“Lincoln on Leadership” – A Review

 Our cause must be entrusted to, and conducted by its own undoubted friends – whose hands are free, whose hearts are in the work – who care for the result.

- Remarks from “House Divided” Speech 1858

Educators, in many surveys, are described as people who are non-risk takers, who seek to please; compliant and sensitive to others.  Collectively, these and other common traits serve the purpose of moving most kids through their educational years with some balance of empathy and rigor.  It is often assumed that educational leaders, mainly coming from the ranks of educators in general, possess those same characteristics.  Arguably then, tough decisions that arise for all leaders appear tougher when viewed through the complex lenses of the teacher-turned-leader.

As a by-product of a recent visit to Lincoln’s boyhood home, I picked up and read “Lincoln on Leadership,” by Donald T. Phillips subtitled “Executive Strategies for Tough Times.” If ever a leader were ever confronted with monumental crises, it would be our sixteenth president.

Phillips discusses the circumstances from which many of Lincoln’s most time-honored writings grew and concludes chapters with principles Lincoln employed as he brought the nation back from its most critical hours and days:

·      If subordinates can stand it, so can you.  Set the example.

·      Invest time and money in better understanding the ins and outs of human nature.

·      When you extinguish hope, you create desperation.

·      The organization will take on the personality of its top leader.

·      Truth is the best vindication against slander.

·      When you are in deep distress and cannot restrain some expression of it, sit down, and write out a harsh letter venting your anger.  But don’t send it.

Whether a leader finds him or herself in the role of turning around General Motors, crafting a plan for intervention in Syria or Iraq, or achieving consensus with a group of primary teachers, the issue always gets down to people hearing, understanding, assisting and clearing the way for other people.  Too frequently, we find ourselves learning techniques about leadership only from a small wedge of individuals who come from our own field, thus missing out on the wisdom afforded by those with a perspective of greater, or at least, different challenges.

Reflecting on my own career, I suppose I inherently got some of Lincoln’s teachings right, but there are a hell of a lot I wish I’d have understood at critical moments.  Phillips's book, at times, provided a less than comfortable mirror for me.

Teacher/leader buddies: this nicely proportioned volume comes highly recommended.  This is published by an imprint of Hachette Book Group, so don’t expect to find it on Amazon.  Instead, see your local bookseller.

o0o

“Lincoln on Leadership: Executive Strategies for Tough Times.”  Donald T. Phillips.  Business Plus.  1992.  $15.

© 2014

Church of the Open Road Press

A VISIT TO ANOTHER CATHEDRAL – WRIGLEY FIELD

The grin felt welded into my jaw.  Muscles there ached, but I couldn’t release the smile.  I walked through the bowels of Wrigley feeling like a dope.  A dope with a big, beaming, uncontrollable grin.

 

Here was Grover Cleveland Alexander throwing junk.  And Tinkers and Evers and Chance completing yet another impossible double play.  Here was Ernie Banks yelling, “Let’s play two!”  And the curse of the Billy goat.  Here was a bespectacled Harry Carey leaning out of the pressbox and singing the Anthem during the seventh inning stretch.  And the Bartman incident.

“The Friendly Confines” turned 100 this year.  And thus far, never has a baseball championship been gained here.  Yet all of this is forgotten as one enters the stadium teeming with like-minded fans each imbued with short or, perhaps more accurately, forgiving memories.

I once was Mets fan.  It was because they were loveable losers.  Sure, it was easy to like the Dodgers or the Giants or the Yankees.  They were always in the thick of it, winning a pennant or ensuring that their rival did not.  But the Mets?  It was not until their seventh season that they turned in a winning record, and in their eighth, they went all the way.  In the process, they overtook these very Cubs during the last week of the season to win by only a game or two.  I was a senior in high school and no longer such a loser.  (Actually, I still was, but quite a number of blue and orange ball caps sprouted up on campus in October of 1969.)

I should have turned my attention to the Chicago northsiders right there and then.

Wrigley Field is the second oldest ball stadium still in use by major leaguers.  The oldest is in Boston.  Both are cathedrals.  And just as cathedrals in Siena and Milan and Rome are decorated with timeless frescos harbor centuries-old pipe organs calling us to bow down and revere, the soundtrack at Wrigley is organ music and the only true lyric is baseball.

Climbing the stairs and looking out on the hallowed ground, my jaw clamps tighter and my eyes wet.  Here is where the real believers worship – in spite of all evidence to the contrary.  Blue-hatted fans are friendly.  Their expectations are realistic.  Two weeks into any given season, they are heard to sigh and suggest, “Well, there’s always next year.”

Over the right field ivy-covered wall, bleachers perch atop apartment buildings on the other side of Waveland Avenue.  Even though tonight was not to be a sell out, souls dotted those seats a full eighth of a mile distant from home plate.  Believers.

A beer.  A dog.  Some chatter with fans in the row of seats behind us.  We all stood when former Cubs pitcher Milt Pappas (1970-73) led “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”  Believers.

How the game was played didn’t matter.  Just as what might have been preached at the Sistine Chapel last Sunday didn’t really matter.  All that mattered was here we were: in a cathedral called Wrigley, surrounded by – shrouded in – baseball history. 

On this, my first and, perhaps, only, visit to Wrigley Field, the hometown boys won.  Yep.  I guess I shoulda turned by attention to the lowly Cubs back in 1970.  I’m sure their history would be different.  I’m a believer.

o0o

Notes:

On the Cubs miseries: http://thegoodpoint.com/chicago-cubs-seasons/

© 2014

Church of the Open Road Press

LINCOLN IN KENTUCKY

A great road trip is a marriage of adventure, scenery, history and reflection coupled with good meals, sweeping curves and a visit to a local bookstore.

Travelling Kentucky’s Bourbon Trail found us in the boyhood country of Abraham Lincoln. Local history tells us that Thomas Lincoln owned farmland near Sinking Springs, where the future president would be born.  But records of the day were scant and the old man lost that property in a dispute with someone else.

Young Abe’s early home on the banks of Knob Creek reinforced those log cabin notions we grew up with.   

Scanning the pastoral draw, the National Park Service docent reports that Lincoln nearly drown in a swollen Knob Creek and that Lincoln’s infant brother Thomas was born there and died within days of his birth.

The pleasant mid-summer weather that greets us, opined the docent, belies the wicked winters that are common to the region.  One can only imagine the family of Thomas Lincoln huddled in the tiny cabin against the ice storm, praying the stores of firewood, grain and dried meats would last until the thaw.

Back at Sinking Spring, a memorial constructed on the site of Lincoln’s birthplace reminds us that from the humblest of beginnings, great individuals emerge.  The Park Service maintains Sinking Spring and the surrounding grounds.  Constructed inside a marble building similar to the memorial in DC is a replica of Lincoln’s cabin-of-birth. 

The memorial was commissioned on the hundredth anniversary of Abraham Lincoln’s birth, with signatories to the project including Theodore Roosevelt, William Howard Taft and Samuel Clemens.  The associated visitor’s center captures not only the essence of his frontier childhood but also the heart of his strength and character. 

Having assumed leadership roles during my education career, I could not avoid picking up Donald Phillips book “Lincoln on Leadership.”  A brilliantly readable text, Phillips provides context to some of Lincoln’s most sublime statements, ending each chapter with principles the President employed as he guided a tenuous ship of state through the most uncharted of waters.  His ability to translate a global picture into words easily consumed by the intended audience proved to be Lincoln’s essential gift to our fractured nation. 

We think of our times as tough.  But when we honestly reflect on the era in which Mr. Lincoln was raised and the issues with which he had to find resolution, we can’t help but regard our times as posh, in comparison, and our self-created issues and imminently solvable: if only we lifted the level of discourse to the heights touched by the young boy from Kentucky who nearly drowned in Knob Creek.

Resource:

“Lincoln on Leadership.”  Donald T. Phillips.  Business Press (a Hachette imprint – so don’t try finding it on Amazon.) 1992.  $15.

© 2014

Church of the Open Road Press

ON THE BOURBON TRAIL

Oh!  What I didn’t know about Kentucky!  What I didn’t know about Bourbon!

Annually, my wife and I get together with another couple intent upon exploring some area of the country we’ve never visited.  This year it was to be Kentucky.  “The Bourbon Trail is down that way,” said my buddy’s spouse, “and I know how much you guys like your whiskey.”

“Yeah,” I thought to myself, “but the south in the summer simply swelters, and no amount of hootch…” 

The origins of Bourbon predate the 18^th amendment and the results survived it.  Unlike what I’d been told, Bourbon is not a product exclusive to the state, but it must contain a predetermined amount of a specific grain and must be aged for a predetermined minimum amount of time.  The grain is corn.  The time is four years.  But, the longer the aging, the more enchanting the result.

Now, my dad’s favorite Bourbon was Jim Beam.  He’d pedal home from the post office and pour a shot or two over ice and add an equal amount of Seven-Up.  In homage to Dad, we visited the James Beam American Stillhouse.  There, we rediscovered something we probably already knew: Distillers create many labels each made distinctive by the grain involved, the distillation process of which there are many, the charring of the barrel’s insides and amount of time in the barrel.  My go to, Knob Creek, is a Beam product.  So are some of the better brands I’ve squirreled away to mate with the appropriate cigar:  Bookers, Bakers and Basil Hayden. 

Owned by the multi-national Suntory LTD and based in Clermont, the grounds are lovely; the facility, massive; the tasting, mechanized; but the product is engaging.  Take notes.

We home-based in Bardstown, KY.  Nearby is the Willett Distillery, a much smaller operation that Mr. Beam’s.  A one-hour tour is conducted by an individual who has worked pretty much all aspects of the process, except for horsing full kegs from the distillery to the rickhouse.  Full, they weigh just a bit too much for her to push around. 

Willett employs about forty folks full-time and the overriding impression one gets is that these individual are all part of a family.  Production is a fraction of that of area competitors but the tour convinces one of the hand-made, craftsman-like efforts taken in order to ensure a unique and savory product. 

Again, Willett produces several labels including Willett Rye, a bottle of which I have in the cabinet, and Old Bardstown, a copy of which I bought when I realized we’d be home-basing in that town. 

High end (for me) and exquisite is their Pot Still Reserve.  Packaged in a French manufactured bottle shaped like the old pot still we’d toured past, this Bourbon is aged in charred barrels to citrus and honey noted perfection.  A shard of ice releases a rainbow of aromas and flavors.  Upon return to California, I hunted one down and have locked it away.

Bardstown was recently voted the most beautiful small town in all of American.  Perhaps by Bardstownians?  But an argument can be made that this little berg is hard to beat.  Bardstown boasts a quaint downtown mixing taverns and tourist shops with those day-to-day essential stores that keep the locals from straying too far for commerce. 

Dinner at the Rickhouse proved to be the best meal on the weeklong trip and two nights at the Beautiful Dreamer Bed and Breakfast could only have been improved upon had there been four nights.  Best accommodation we’ve enjoyed in years.  Across the street, at the Old Kentucky Home State Park, check out the live, open-air theatre production of Stephen Foster’s life and legacy.

Just as the fruit growing areas of Placer County, CA has its farm trail, and the wine growing regions of California, their wine trails, over the past five or six years, the whiskieteers of Kentucky’s nectar (or their marketers) have devised a route that passes travelers through hollows and pastures, over limestone enriched cricks and to distilleries both historic and modern.  Each has a pleasant setting.  Each invites pause and tasting.  Each raises Kentucky from my unjustified and negatively predisposed position of well-it's-just-the-south to a new and positive damn-this-is-good! 

I have resolved to examine my other negative predispositions – of which I have many – thanks to Kentucky.

o0o

Resources:

Bourbon Trail Details: http://kybourbontrail.com/ This site may be more marketing than substance – and, once in the area, be sure to check out those distilleries not listed.  This site does provide a nice overview of the history and process.

James Beam website: http://www.americanstillhouse.com/

Willett Distillery Website: http://www.kentuckybourbonwhiskey.com/whiskeys.html

Bardstown Tourist Info: http://www.visitbardstown.com/

The Rickhouse Restaurant: http://therickhouse-bardstown.com/ Be sure to engage in a flight of whiskeys as part of your experience!

Beautiful Dreamer Bed and Breakfast: http://bdreamerbb.com/ The breakfasts provided by Dan and Lynell are beyond description.  Stay here!

© 2014

Church of the Open Road Press

A VISIT TO THE CORVETTE FACTORY

Dateline: Bowling Green, KY.  Upon her retirement as a university secretary at CSU, Chico, Mom was presented with a two-week tour of Great Britain.  Off she and Dad flew, seeing sites and visiting places they likely would never see again.  Not Scotch drinkers – Dad, a practical man when he imbibed, embraced Jim Beam – they toured the historic Glenfiddich Distillery.  So enamored were they of the process that they somehow spirited a bottle of 12-year-old home on Pan Am.  Mom never touched the stuff and Dad still liked his Beam.  Vestiges of Glenfiddich may still remain somewhere in the house Mom has left for the grandkids to squabble over.

I’ve never considered myself a Chevy person.  

Not that Chevy’s aren’t terrific automobiles: I’d always eagerly watch the first episode of Route 66 just to see what next year’s Corvette would look like. 

But I never really wanted one.  We grew up with Fords and, later Toyotas.  I don’t consider myself a performance car guy, either.  Happy with a VW bug, a Mazda MPV, an Isuzu Trooper and now a Nissan Frontier and a Honda Civic, perhaps I inherited that “practical” gene from Dad.  So when the suggestion was proffered that while nearing the Bourbon Trail in Kentucky, we should stop into the Corvette factory, I thought, “What the heck.  It’ll only take an hour or two.”

Mere moments after I shucked down the seven bucks entry fee, my deep-seated attitude began to waiver.  After a short film, a young pre-education student from Western Kentucky U, ushered us into the factory admonishing us to refrain from picture taking and to stay within the yellow lines. 

Her play-by-play offered a concise description of that which we were observing: engines and drive trains being lowered into all-aluminum frames, painted bodies gently nestled into place, doors advancing toward those bodies in a preselected order to be installed by hand with hands that felt each grove for precise fit.  The young lady exposed how to determine whether the ‘Vette might be a fancy LR-5 (the color of the brake calipers) as opposed to an LR-1, neither being cheap, but one being a bit less costly.  Wheels and tires were added.  Seats dropped into place.  Windows installed and rolled up and down, up and down to ensure their proper function.

Musical cues sounded at various places along the line, tipping workers off to timing or a suspected problem, or – most of the time – the high degree of production success.  Workers don’t move from station to station except for in the room where the high performance engines are assembled.  In that unit, one employee follows the engine from parts to completion.

The whole operation seems a melding of technology and human touch.  Major assembly occurs by hand and is checked by hand.  And at the rate of a handful per hour, gorgeous finished products roll off the line to be inspected, driven in a wind tunnel, parked in a deluge to discover any leaks and finally wrapped in plastic to await delivery somewhere in the nation.

Nearby, the National Corvette Museum offers self guided tours for ten bucks. 

Housed inside is a collection of Corvettes dating back 60 years to the earliest version.  Stories of experimentation, design, racing, travails and successes are placed along the way.  Models I remember as new are on display – as new.  As are life-sized dioramas reminding viewers of days not so long past.

This is the place where, a couple of years back, water dissolved enough of the underlying limestone to create a sink hole in the worse imaginable place on the globe and eight irreplaceable vintage examples were swallowed.  A security camera caught the entire episode and not a single grown, male visitor passes this tape without either a gulp or a tear.

Buyers have the option of ordering a car from their dealer and picking it up from the museum.  Two were taking delivery at the time of our visit.  Another couple received the keys to a beautiful green convertible won in the month raffle.

In the span of two hours, my head was turned.  As my wife reaches retirement next June, and as our plans include doing a little road work – she’s not entirely comfortable on either the BMW or the Guzzi – a Corvette Sting Ray has risen to the top of the list of vehicles we wouldn’t mind touring in. 

Couple that with this:  Three days later, we are parking at the Shaker Village historic display outside of Lexington.  Up drives a couple with about ten years on us.  They park their ’14 ‘Vette in a slot.  Carefully they take the removable top weighing only sixteen pounds from the trunk and install it on the vehicle.  “Replaced my ’04 with this one last April.  The old one had 15,000 miles on it.  This one’s got 7,000 already,” the gentleman offered.  His wife added: “We have a Lincoln Town Car at home.  We never take in anywhere.”  Then he said: “Got 33.2 miles per gallon on the highway recently…”

My wife looked at me, dead in the eye.  Our Civic gets that on a good day.

Later this week, I’m going to trek up to Mom’s old house and see if I can find that old bottle of Glenfiddich.  With it, I’m going to sit down, crack it open and do a little thinkin’.

About a red one.

o0o

Resources:

Info on Corvette factory tours: https://www.bowlinggreenassemblyplant.com/

Info on the National Corvette Museum: http://www.corvettemuseum.org/

Note:  I realize that this tour is really a marketing ploy by GM, but it’s a darned good one.  The product is the source of fantasy for many children my age and younger, but the motoring press suggests that the price point makes it a fantasy within reach.  I’m glad I spent my two-plus hours this way and recommend the effort. 

© 2014

Church of the Open Road Press

MY FATHER’S CHAIR

I imagine they’d had a time of it, getting then then-new leather chair up into the attic they rented in Glendale.  It was 1947 and Mom and Dad had just married.  Their combined incomes went into that chair and a used Chevy sedan for Mom.  Dad would continue to bike to his job at the post office.

I came along in 1952 and in about 1954 or 55, I imagine, I would crawl up on Dad’s lap in the big leather chair.  He’d set down his smoldering pipeful of Half ‘n’ Half (half Burleigh, half Bright, marketed by US Tobacco) and read “Make Way for the Ducklings,” my favorite book, or “If I Ran the Zoo,” my second favorite book because Dr. Seuss mentions my birthday in it. 

The leather chair was huge with ample room for the two of us and later, the two of us plus Ernie the beagle.  Countless times the pungent smell of the leather sent my head swirling and, along with Dad’s cadence, it was probably the last thing I sensed as a fell asleep.  Sometimes I’d be spirited off to bed and sometimes he’d slip out from under me I’d awake in the corner of his chestnut colored throne.

Time passed.  The family moved north.  I grew bigger.  Mom decided the old piece could use a freshening.  Frugally, she chose something known as Naugahyde.  Sticky.  Cold.  Sterile.  Lacking aroma.  Naugahyde.  Vinyl.  (But easy to wipe clean.)  In the 90s, Dad died.

By this time, I’d moved away – off building a career somewhere away from home.  Off with a family of my own.  Visiting the old homestead, I sought out the chair but never sat in it.  Not sure if that’s because it belonged to Dad and it wasn’t the same without him, or if the sterile glove of the artificial surface was off putting.

More time passed and Mom found herself liquidating some the family’s furnishings.  “Either of you boys want anything?”  I wanted the chair.  I don’t know why.  It was ugly, decrepit and – did I mention? – covered in vinyl.

I loaded the thing into the back of my pickup.

Up the road from my current house a few miles there is a furniture restoration place.  I’d visited and thought, perhaps I’d have them give it a look.

“Sure,” they said.  “We can do it up nice.”  I left with a claim slip.  On the way home, all the details about the chair that I hadn’t mentioned came to mind.  The pleats in the ends of the arms.  The rustic nails trimming the base.  The seven or so buttons securing tucks in the back.  They assured me they’d restore it, but I wasn’t sure to what.

After a time the call came in that the thing was done.  “We know you’re gonna love it.  We do.”  Then the person added, “Everyone on the staff likes to use it at break time.  It sits real nice.  You’ll see.”

Heart in my throat, thinking about Dad and ducklings and Dr. Seuss and the details I didn’t share, I arrived at the restorer.  They led me to the workroom, a workspace in the store partitioned by a bed sheet.  Staff gathered to see my face, they pulled back the curtain.

Perfection!

Gently, they loaded it into the truck, lovingly covering and tying it in.  With a subtle sense of loss, they bid Dad’s chair good-bye insisting I drive straight home to minimize it’s time in the sun.

It is evening now.  I’ve been in and out of the old piece a dozen times since I brought it in.  Something isn’t quite right.  Not the workmanship: that’s perfect.  Not the leather: it’s beautiful and smells just the way it did sixty years ago.  Maybe, if I got a copy of “Ducklings” and read it?  What if I found an old pipe, stuff it with some Half ‘n’ Half and smoked it?  I sat in the thing pondering and pondering some more.

Enters my wife: “That thing doesn’t look all that big to me,” she commented.  “You sure that’s the chair Grandpa Clayton put you to sleep in?”

I stood up this time sizing the piece up in the face of reality.   I guess it was never huge – after all, it had to fit into an attic in Glendale back in 1947.  But just the same, it is still perfect.

o0o

Notes: 

Make Way for the Ducklings.  Robert McCloskey. 1941

About Naugahyde: http://www.naugahyde.com/  (Yep, they’re still makin’ the stuff.)

The craftspeople who restored Dad’s chair?  Sipes Tahoe:  Located on I-80 in Newcastle, California, these folks offer an eclectic mix of antiques and collectable furniture along with an attention to detail that is rare to find and a joy to behold.  Check ‘em out at: http://www.sipestahoe.com/ and be sure to look at their restoration page.

© 2014

Church of the Open Road Press

THE REVENGE OF GEOGRAPHY - a review

On the 100^th anniversary of the event that catapulted Europe into the Great War, the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, it is fitting that we should remember that the world is still paying for the spoils of that conflict.  During the war, the great powers of Britain and France decided exactly who would get which parts of the Middle East after the assumed victory was assured.  As colonizers, they drew straight lines across a region rich with history, cultures and ethnicities those men with the straight edge and ink pens knew little or nothing about.

In Robert Kaplan’s book, The Revenge of Geography, we are reminded that peoples likely develop societies along courses of rivers and those societies are divided by ranges of mountains.  Rivers provided ancient trade routes while mountains were crossed with risk of peril. People of like mind and religious beliefs clustered in places that could be farmed of game harvested. Clashes over territory lay at the frontiers, rarely involving the engagement of large forces.

But the European colonizers took little of this into consideration.  Rather, they sought land, the resource wealth buried therein governed by a friendly leader.  The results were those straight lines clustering unlike tribes into unsustainable nations.

Today, modern western powers that should know better, continue to demand by force that those nations stand, while within many, a deadly struggle among those original tribal societies rages.  Sunni.  Shiite.  Kurd.  And a bunch of others.

The current crisis in Iraq (and Syria) is described as a militant band of terrorists bent on over-throwing a duly elected representative government.  The facts may be different.  The duly elected government may be little more than one group placed into power struggling to maintain its control by subjugating the others.  And we say, “C’mon, guys.  Try to work together.”  Implied is: Or we’ll take sides.

Violent and ugly as it is turning out to be, perhaps the disintegration of the nations erected with straight edge and quill during World War I is actually the reestablishment of the nations existing prior to Europe’s meddling there.

While my argument here is a gross simplification, Kaplan explains how geography wins time and time again when the quest for domination ignores the globe’s natural system of boundaries and bounty.

This is a technical read – more scholarly than I am used to – but one worth wading through if we are to have a better view of the hows and the whys of so many of the world’s current conflicts.

o0o

The Revenge of Geography : Robert D. Kaplan (Random House, 2012, $16.00)

A LOCALIZED VISIT TO TUSCANY

“How did you find us?”  The woman stepped from the shadows of the steel warehouse.  I dismounted and was removing a yellow Scheuberth that had rendered a hotspot to my forehead.  She repeated:  “How did you find us?”

I’d been exploring off-freeway lanes near my new Sonoma County digs and had taken a westerly turn onto Mountain House Road in Hopland.  “The poppies.”  I pointed to a small stand of poppies planted where the asphalt apron at Terra Sávia abuts the roadway.  “I was thinking of getting a shot of my bike with the poppies in the foreground.”

“That’s a beautiful bike,” she said as I peered into the shadows of the warehouse.

I stepped inside.  A few pallets of cased goods sat close by next to a table with an adding machine and some strewn papers.  As my eyes adjusted from daylight to warehouse light, a few more pallets came into view.  To the left was a tasting bar.

“Like to try some olive oil?  It’s all Italian varietals.”

“Just like the bike,” I said.

Terra Sávia is a wholly organic small operation specializing in estate grown wines – cabs, pinots, merlots, a nice Meritage (rhymes with “heritage”) and a non-oaked chardonnay; Italian varietal olive oils from trees on the property; and wildflower honey from their own stash of bees.  

Striking is the olive press imported from the home country.  The machine is active in October where Terra Sávia organics are first crushed, then fruit from other local growers.

Wandering through the facility, I see that local artisans display seating and tables, all far too big to be packed away on a motorcycle.  Flat art festoons the walls and a classic Porsche begs one to salivate.  

Outside, a rustic cabin awaits those wishing to stay for an overnight experience.

I purchased a bottle of Tuscan oil and set to stowing it in the Joe Rocket seat pack on the motorcycle.  

“Do you need a bag?” the proprietress asked.  “Is it padded enough?  Moto Guzzi.  Where did you say that bike came from?”

“About two hundred miles north of the rootstock for your olive trees.”

And the conversation ensued.  Guzzi and BMW tourers know the routine…

I didn’t taste wine on my first visit because I don’t do alcohol – even a sip – if I’m riding the bike.  But I did return a few days later with family.  I’d been charmed not only by the honest, small operation feel of Terra Sávia, but also by the woman who showed such great interest in the Guzzi.

She recognized me as the fellow from earlier in the week as she poured first the Chard, then the reds.  More conversation.  More exploration.  More of that honest, small operation, down-to-earth, workin’ the land goodness.

Folks touring US 101 out of the Bay Area and north of Santa Rosa: this is a stop not to be missed.  (Open Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.)

o0o

Two footnotes:

The Mertiage complements nicely a grilled peppered New York Strip Steak.  I drool as I type this.

I need to go back and get that picture of the Guzzi amid the poppies.

Resources:

Info about this unique and interesting little place is found at: http://terrasavia.com/

Today’s Route:

US 101 South from Eureka, Willets, Ukiah or North from SF, Santa Rosa, Healdsburg to Hopland.  West on Mountain House Road at the burger joint.  Look for the Terra Sávia sign on the right.

© 2014

Church of the Open Road Press