California Dreamin’

    When Dad announced that we were going to California, I couldn't believe it. We subscribed to Life and Look Magazines, and I was transfixed by the photographs of beaches, Hollywood, and the idea that anything and everything could grow in the verdant valleys. All I could see in Montana were amber waves of grain and purple mountains' majesty. While these are stirring sights, I wanted to see at least one shining sea.

    We drove across the Mojave Desert in a 1961 Rambler Classic Station Wagon that bore a top carrier filled with luggage for seven people. The car was devoid of accessories like an air conditioner and seat belts. My dad had purchased the latest in-the-window air cooler that perched on the window of the front passenger door. It didn't do much except make the hot air more humid, blasting it on my mother's head, and giving her a new definition for "curly" hair.

    The most exotic place we visited was the Ventura home of Aunt Margaret, my dad's oldest sister. We had never seen such a place: it was nestled on the side of a hill, surrounded by palm trees, blooming shrubs, and cactus. They had a separate bathroom for the boys, and one for the girls. The oldest daughter had gone off to the convent, so all bets were off for the other four. They were wild, untamed cousins. They talked about things I had never heard before, and will never forget.

    We picked up crispy sunburns at the beach, and spent a day at a newly launched "Disneyland." Of course I loved all those things, but one of my favorite memories of the trip was the architecture of the Old California Missions. To me, this was California: exploring the missions on a hot day, surrounded by flowers and every kind of plant, little lizards fleeing from our feet. Although I was only 9 years-old, I could imagine the Mexicans, and eventually the European priests and settlers in this luscious landscape that was so entirely different from anything I had ever seen.

    A few weeks ago, Lenny told me that he missed California. In 30 years of marriage, he had never voiced this emotion before. His timing was great, because last weekend we flew to his home state to celebrate his Aunt Louise's 70th birthday. On the approach to Sacramento, we could see rice paddies stretching to the horizons, and once on the ground we drove past fields that were bursting with melons and tomatoes. Along the road to Clear Lake, we saw trees heavy with almonds and walnuts. There were vineyards that stretched for miles, each plant with its arms outstretched around the shoulders of the one next to it. The "birthday girl" is Mexican by heritage and birth, and we had a blast with her kids, and stepkids who are Lenny's cousins. Although it might seem very complicated, it was both la familia and la famiglia. Mexican or Italian, the sentiment was the same.

    On Sunday we visited the Ceago winery on the banks of Clear Lake, between Nice and Lucerne. It boasts rows of lavender, gardenias, and a myriad of fragrant plants. Something about the Mission style architecture brought back all of my early visions of California. I expected Zorro to appear on the balcony of the courtyard saying, "Let go of the Senorita!" Instead I caught a glimpse of my husband with his eyes closed and his face turned toward the sun.

    Seeing the Lake Country last weekend was like catching a glimpse of an old crush. California deserves the crazy reputation it has earned over the last 50 years, but every now and then, it flaunts the heritage and beauty that made it so rich and so wild.