We left Marin for the windy roads of Sonoma every Sunday that I can remember. No questions asked, no protestations allowed. Right after donuts at the 9am Mass, the 6 of us piled into the Buick Station Wagon and headed up 101 into farm country.
And it was ALWAYS north. Never East, West or South. There was a purpose aside from getting 4 fidgety kids from under my mother's feet. Simple pleasures, for it wasn't the chic destination it is today. More orchards and cows back then than grapes. And truthfully, as long as you had a window seat, the drive was far from a tortuous affair, and I am not waxing lyrical 30 years hence. A Nancy Drew in hand, watching the golden hills roll into one another, daylight drawing long shadows from the gnarled Oaks as afternoon waned, making up ghost stories on the way home to entertain my 3 younger siblings. I actually don't understand why it wasn't a tradition I carried on with my own children.
As far as I can remember, we pretty much took the same route: Highway 37 to Sonoma Square where we stopped at the Cheese Factory for Sandwiches in the park, then to Napa and up the valley to Yountville, and finally, back to Sonoma along the Russian River to Occidental where I am sure THIS was the principle purpose. Occidental. Every Italian family from Marin ate supper at Occidental one time or another. It was either Negri's on one side of main street or the Union Hotel directly across the way. And you had to choose. Once you did, you never crossed the road.
The Lavaroni family landed squarely with the Union Hotel, an old fashioned family style restaurant with red checkered table cloths, drippy candles and obscene amounts of food, including, the BEST minestrone soup EVER.
Yesterday was Father's Day and it felt like the right thing to do to take a Sunday Drive of my own, the children spending the day with their father and my own Pater, now strangely devoid of the desire to ramble along country roads, even with the enticement of the Union Hotel's warm apple fritters.
I might not have recreated the exact route, but the feeling was the same. Freedom from the cares of the week to come, lost in the beauty of a dwindling afternoon sun on acres of translucent grape leaves. I even spotted an apple orchard holding its own amidst a sea of pinot vines.
The most evocative sight on my nostalgic tour was The Cherry Tree, a ramshackle hut, long boarded up, tucked into a bend on Hwy 12 just as you begin to climb a bluff.
I remember the question, always for naught. "Can we stop? Pleeeaaase?" There was something hard to resist about the rows of ruby liquid filled jugs that lined the fence in the dirt parking area, teasing us as we passed. The answer was always the same. "Maybe on the way back." I don't know why we never caught on. The way back was always through Occidental.
It must have been the hawk that caught my eye, circling languidly above, or the baby ducks at the Sonoma Square pond with which we shared our Cheese Factory sandwiches.
There was so much to capture the imagination on those long ago drives, and the promise of a comfortable table, a Shirley Temple served ice cold (it LOOKED like Cherry juice, after all) and a plate full of creamy raviolis from the Union Hotel at the end of it all.
No comments:
Post a Comment