Category Archives: Nature

Community, Family, Friendship, Nature, Travel

In Pescadero: Harley Farms Goat Dairy

My final California posts have been much delayed.  That most tiresome and expected of reasons has kept me away from the blog for almost two weeks:  our old PC moved on to its greater reward.  It had been ailing for a while, and its misery was contagious.  Closing or opening a document had become a lengthy, frustrating process.  Our home office often resounded with groans, moans and furious mutterings as one of us sat staring beseechingly at an endlessly spinning “loading” symbol.  (Loading, loading, always loading, never loading.)  Once the PC had given up the ghost, of course, there followed the dreaded prospect of replacing it.  Fortunately, that falls under my husband’s purview, and he’s still dealing with the complex transition from old to new.  What would I do if I were single?

Now, a second-to-last look at our time in northern California.

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Because we toured the coast with local friends, we had the chance to visit some unique places we wouldn’t have discovered on our own.  One such spot, a favorite of our friends, is Harley Farms, a farm-to-table goat dairy in the rural seaside community of Pescadero.  This goat farm has a funky, unpretentious elegance and a chic sense of style.   It’s a friendly, family-run operation in an inviting setting of thoughtfully restored old farm buildings.  Two hundred furry, feisty Alpine goats munch and lounge happily in grassy pastures bordered by gardens and sheltered by rolling hills.  Llamas stand guard, exercising particular vigilance over the kids.  (Is anything cuter than a baby goat?  Maybe only a Shiba Inu puppy.)  The goats’ milk is processed on site into an array of award-winning cheeses.  These include crumbly feta, creamy chevre topped beautifully with edible flowers, as well as the softer consistency fromage blanc and ricotta cheeses.

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In the cozy restored barn that houses the shop, cheeses may be sampled and purchased.  Prior to our visit, while I had no objection to goat cheese, I wasn’t an outspoken fan. Harley Farms changed that.  After nibbling on a wide range of samples, we left with three tasty varieties.  My favorite may be the Monet chevre, seasoned with herbes de Provence.  The lavender and honey chevre runs a close second.  Also available in the shop are soaps, lotions and other bath and body products, all made with the milk of Harley goats.  Additionally, the farm produces nine lovely colors of durable, environmentally friendly FarmPaint. The barn’s hayloft, with its unique fir table that seats twenty-two, serves as a truly atmospheric event space.  Looking for a wedding venue like no other?  Harley Farms will handle all the details.

A goat farm had not been on our list of northern California must-sees.  But thanks to our friends, it is now.

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Some of the Harley nanny goats.  One appears to be kneeling in prayer.

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A guard llama eyes us warily.

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An immense eucalyptus tree shades the milk processors.

Community, Family, Friendship, Nature, Travel

An Afternoon in Half-Moon Bay

To continue our tour of the northern California coast, we met up with good friends who had settled in Palo Alto to raise their family.  Although we’d kept in touch through Christmas cards, it had been perhaps seventeen years since I’d seen my former housemate Laura, and probably twenty since I’d seen her husband.  Laura and I became fast friends when we lived on the same small gray corridor of the New Graduate College in Princeton.  Together with our buddy and hallmate Ben, we could face anything the weird world of ivy-league graduate study could throw at us.  We considered ourselves a formidable trio.  And, when we weren’t working hard, we sure had fun.

When Laura completed her master’s degree and landed a job at Bell Labs, she stayed in Princeton and we rented a funny little blue house on Humbert Street near the cemetary.  More accurately, Laura rented it, and I provided her with pocket change.  I was still a poor student, and she graciously let me share the house, accepting as payment no more than the fractional amount my stipend would allow.  When our landlord sold that house, we moved across the borough to the lower level of a really lovely Victorian home on Murray Place.  I was with Laura at a Grad School cookout when we met two new engineering students, one of whom would later become my husband.  Our Murray Place house was conveniently near the E-Quad, where H spent his days in the lab.  He often parked on our street, which made it easy for me to plan to run into him by accident.  Laura was from New Jersey, with lots of family nearby.  On many Thanksgivings, Super Bowl Sundays and various holidays when I couldn’t get back to Atlanta, they welcomed me as one of their own.

With such a foundation of shared history, a couple of decades is nothing.  We picked up easily, and the years fell away.  We met the children we had watched grow up in photographs.  Laura’s son is sixteen, her daughter fourteen, with D right in the middle at fifteen.  The kids had little trouble breaking the ice; it was almost as if they were old friends, as well.  The same was true when D had the chance, several years ago, to meet Ben’s kids.

One of our coastal convoy’s first stops was Half Moon Bay, about thirty minutes south of San Francisco.  This quaint town has gained worldwide renown for its proximity to the phenomenal surfing spot known as Mavericks.  Until the 1990s, the enormous waves that develop under certain weather conditions were a closely kept local secret.  Since then, though, the word has been out, and elite surfers cross the globe to catch the waves, prove themselves (and risk their lives) at Half Moon Bay.

Today, as I write, the conditions for those near-legendary waves are ideal.  Twenty-four of the world’s top surfers, from as far away as Australia, South Africa and Brazil, are gathered at Half Moon Bay for the Mavericks Invitational surfing competition.   Waves as high as forty-five feet are forecasted.  Crowds have flocked to witness the action at waterfront hotels and restaurants.  No one is allowed to observe from the beach, however, due to the unpredictable nature of the waves.  Several years ago, a dozen spectators at Mavericks were injured by a rogue wave, an ever-present danger along this section of the coast.

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In this Dec. 30 view of Half Moon Bay, looking toward the harbor,
the waters are deceptively calm.


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The coast is rocky,


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and the bluffs are steep.  Sudden strong waves reared up periodically, seemingly out of nowhere, even on the day of our visit, when no surfers were out.


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A view along Main Street.


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The town’s historic Methodist Episcopal Church.


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Another Main Street view.  Flanked by mountains and the sea, lush with picturesque foliage, Half Moon Bay is one of those charming California towns that I had suspected existed only on movie lots.

Community, Family, Nature

Baby, It’s Cold Outside!

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The current extreme cold isn’t news to anyone in more than half of the country.  Still, it is remarkable.  The need to talk about the weather seems to be an almost inescapable element of our humanity.  It’s in our nature, and it’s hard to avoid.  As we’ve been told, we can blame the deep freeze on the polar vortex, which has gone kinky.  Oh dear!

Here in Northern Virginia, for the first time I can remember, school was canceled due to the cold, much to our daughter’s great joy.  Our porch thermometer read -1 at 7 AM.  D, who enjoys the sleep of the dead on school mornings, was inspired to get up and go out, briefly, just to experience the temperature.

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The morning view from our upstairs rooms was almost completely obscured by frost, thanks to our leaky storm windows.  If we ever get new windows, we won’t know, immediately upon waking, how to dress for the day.  Justification, perhaps, for keeping the old windows.

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Kiko and I walked, as usual, around 8 AM.  I bundled up sensibly, in layers, as any regular dog walker does.  I overdid the bundling, in fact, so I got a little warm.  The ice crystals that collected in my scarf were the only indication that this cold was more serious than usual.  Kiko kept up a brisk pace, thankfully.  He seemed to enjoy the frosty air but had the sense not to linger over the day’s smorgasbord of smells.

When we returned about 45 minutes later, Kiko rushed onto the porch, forgoing his usual attempt to ambush squirrels at the back yard bird feeder. Once inside, he didn’t pause to check his food bowl, but hurried to a sizable patch of sun in the playroom.  For several hours, he followed the sun to spots it rarely takes him. He kept himself tightly curled, like a little fox.  My furry friend had evidently felt the chill.

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Finally, warm enough to unwind.

A day off school often seems like a break from ordinary time, so I decided to do something different and make French onion soup for lunch.  Standing by the stove, caramelizing onions, working the New York Times crossword while listening to John Prine and Robert Earl Keen turned out to be an ideal way to keep warm in our drafty house. Maybe this afternoon, I can convince D to watch the last half of Downton Abbey with me.

To all of you sharing this icy spell, I wish you safety, warmth, comfort, and a welcome break from the usual!

Faith and Spirituality, Holiday, Nature

Deck the Tree Stump

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This December, we hung a big wreath on the craggy maple stump in front of our house.  It seemed like an interesting, if unexpected, spot for a wreath.  And by decorating the tree, we could send a message to those who might see it as a business opportunity, as well as to those who think the stump is unsightly and wonder why we leave it standing.  The wreath says, We love this old tree trunk, and we’re letting nature take its course.

Then I thought a little more about it, and the pairing struck me as even more appropriate in its juxtaposition of life and death.  The stump is the opposite of the traditional evergreen Christmas tree.  Firs and spruces, retaining the appearance of vitality through the winter, get the privilege of being cut down, hauled into our homes, strung with lights and ornaments, and left to wither and die.  It’s tough work, being a symbol.  Our maple, though, would be in no such danger.  If intact, it would be gray-brown and leafless by now, like its neighbors in our yard.  But of course, it’s a stump, a snag, and already dead.  Yet it harbors vast, unseen colonies of creatures that go about the business of breaking down lifeless material.  It won’t be long before nature’s course is run.  The stump may not be here next year; its center is soft.  All the more reason to decorate it this year.

My husband and daughter hung the wreath one weekend afternoon, as I was napping, trying to get over a persistent cold.  When I trudged out to the road to see their handiwork, a new insight hit me.

I like to think that God works with us for good, despite ourselves, despite our selfish intentions and our vanity.  I initially wanted to decorate the tree because I thought it would look pretty, if a bit odd.  In truth, it was a way of declaring a certain pride in being different, in having the ability to see beauty where others see ugliness.

But once up, the wreath reminded me of a greater truth, of the essence of my Christian faith.  Out of death comes new, transformed life. How better to say it than in the words of John 3: 16:

For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

And then the snow settled beautifully on the wreath and the tree, on the green and the gray, on the quick and the dead, like a blessing from above.

Nature

Ice Sculptures

We awoke yesterday to the beginnings of the first snow of the season, falling lightly but steadily, as predicted.  By the afternoon, tiny ice pellets had muscled out the snowflakes.  The  emergency announcement of Monday’s closed schools arrived early enough for our daughter and her friends to rejoice heartily and take advantage of the snow day before the snow day.

This morning, the sliding, swishing, crashing sound of falling branches served as our  alarm.  I looked out to see a substantial chunk of one of our silver maples settling in across the driveway.  The white pines were bowed down, heavy with ice.  Tree branches and foliage had been artfully and glisteningly encased in silvery elegance.  It was beautiful, but treacherous, as tree limbs continued to crack and fall all around. 

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Each pine needle received its own individual ice casing.

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The white pines took on a hulking, menacing aspect.

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Our iron fence got a frosty make-over.

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Dogwood branches resemble frozen feathers.

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Party lights and red maple branches.


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Ribs of ice, frozen on this branch at a striking angle.


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Strands of an ice-covered spider’s web.


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Oak leaves, tough and persistent, appear uninclined
to give in to the pull of their ice jackets.


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The fallen maple branches, ever-prepared, were already in bud. 

Faith and Spirituality, Nature

Silver Maples, Going for Gold

Just this one last tree post for the season, I promise.

A few days ago, as I was standing absent-mindedly looking out a front window, I realized, with surprise, that I was gazing at a vision of shimmering gold.  At first  I thought it was my imagination, or a shift in my attitude.   Maybe a trick of the bright light?  But it’s not.  Even when my mind-set is less than sunny, and the day is, as well, it’s apparent that the leaves of our craggy silver maples have clearly turned yellow-gold.  Until now, every fall in the thirteen years we’ve lived in our house, I’ve been a little disappointed in our maples’ lack of leaf color.  I’ve always said that they don’t really change color; their silvery green fades a bit and they fall.  Once on the ground, they crinkle up and turn  light brown.   That’s the way I remember it, at least.

It makes me wonder.  Is this autumn really so different?  It does seem that the colors have been especially vibrant.  As a friend from church put it, “God has used a gloriously bright paintbrush this year.”  She has seen many a change of season; she’s ninety-nine, and still going strong.

Or was there a golden transformation, right in my front yard, in some years past, and I completely missed it?  Because I didn’t expect it, I didn’t notice when it appeared? Is it akin to overlooking a new hair style or recently grown beard of an old friend because we’re so familiar with a face that we stop seeing it?  I don’t know.  I hope I haven’t missed this golden spectacle before.  But one thing is certain:  I will appreciate it now, while it lasts, and I won’t forget to look for it this time next year.    

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My friend is right:  God’s skills as a painter have been
everywhere in evidence this fall.

Nature, Walking the Dog

A Masked Visitor

Until today, we had never spotted a raccoon in our yard, or even in our immediate neighborhood.  Deer and squirrels are routine. Foxes are frequent. Once, when my daughter was very young, she alerted me to the presence of two animal control officers walking across our front yard:  There are two people with big guns, Mama!  Turns out they were in search of the infamous rabid skunk that had been roaming the area.  But the raccoons, they had stayed away. 

I was eating breakfast when I heard Kiko bark from the yard. Of course, he rarely makes a sound. And this was a different kind of bark: a single woof, with an excited edge to it. I ran out to the porch to see my little dog face to face in the grass with a raccoon. Of course, I feared he would get bitten or scratched. I was afraid the raccoon might be rabid. Nearly every week, there’s at least one account in the Public Safety notes of the local newspaper of a dog quarantined after tussling with a sick raccoon.

Kiko was keeping some distance between him and the interloper, while backing it toward the fence. I clapped my hands loudly and yelled repeatedly, “Go Away!,” Get outta here!” The raccoon got the message, hastened its retreat, and squeezed through the bars of the fence. Once on the other side, it clambered up a Leyland Cypress in our neighbor’s yard. From a perch in the branches it peered down at us, composed, charming, and terribly cute. Kiko sat below at rapt attention, expectant, itching for another chance to show this foreign visitor what’s what.

We kept watch for a while. I wanted to make sure the raccoon wasn’t behaving erratically or showing signs of illness. As far as I could tell, it appeared to be a perfectly healthy specimen, handsome, well-fed and fuzzy. With an enviable sense of self-possession, it seemed content to observe us calmly and wait it out in the tree. After a while, and with much effort, I dragged Kiko away and onto the porch, where we watched as the raccoon carefully, unhurriedly, climbed down from the tree and disappeared into the bushes beside our neighbor’s deck.

Is this the first of many more such masked visitors to come? Or simply the appearance of a rebellious loner who got off track? While it’s hard to imagine a more cuddly-looking creature, for Kiko’s sake, I hope it spreads the word that inside our fence no warm welcome awaits. I hope it tells friends and family of its close brush with a fierce, red, fox-like monster.

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Nature

November, Back in Character

Yesterday, November decided to quit kidding around. Apparently she got tired of playing nice, of being mistaken for October or some other light-hearted, mild-mannered month.   The exuberant blue sky and bright white clouds were banished.  A dull gray dome descended, poised threateningly just above the treetops, blocking any appearance of sunlight.  A fierce wind whipped up, blasting most of the last leaves from the trees, and whirling them round and round in impressive spirals.  I could almost hear the eleventh month shrieking angrily,  “Have you forgotten who I am?  You won’t forget me now!”

I had forgotten. Walking with Kiko, I was ill-prepared, like a student who had neglected to study for a test I’d known about for weeks.

But in the bitter cold, it was time to face the real November, the one that requires determination, a wool scarf and better gloves.  And, I think, some warmer jacket.   What was it, and where did I put it?

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Family, Nature

Deep Blue November

November here in northern Virginia is veering far from stereotype.  Not yet, at least, for this month, the dull, drab grays and beiges most often associated with it.  Skies have been vividly, strikingly, deep blue, setting off gilded leaves and white, sharp-edged clouds to dramatic effect. 

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Waiting to pick up my daughter after play rehearsal,
I  had time to appreciate this dazzling skyscape.

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Last Sunday, the steeples of our church gleamed brightly against a backdrop of royal blue.

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Lacy bronze and gold oak leaves, highlighted against November blue.


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Set against a blue velvet sky, the lines of this old schoolhouse
appear as sharp and clean as cut paper.   

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As evening approaches, azure fades to turquoise, and clouds of molten metal stream in.  While the word “awesome” suffers from overuse, it perfectly describes recent November sunsets.


Look up and out.  Don’t miss this amazing free show!

Family, Nature, Parenthood

Old Hickory: My Vote for Best Fall Tree

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It’s evident from recent posts that I’m a big fan of trees.  I must like trees more than most people do.  When I was about seven years old, our next-door-neighbor, a well-read nature lover, gave me one of those little pocket guides to tree identification.  That got me started.  I found it surprisingly rewarding to recognize a tree by its shape, its bark, its leaves, flowers and fruit.  If I had to live in a land without trees, I don’t think I’d ever stop feeling some pain over their absence. When I’m out walking with Kiko, especially in the fall, much to his annoyance, I stop often to photograph notable trees.

This grand old hickory is beautiful all year long, but in the autumn, when its leaves turn yellow-gold, it’s absolutely glorious.

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Standing under the tree gives the impression of being sheltered by a lacy golden umbrella of immense proportions.  Sunlight passing through the leaves is warmer and more radiant.

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Hickory nuts make for tasty, but difficult eating.  One of my most prominent early memories is wandering the North Carolina woods with my father to gather heaps of hickory nuts.  Back home, we’d sit on the stoop outside my parents’ grad student UNC apartment, where Daddy would crack open the rock-hard shells with a hammer.  Together, we’d painstakingly pick out the kernels and feast on them.

So it is that hickory trees, and their nuts, summon brightly colored images of happy childhood Saturdays with my young, handsome father.  And in the contest for Best Fall Tree that plays entirely in my own head, this year’s winner, hands down, is the hickory.