The steering wheel jiggled under my fingers, the shallow potholes announcing their presence in a subtle rumble that never quite matched the rhythm of the tympani drums playing over the Classical music station. With my left foot propped up on the edge of my seat, I sat comfortably folded like a gangly grasshopper, my knee a perfect shelf for my elbow to support my hands placed at a languid 4 and 8 wheel position.
“The best defensive driver is an offensive driver.”
My father’s voice niggled at my memory, a flash of my first driving lesson on the foggy Humboldt cliffs pulling at my attention. Daddy would be appalled at my origami posture, though I’m sure he would have been proud of how well I managed the busy freeways I had abandoned just a few minutes prior.
A country girl at heart, I never cared for the chaos of the angry urban streets, though dad’s instruction from my teen years (“Check your mirrors.” “Ten and two, Chrissey.” “I’m not worried about your driving; I’m concerned about the idiots around you.”) gave me the confidence necessary to navigate the tangle of offramps and intersections around The City.
After hours on the freeways of the Bay Area, my shoulders tense, my feet firmly planted and hands in the daddy-and-DMV-advised position, it was a relief to turn off of Trancas onto the Silverado Trail. As soon as I saw that long stretch of empty highway nestled between hills and vineyards of the upper Napa Valley, I inhaled, my lungs rejoicing in the first deep breath since early that morning, and I melted into a more comfortable, yet far less safe posture. The stress of the long weekend had dribbled away, mirroring my fingers as they slid from their offensive grip on the wheel to an easy support.
I watched the grape vines in their endless rows flicker by. I could almost hear the rows call out a staccato ”thupp, thupp, thupp, thupp,” as if they were the corner pages of a notebook being pulled back in a flipbook animation. As a musician I’ve always loved the mathematics of soundwaves, and my heart lulled as I watched the wide rows just outside my window flanked by the vines further away shiver in a visual trill of halves and harmonics. The patterns were music, the scenery, an orchestra, and I, a humble spectator surrounded by a symphony of beauty.
Autumn had arrived, and with it the vibrant copper tones spilling over the velvet hills. The golden hour’s sun shivered just a few fingers-width above the horizon, melting the rows of leaves in a wave of heaven-touched splendor. The heavy grapes lent a rusty purple shadow below the foliage, creating an ocean of sunburnt paper clouds on entangled arms hanging over a dusting of cosmos and daisies.
It would soon be cutting time, and in a few weeks the leaves would rain yellows and auburns onto the earth, transforming the branches into gray arthritic knuckles exposed to the chilling air. The rows of leathery vines would evolve from suspended feathers to anorexic silhouettes against the hilly backdrop. The inevitable winter preluded a whisper even as the leaves’ golden highlights boldly promised a Bachus-worthy eternal warmth and bounty.
I pulled down the visor as the road curved westward, the sun fierce against my face. Squinting against the yellow glare I adjusted my sunglasses, jiggling the right hinge to better rest on my ear, flecks of paint falling off the weathered plastic at my touch. For a twelve-dollar pair of glasses they had served me well over the last four years. I hoped they would last me at least through the rest of the season, as the tint held the perfect shade of burnt crimson to bring out the depth of vineyards and sunsets. At the thought I dropped my chin and looked over the frames at the rolling hills. Even without the added hue the view was breathtaking.
Pushing the shades further up my nose I settled deeper into my seat, rolling my shoulders and resting my head back. I let my elbow slide down to the window frame, resting my left wrist on my knee, allowing my right hand to manage the steering wheel solo. I breathed in deeply, noticing the odd scent of bananas and vinegar that was frequent in this later part of wine season.
The road curved again and the sun shone warm against my neck. I yawned with abandon, and my jaw dropped, my ears popped, squishing my eyes into watery slits. I could feel myself getting too comfortable, and realized I would have to fight to be alert for the remaining 40-minute drive.
Sighing in resignation I uncoiled my left leg from its perch and planted it firmly on the floorboard. I stretched over to the passenger seat and unzippered my crossbody purse with clumsy fingers, riffling through the random receipts, pens, cards, and cough drops to find that last piece of wintergreen gum I was sure was hiding in there somewhere. Ah-ha! I wrangled the gum out of its wrapper and folded it into my mouth like a sugary ribbon, and once again steadied the helm with both hands. The minty explosion made my eyes water, and I immediately felt more alert.
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was playing and I turned up the radio, returning my grip to the lower half of the wheel. The Autumn movement of the piece began as a chipper arrangement, with fast runs and trills accented by arpeggios and jumps. My jaw bounced up and down on my gum, while my fingers tapped along with the rhythm of the strings until the instruments merged into a slower section.
As the melody swelled I noticed that I wore a grin, unexpectedly delighted at the exquisite juxtaposition of song and scenery. I wondered if Vivaldi had thought of vineyards at sunset as he composed the piece. I wondered if he had imagined crimson and burnt umber as he penned runs of eighth- and sixteenth-notes. I wondered if he and I just happened to feel the music of Fall in a similar manner, or if Autumn was universal enough to communicate to everyone everything that lingered in the wake of Summer.
My left turn arrived far sooner than I expected. I shouldn’t have been surprised, though, as I was frequently distracted by the scenery and often missed that first road into town. Pope Street boasted a narrow bridge over the Napa River, one of 360 historical stone bridges in the county. Originally built barely wide enough to accommodate two carriages, I regularly held my breath if needing to pass another large vehicle. Without oncoming traffic, however, I straddled the middle dotted line, admiring the verdant green growth of nearly neon moss tucked between the brindle stone walls on either side of the road.
Yawning again, I flipped the visor up for a better view of the oak trees hanging over the road. The sun had dipped behind the hills and twilight had turned the sky violet. I sighed a happy sigh as I approached town, admiring the way vineyards had given way to homes, and watching the quaint lampposts flickering on over the scattered sidewalks.
Dvorak’s Largo was introduced on the radio and I sang the apropos words that had been set to that tune:
Goin’ home, goin’ home, I’m a goin’ home;
Quiet-like, some still day, I’m jes’ goin’ home.
It’s not far, jes’ close by,
Through an open door;
Work all done, care laid by,
Goin’ to fear no more.
Goin’ home, goin’ home, I’m jes’ goin’ home;
Goin’ home, goin’ home, goin’ home!
An old brick church came into view, the grandiose Seventh Day Adventist property the landmark for my turn. The red walls shrugged tall shoulders toward the darkening sky, and I turned on my ticker-tocker, the click-click-click indicating my intention to make a left. I waited for an angular Tesla, an Amazon van, and three e-bikes to roll by, and made the turn. I wanted to speed up the little hill, but the elementary school to my left reminded me to take it slow. It was only one block up the hill of homes and a tight right onto Granger before I was in the Quail Meadows neighborhood, a sleepy little collection of 24 homes, mostly populated by sweet retired folks. I yawned again, the breath reaching clear down to my knees, and whooshed it out in a lusty gust that waggled my lips like a horse’s contented blow.
Parking the minivan under the carport, as close to the garbage bins as possible without tapping the van’s nose to the plastic, I shut off the engine and rested my head back, giving myself just a few seconds of quiet before heading in. As soon as I opened my door I could smell the many active fireplaces and I felt a smile pulling at my lips and pressing at my eyes. Perhaps we’d have s’mores again that evening. Roasting marshmallows inside was always a messy adventure, but the memories gained far outweighed any inconvenience.
Phone, wallet, glasses, keys.
I repeated the mantra in my head, making sure I had all my possessions in hand before kicking the car door shut. As I walked up the little path behind the row of bushes I aimed my key fob over my shoulder and pressed the lock button far too many times, hearing the beep-beep! salute its affirmation.
38, 39, 40. 41.
I counted my steps from the van to our front door, and reached for the knob. It was unlocked, as usual, and I pushed my way in. The hubbub of four kiddos doing school and chores and playing with the baby was a cheerful, ruckus cacophony, and it wasn’t until the door snicked shut behind me that I was noticed. The happy cries of welcome ricocheted off the tall ceilings and, as I dropped my keys into the little basket on the entryway table, my heart agreed with the children’s announcement of, “Mama’s home!”
