A Week of Burning

A month back I was stung by the ever mischievous poison oak. Focused on clearing drains alongside a 2 acre slope of Pinot Noir in Chalk Hill I inadvertently stumbled into the miserable leafless vine. Without any green indicators to send out a warning signal, I dug deeper into the ditch without a second thought. Two days later as I carpooled south to Northern Marin I scratched at my arm, pulling my longsleeve shirt back to reveal a bright pink, inflamed patch of skin, about the size of a post-it note. The first images into my head came from the scene in Requiem for a Dream when Harry Goldfarb is on a dope run to the lower reaches of the confederacy and realizes his right arm is terminally infected. A wave of terror spread over me and I panicked thinking, 'Shit, my arm might be infected! I could loose my fucking arm!'

From the driver's seat I heard Big D announce "Shit dude, that looks like poison oak." Bingo. "Look on the bright side, at least you didn't get hit during mid-summer when you are sweating your ass off constantly," my boss reassured me.

For the following two weeks I tried everything to get rid of the urushiol oil that was spreading its toxic hands across my body. I was livid, rightly pissed off. I'm from the Northeast. We have poison ivy which my body is practically immune to. You name it I tried it: aveeno, aloe creams, calamine lotion, technu, origin, homeade salves. When I arrived to prune with one of the quadrillas coated in pink flaky war paint someone would inevitably ask "Oh, Tommy do you still have la hiedra? Oh, Tommy that's no good. Has it arrived at your huevos yet Tommy?"

"No no no. It hasn't reached the balls yet," I responded as a the jury waited patiently for verdict. 'Oh, those silly Mexican guys' I thought 'always kidding.'

A week or so ago I showed up to work with Eugene's crew to be harangued once again. "Tommy, do you still have la hiedra?...Yes. O.K., now has it reached your balls yet?" they pried matter of factly. What the fuck was this? Twenty questions into my personal health? I thought I showed up to the vineyard not the dermatologist. I felt like an eight year old being harassed by his hunchbacked grandmother with thick black bifocals "Honey, do you got that...that poison oak on your little boy balls. Let grandmama see it."

No stranger to honesty I admitted the truth. "Yep, at last the poison oak has reached my balls. Happy?"

"Oh, Tommy, that's not good," came the general reply.

Maybe the Mexican guys knew all along. Maybe poison oak always has a final destination, albeit an unsavory one at that. A habitual scratch with an infected fingernail can be all it takes.

Striding into the office on Tuesday after a four day weekend Big D asked me if I had ever done any debris burning in my extensive work history. Thinking back on it I could only conjure up blurry memories of setting boxes aflame to drift into the depths on Lake Ontario and burning couches in the backyard of the Death Trap. "Nothing to speak of," I replied, "but I sure as hell would like to give it a shot." After all, I had seen the Kiwis burning giant tree trunks and debris at McKean Estates as I slaved away, hunched over two-budding young savvy vines. Shit, if they could lean on a shovel so could this guy.

Wednesday was the day of the burning bush. The pyro in me was itching to set flame to the motionless pile of cordon arms still heavy with sap from their recent parting with the mother ship that was recently converted to cane. At first the pile was stubborn, insubordinate to my prods and coercions, but with a little liquid incentive it was well on its well to dandydom. Like a woman or maybe a feline friend, a good, roaring fire needs to be caressed and nurtured.

Stacking the cordon cuttings high I leaned on my shovel and stared intently into the flames, a spitting image of old Moses and his staff high on Mount Sinai, chatting it up with the Burning Bush. Now realistically, if a burning bush called out your name on the top of a mountain what would you do? Haul ass back from where you came from most likely. Or maybe pop a few more mushrooms and eat a couple smores. It all depends on your personal character I suppose.

In the old days it was a lot easier to cannonize the supra-natural without advances in modern technology. In this day in age how am I to believe a bearded exile talked to Yahweh via a burning shrub. How the hell does a burning bush talk anyway and how can you hear it above all the crackling? These are the questions my Sunday school teacher refused to answer. As you can see they still haunt me like a spider monkey on Aguirre's back.

As the first fire raged I was approached by the absentee neighbor's gardener who also seemed lost in a haze as he mindlessly circled the mock-Tuscan villa in search of his money, or maybe direction. Approaching me from across a buffer zone of bolted mustard flowers was the adult Ralph Wiggum, bald and pot-bellied. What follows is rough version of our exchange:

"Hey, what what are you doing down there," queried the gardener.

Hmm, let me see I have a shovel and a giant inferno blazing in front of me. "Well, I am burning excess debris from the vineyard," I responded maintaining a cordial attitude.

"Oh, I thought you need a permit for that."

"Yep, we have one." I swung around and shoveled a heap of fallen canes back on top of the flame. "Yiiiikkess!" I hollered feeling the heat.

"Oh, what happened there?" asked adult Ralph stupefied.

"Well I got a little too close to the fire."

"What did that feel like?"

"Uh, burning."

Adult Ralph continued to go on tangent after tangent: Did I know where the foothills were and that Charles Shultz has an abode there? Ralph's business was called Gardening Unlimited and in fact it could be found in the yellow pages. Also, he did a much better job than these "meh-hee-conos" that you just pull off the street. At that point I started to tune him out, but the man had diahrea mouth; he could not stop spewing. Walking away he got out his digital camera to snap a few keepsakes of the countryside, the mustard ablaze on the verdant rolling hills. "I'm taking your picture" he called from afar.

"Go fuck yourself" I hissed under my breath ducking behind the burning bush, my own proverbial savior. See debris fires can serve a purpose after all.

By Friday the burned brush piles were in the multiples sending my sweaty poison oak crotch into a tailspin. While Spring was in full swing the burning brush manufactured my old little sweaty summer. The poison oak has fully engulfed my poor scrotum leaving it in an inflamed, irritated mess. Do you know what it feels like to have your crotch hurt while you walk? You sorta have to pretend to straddle a giant ball and waddle back and forth. It burns, keeps me awake at night like a nervous parent.

To rap this up sophmorically, poison oak is just another vehicle for natures true brutality and unforgiving disposition. The moral here kids is to pick up a field guide to identify this dastardly weed or do yourself a favor and stay away from the West coast altogether.

'Til next week bizachos.

End Notes:
1. Anyone with poison oak cure alls please email me.

Simple Sun-Soaked Endings

What can you envision your perfect Saturday? Your perfect day off? The un-interrupted day off; neither clouded by the Friday workday nor the inevitable Monday.

Today might have been that day.

For starters, there's waking up next to someone you miss, someone that has been 3,000 miles away. Waking up early, not because you have to but because your biological clock demands it. Waking up to a warm embrace, rays of early morning sun peeking over the Mayacamas and flooding the room via the roof windows.

Followed by none other than copious amounts of french pressed dark roast and accompanied with Buffalo red potato hash browns, a few fresh hen eggs-over easy, a lox lathered bay-gul and fresh sliced of avocado. Hey, this is California after all. A true-black and blue breakfast might include a Mimosa, but those should really be reserved for recovering from the Saturday night battering ram.

Fully refueled with starch and 87 unleaded we meandered across the Santa Rosa sprawl, crawling through red lights and ped walkways to the rolling hills of the Sonoma Coast. Amidst the Russian River wetlands and marsh we sat betwixt bi-lateral cordon vines and Lynmar's ultra-stylistic tasting room. Below the veranda we tasted a flight of Russian River and Estate Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, basking in the cool afternoon march sun and layered wines. The bolted mustard green on opposing hillsides reflected our demeanor: golden, golden golden.

Our next pit stop was Iron Horse Winery, a down home sparkling producer unashamed of downhome grit and rustic scenery. A weekend barrel tasting made for a congested scene at the tasting counter (slabs of barn wood on barrels) but added to a jovial atmosphere. Unfortunately the sparklers were letdowns, filled with wonder bread and dank newspaper. The Chardonnay flight was a bit more appealing with the un-oaked chard displaying a perfumed nose with un-adulterated acidity and the Corral Chard giving off pleasant citrus and a voluptuous body. Goes to show you can't hate a varietal all the time.

At Spears Market, outside Guerneville, we picked up a hot pastrami rueben. Like many quaint Mom and Pop country stores in California the Lipton Ice tea can be found next to a full line of Traditional Medicinals tea bags and the Bud Light fills the ice chest next to a cache of Lagunitas IPA. For every redneck in Northern California (mine included) there is a shitlocked hippie not too far away. If only the Pennysaver would follow suit...

Daylight hours were capped with a picnic by the Pacific, our table an under appreciated boulder washed up some millennia ago. Gobbling up the sammy with salt and pepper krinkle cut chips we starred at the jutting rock formations. You know the ones. The ones that stand tall and jagged above the ceaseless ambush of waves. The sea mountains ingrained in our formative brains in The Goonies.

"That one is the man on the moon."

"Possibly, but with a gnarled wino's nose and a butt chin."

"What about those?"

"Turds."

"Oh yeah?"

"That is a finicky French waiter; even has a pencil moustache."

"And a styled pompadour."

"I was thinking more like a bouffant."

"Actually, I think it looks like a chubby Bruce Campbell."

"No way! But maybe Fat Elvis"

The sun set, although, not perfectly. Nothing comes out perfect. There's always a catch, a glitch. A discordance. A thick cloud bank swallowed the ball of fire as it does time and time again. In the golden glare we bounded lackadaisically between slippery boulders covered with sea urchins, our feet heavy and uneasy. Floating, yet the reality of the situation seemed palpable to us both.

The ending to another perfect day it would seem, but not everything is cut and dry nor black and white. Therein lurks the thought that in glory of every sunset there is a shadow and within the shadow there is an unavoidable truth.

No matter how hard you try, not every day, nor week nor lifetime can be a Saturday.