘shoestring’ if they are getting this from the residents every year.”

FAREWELL TOAST: Brian Goehry would like to say “thank you” to his former customers at Montclair Wine and Spirits. As the manager for more than 10 years, he says he developed quite a bond with folks in the village, and he hopes to open his own wine shop someday in Oakland.

Meanwhile, Brian will sip on selections from his own cellar and enjoy some well-deserved time off.

ANIMAL TALES: My driveway seems to see more than just cars these days. Two weeks ago, I spotted a one-antlered deer coming up the path. Just yesterday it was a fox — a small brown critter that looked more like a dingo. Neither animal is as exotic, though, as the menagerie reported by reader Laura Thomas, whose plumber not only keeps snakes in his house but a miniature alligator. I wouldn’t want to see one of those on my driveway.

Restorative Retreat

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OAKLAND MAGAZINE/ALAMEDA MAGAZINE – November 2006

In the shadow of Mount Diablo, with an eye-popping view of the San Ramon Valley, sits an extraordinary villa and gardens. It’s sweet irony that this heavenly refuge shares such a dramatic landscape with the “devil mountain.”
Since 1961, people have been making retreats to San Damiano. The colorful gardens and mission-style buildings offer the perfect place for quiet reflection, long healing hikes and surprisingly good meals. Set on 55 acres of tree-studded hills, San Damiano is the antidote to the toxic stress of Bay Area living. Its chapel, fountains and meandering footpaths allow visitors to do something almost unheard of in this day and age—spend deep, restorative time alone.
It took turning 50 for me to completely understand the power of this place. As I drove through the quaint town of Danville past lush green lawns and million dollar homes, I hoped to come to peace with this sudden advancement in age. The gray hair, the wrinkles and the constant barrage of AARP invitations in my mailbox were a powerful catalyst for a mid-life meditation.

To read the full article, contact ginny prior.

When Life Gets Hectic

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WHAT IS IT about autumn that makes time accelerate? Even the squirrels seem rushed, scuttling about as they pile up their nuts for winter.

For humans, it’s more complicated, of course — although seemingly just as nuts. Parents race between school and work. Kids race to their sporting events and big social functions. We’re stressed out, racing about, and we haven’t even hit the holidays yet.

Life in the fast lane can spawn accidents. Take the terrifying incident in Montclair the other day, where a pedestrian was pinned between two cars. Witnesses say the woman was standing between two parked vehicles, talking to a friend, when the SUV in front of her started its engine.

The driver apparently didn’t see the woman and the woman wasn’t aware that the driver was backing up. Suddenly, she was being crushed between tons of metal and her blood-curdling screams brought the driver to a screeching halt. Thanks to the clear heads of a few passersby, she was freed when they physically lifted the unoccupied car behind her. It’s a lesson for all of us — to slow down and be aware of our surroundings.

E-MAIL BAG: Reaction continues to pour in regarding my recent column on aging sidewalks in Oakland.

DeAnna Wilkins says she’s been trying to get the city Public Works Department to fix a broken curb in front of her house since 1998. The irony is, the curb started crumbling after a city truck backed up on it — an incident that at least one neighbor witnessed. After repeated calls to city officials, Wilkins finally got a response the other day. But it wasn’t the one she wanted.

“They sent me a notice saying that I was responsible for repairing the strip!” she says, exasperated with the whole situation.

Meanwhile, reader Larry Jacobs writes: “Regarding the terrible condition of the sidewalks, it dovetails nicely into the pot-holed condition of the roadways. And the decrepit condition of the schools … and on and on.”

Jacobs says we complain, but are unwilling to tax ourselves to pay for these infrastructure improvements.

“When you try to operate a government on a shoestring, you get poor service,” he laments.

CAFFEINATION STATIONS: Where does the highly caffeinated crowd go now that Peete’s is temporarily closed in Montclair? Apparently, it’s Nelly’s Java, which has seen a big boom in business since its rival started a recent remodel. One longtime Nelly’s customer said she can hardly get her favorite table since the extra customers started coming. For her part, though, I’m sure Nelly hopes her Peete’s customers will be re-peats.

RUMOR MILL: Speaking of coffee, rumor has it that Starbucks is opening a kiosk in the Montclair Albertson’s. It’s not true, a customer service rep told me the other day. He said a Starbucks kiosk was sitting in their garage, but it was going to another store.

“There wouldn’t be room in our Albertson’s” he says, “especially with the long deli cases.”

HALLOWEEN CARNIVAL: If you love Halloween as much as I do, then head down the mountain to the little school in the Redwoods this weekend. Canyon School’s annual Halloween carnival is this Saturday and Sunday from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. and features live music, a barbecue, games and the best haunted house in the hills and beyond. With Pinehurst Road still closed for slide repairs, you’ll have to take Redwood Road to get there, but it’s worth the drive. Happy haunting!