Every year during the 4th, Jim Pop’s ad was a pen and ink illustration of the Statue of Liberty. The only copy read: “Ever see a better picture of your home, ranch or vineyard?” It said so much so simply–like the Declaration of Independence, itself.

There was no sales copy. No listings. The message was simple. On this sacred Holiday everything takes a back seat to honoring those amazing (mostly) Dead White Males who gave us the life and freedom we share today. Jim Pop was definitely Old school.

In honor of that spirit, in the midst of grilling the burgers, downing the beers, playing ping pong, water skiing, shooting skeet and the dozen or so other activities that comprise this glorious weekend, it is appropriate each year, that we take a moment and focus on the great men and women who built this country from a wild eyed dream of equality into reality for almost all.

Every 4th, we have a tradition. In the early days, the kids couldn’t stand it, but they love it now.  We ask them and their friends to read out loud to the grownups, the meat and potatoes section of the Declaration of Independence. Originally they rolled their eyes—“not again, Dad.” How embarrassing!

(However, what was once a “command performance” has turned into a status symbol as the grand children of the group, anxiously await the year they are old enough to get chosen to read).

Each year the kids rise to the occasion and there’s not a dry eye among the adults when they finish.

Once the applause dies down we go over again why the 4th is more than hot dogs, beer (oops, wine), and water sports. George III, colonization, and monarchies are a bit rough, but the bit about taxation without representation seems to sink in—especially now that several are in the workforce. (We’re still looking for the section on mandatory health insurance).

Kids can relate to the idea of participatory democracy. The idea of actually voting has a certain appeal to powerless kids. Tossing tea into harbors to register discontent struck a particularly responsive chord when they were teens.

As we remember, today, the 3,000 heroes who lost their lives on 9/11—and those brave boys and girls who deposed a vicious dictator and liberated the Iraqi people–forever planting the seeds of freedom far from our shores–to say nothing of those still fighting in Afghanistan–it is appropriate that we remember the 56 men who fixed their signatures to that historic document over 200 years ago.

Who knows how much they sacrificed?  Which family members’ lives were lost?  What price they paid in economic deprivation?

Why did they do it?

Actually, it’s quite simple:  They did it because they (held)

“these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed; that whenever any form of government become destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness….with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.”

It wasn’t just about self-interest. They saw a chance to make America the “World’s last best hope.” They bickered, but never wavered from the ultimate goal: That we are all equal before the law and entitled to Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

Who among us would have been willing to do that they did? To sacrifice what they sacrificed?

To the 56 – who literally signed their own death warrants, we will never forget. Ditto the 3,000 in the World Trade Center. To those who have given their last full measure in Iraq and Afghanistan, and those still in harm’s way today in those hostile forlorn countries: Our country tis of thee!

Each Father’s Day–okay,everyday–like the movie says, I remember Papa.

We called him “Jim Pop”. He wasn’t a modern kinda guy. He was a character. He liked it that way, or wasn’t afraid to hide behind that moniker when it suited him.

What he really wanted to be was a cowboy. It’s why he moved us frm Piedmont to St. Helena back in the 50’s. No. What he really wanted to be was a 49er–but since Buck Shaw (former niner coach) never called Jim Pop would have to settle for being more Marlboro man than Frankie Albert (the Stanford Scrum Half he lost his jersey to in the ‘41 Cal Stanford Rugby match). He ended up having to sell Real Estate for a living.

He never tired of telling folks that the symbol of his company, the signature cowboy hat, was for real–that we had 10 breeders and a bull–dropping a calf apiece each year. Some years we’d sport 20 head.

I’m not sure that truly qualified him for the big leagues amongst cattle ranchers, but at least he wasn’t lying.

It’s hard to say what his first love was after our mom, Maggie.

It was most likely “the ranch”.

We called it the Lazy J, though it was just an old farm house and barn on a 12 acre “island”, up a mile dirt road, surrounded by 3,000 acres in Conn Valley. Closest folks were a mile away. In the early winters, that ‘56 Chevy station wagon would get stuck in the mud going up the road and going down. In the summers we carried rocks in the bed of our 1950 GMC pickup for traction. High school kids laughed at us.

Jim Pop named all the cows, calves, horses, peacocks, chicken, sheep, pigeons, dogs and cats. Our friends growing up were named Monte Wolly, Barnie Google, Charlie Brown, Apache, Lady, Cherokee, Jingle Bells, Orlando, and Pygmalion, to name just a few.

I will never forget one cattle auction in Dixon. I was around 10 or 12. We had two steers tied down in the back of that old red truck. We backed up to the loading ramp. I got out with my boots, hat, and chaps.

I was clearly the real McCoy—or at least felt like it.

Suddenly an authentic cowpoke spat tobacco at my boots and asked me how old our steers were.

I was about to answer, “This here critter is…”—when Jim Pop interrupted. Then he proudly spat out, “Well, David Copperfield is six and Barnie Google is…”

“Daaaad.” How embarrassing! He blew our cover.

Like many of his generation, Jim Pop cared. He prized loyalty. It was often irrational–but beautiful. Cal was better than Stanford. San Francisco better than L.A. He once threw a sandwich at the TV because the NBA Eastern All-stars were beating the West. He didn’t know a player on either team—but the West was “Better” than the East.

His was a life of the white hats versus black. Good and evil were simple and well defined. There was one baseball team–The Yankees. One University—Cal. One song, “Prisoner of Love” (the rest were cheap imitations). (We won’t even bring up rock & roll versus swing). And of course, only one haircut. The 60’s were not a fun time for him.

He admired many different men. Men of accomplishment in many different fields. Being a man was a good thing back then. And one knew what was meant when so and so was referred to as “a real man”—or a man’s man. He didn’t admire a man because he had money or fame. There was a quality which had to be there, first.

Ladies were to be honored. And in his world, they weren’t men. One didn’t swear in front of them. One took off his hat in their presence, and stood up anytime they entered the room. It was the law.

There was a right way and a wrong way to do everything. Nothing was in between. He trusted others and never broke his word. He always gave the benefit of the doubt, and was just crushed, when some sharper, slicker businessman would take advantage of him, a buyer or a seller. Often I saw him shake his head in wonder and say, “I just can’t believe So and So would ever do such a thing.”

A man of honor, he knew the code by heart, and followed it religiously.

Traditions were essential. Instinctively, he knew society’s tribal need to recognize passages. All the holidays and birthdays were family days–days to gather together and celebrate and honor what he held most dear–the family unit.

Now-a-days they have swim parties on Father’s day. Families are asked to split up, that each kid can be with his or her friends. Sure, I wish it had been that way when I was younger. It would have been so much more fun to be with my buddies, than dull old dad.

Now I wish I could be only with him—and no others.

When I was a kid, most of the fathers in St. Helena were like Jim Pop. Men who’d gone to war. Men who faced death. Men who kept their word. Men who honored heroes. Men who were fathers, not pals. Men who respected the land. Men who respected local traditions–and respected each other. And Men who expected to be respected in return. What did they know?

We were the ones with all the answers.

It’s 5:30 am. I’m wide awake. It’s Fathers’ Day, my favorite day of the year. I want to crack open a bottle of champagne and light up a cigar. I feel like Red Auerbach celebrating another championship.

I glance over at my wife — curled up, oblivious. I smile. Marrying above one’s station has its bennies. Evil thoughts creep into my mind. I immediately banish them — after about 20 minutes.

One of our cats is waiting for the sun in our west window. Our golden lab is snoring loudly down stairs.
I am grinning like the cheshire cat. Why sleep when I can replay tapes in my mind?

I agree with that country-western song: I like the view “from the back porch looking in.”

The flashbacks are random—but they begin in that hospital room on New York’s Upper East Side on a cold December day 34 years ago (can’t believe today she’s a mom). It was the 4th quarter of the Dallas/Giants game. Do I go into the delivery room or wait to see who wins?

Nothing would be on my time ever again.

Like all first-time fathers, I take my daughter everywhere with me — Christmas shopping, to the office, down to TJ Tucker’s to watch the playoffs with the boys.

At five months, I meet my wife in Central Park for my first ever picnic with my own kid. Life will never get any better.

My son comes along a couple of years later. Almost lose him. Don’t care to remember the intensity of those prayers. Not sure I kept all those promises.

Child number three, of course, flies out like a kid going down a water slide. I catch her, cut the cord, wrap her up—all without gloves or gown—we are pros by now. (Really can’t believe she’s mom!) The other two can’t get enough of her.

Fast forward to number one coming home from college for Easter, and number three jumping in her bed, sleeping with her sister every night. Two teenage girls—best friends.

Bad parents that we were, often we would listen outside my son and youngest daughter’s door as he administered her nightly quiz: “Name each of the 26 NFL teams, their quarterback, and their numbers.” Then she would quiz him on the World Series winners.

Flashback to the eldest tossing off her catcher’s mask, hair akimbo, firing the ball down to second. The shortstop makes the tag. They are 11 years old. The place is up for grabs.

Seeing them each, one by one, go through that ritual of popping the clutch in the jeep at age 12, but sitting tall as they finally drive through the fields—confident, adult, strutting their stuff—driving a car, “all by self.”

Watching the kick of that shotgun stun them so. Then the irrepressible smile as that first clay pigeon is shredded.

“You’re looking slim, Dad”—our youngest’s words before asking for a favor I don’t want to grant. Number three teaching number one how to schmooze dumb dad.

The eldest in mortarboard at Cal. A woman. So worldly and tall.

Our son, running out of the tunnel at Notre Dame. Warming up with the team. Passing the ball like he belongs—though a “Rudy,” he knows he will never play.

Watching all three get that Cal Diploma–such pride.

The youngest, again, telling us the proper punishment to mete out to her older sister. And she’s right.

Our son and his “Pop Up”: a device which “popped” a ball up in the air so he could swing a bat at it. He plays entire Giants games by himself—naming each batter, the runners on base, and the outs. “I’ll be right in. It’s the bottom of the 8th”. The tree is a triple, the chimney a double, over the fence speaks for itself. The defense? Oski, our golden retriever—run ragged by the nine-inning games.

I remember Fathers’ Days past. Finding funny cards for my own father. Buying crummy presents. His favorite present is the year (in 1969) I shave off my beard for Father’s Day.

The phone used to ring around 7pm out in Conn Valley, back in the day. It’s my father’s father (My grandfather, Papa Warren) calling from D.C. to wish a happy Father’s Day to his kid, my dad. Then he thanks me for the card I sent, and we talk about the hapless Washington Senators, Giants, and how next fall will surely mean roses for the Bears.

I slip back to the most poignant moment of our lives. All three kids going in to say goodbye to their grandfather, my dad. He’s dying. He’s been in a coma for five days. Is this a good idea? We’re not sure, but do it. As we sing “Hail to California”, a tear rolls down his comatose cheek. How does he know? What do the kids think?

The sun comes through the window. Alas, now there’s not a kid in the house to share my day with me. Adulthood is stealing my children from me. But no one can touch the memories. I slowly savor them, one by one—and will all day long. There have been many better dads, but no better kids. Fathers’ Day. It’s better than Christmas.

Her mother called her Margaret. Her friends, husband and children, nothing but Maggie. She grew up in Sacramento. She had been born in Santa Maria where grandfather, J.B. Bonetti was the largest dairy farmer in the area. Her mother, Florence, nicknamed “Beeb” was a bit of a rebel.

Beeb was educatd at Notre Dame on the peninsula. She defied her father and married the bank teller, Bertrand Jesse. To the proud immigrant father from the Swiss canton of Sameo, Marrying a Scot was definitely below his station he was not pleased with the nuptials.

Bert (my other grandfather whom I never met) was a feed and grain speculator–– whatever that is. Family legend has it that he was the first man to introduce asparagus into the Delta. He died young. Three weeks after Maggie was married in 1943.  (Most likely, he drank himself to death).

Thanks to the depression and speculative investments, “Beeb”, was now living in an apartment in Sacramento, after having been born in the largest house in Santa Maria. The Depression helped another Pisano, Bank of America’s founder, A. P. Giannini end up with most of Beeb’s father’s wealth as well.

Though he lost most of his land, J. P. left enough for Maggie’s grandmother “Dona” to end her days in comfort in the Fairmont Hotel. It was there, as a little girl, Maggie learned to swim–– in the pool that became the center piece of the famed Tonga room.

Monthly, Maggie’s mother, “Beeb,” caused a minor stir in the local Sacramento bank when she would attempt to pay off family debts.  “It’s off the books, Mrs. Jesse,” the bank manager would repeat, monthly—to no avial. She would leave the cash in an envelope and walk out. I never heard what happened to the money. Beeb wasn’t  the only child of a farmer who pawned her own wedding ring during the depression.

Maggie’s childhood might have been unremarkable had not Dick Stevens accidentally seen a 12-year-old girl playing baseball with the guys. As you may know, a tennis  serving motion is the same as towing a ball. Stevens, the future Cal tennis coach, and Tom Stow’s assistant (long before Tom, Don Budge’s coach, became the tennis pro at Meadowood and Silverado), he agreed to take on Maggie.

Beeb would have stopped this foolish waste of time, but her youngest son was dying of leukemia at age 14, so she dug deep and produced the $27.50 (for 10 lessons) to buy her daughter some happiness.

Maggie’s teens were spent banging dead tennis balls against the garage door.  She developed the “perfect” backhand.

Her first tennis tourney at the Berkeley tennis club found her up against the number one seed in the first round–Gussy Moran. Beeb was furious, for the trip to Berkeley was an extravagant waste of money.

The rest is history. Maggie upset the favorite and went on later to win the California state singles and doubles.

In 1938 she and Beeb traveled east, where Maggie won the national 18 and under’s in both doubles and singles–losing only the nationals on grass and costing Bobby Riggs $25 for betting on her.  It wasn’t the last time she was to encounter Riggs, the national men’s champion. Riggs was rated #1 in the country at the time.

Maggie and Tate Coulthard had taken Riggs and his partner to match point in the Pacific Coast Championship tennis mixed doubles finals–– before losing the next day in three sets after the match was called because of darkness. Yes she could play.

But mostly she was a competitor.  Physically talented, yes.  But it was the mental game where she truly shined.

Once, after losing a game love–40, she said to her male opponent, “Gee, I don’t know what you’ve done to change your serve, but don’t change it back.” End of match! The psyche job always worked.

Master of the nasty drop shot, hers was a serve and volley game at time when women really cross the base line.

She captured another local Sacramento boy, Herb Caen’s attention, and the Sacramenna kid would Pepper his famous Column with references to this other Sacto contemporary.  One of his favorite items was about Maggie’s tennis court at the lazy J. She named it, of course, “The Warren court.”

Maggie had her own style. She refused to wear sunblock because it wasn’t necessary. “I’m moving all the time on the court. I don’t need it.”

She was a guy’s gal whose sarcastic wit endeared her to all. Her tennis partners ran the gamut from Ernesto Lawrence (co-creator of the Atom bomb) to film star Mickey Rooney.

In the late 50s, she gave up tennis (there were a few courts in St. Helena) to follow her husband up to lazy J in Conn Valley.

She traded in a racket for a milking stool (well not quite), and gave up her own life that her husband and boys might be raisied the country.

She moved off the ranch and into town a few years after Jim Pop died.

She didn’t play as much she once did, using a verbal skills and competitive instincts to win bridge rubbers instead of match points.   But she was still Beeb’s daughter–––– proud–– standing tall–– paying for tennis lessons for grandkids and making sure that her grandchildren live up to the standards of the proud  woman who would let no one pay her debts for her . Yes even the grand children called her Maggie. I got to call her “Mom.”  We loved her.

The French Canadian press in Montreal dubbed him the “Big Orange,” back in 1969 when he joined the Montreal Expos.  His hair was as red as his bat was hot.  We met almost half a century ago.

     It was 1973.  Toots Shor was turning 70 and Frank Gifford was throwing a birthday party for him at Toots Shor’s “joint.”

     My grandfather and Toots were grand friends.  I think Papa Warren even turned a spade at the opening of Toot’s saloon some years before.  Anyway, I was just a few years out of Cal—and a stranger in New York.  Toots took me under his wing and was my second father. 

     He invited me to the shindig.

     “Bring a broad,” he said.  (Yes, the vernacular was different in 1973). 

      I was new to town and knew few people so I invited “Dynamite Nancy,” a gorgeous 21 year old secretary at my offic, Dancer-Fitzgerald-& Sample, an ad agency.

“Dynamite Nancy” looked like Rita Hayworth.  She was tall and svelte with ravishing long read hair—about the color of Staub’s—though I didn’t even notice at the time.

     Those were the “Mad Men” days in advertising.  It was long before #Metoo was a glimmer in anyone’s eye—lucky for all of us–males that is.

     Having grown up in Napa Valley (long before we were chi chi like today)— out in the hills—a mile from the closest people–in New York, I was like a CNBC reporter at the White House.  I had no clue what was going on around me—and felt decidedly out of place.

     Toots’ saloon was packed and celebrities stood shoulder to shoulder as they bellied up to the bar.  No one said “no” to Frank Gifford, back then.

     I felt like Admiral Stockville in that famous debate.  “What am I doing here?”

     But don’t get me wrong.  I reveled in every minute of it. 

    Perhaps sensing my unease, this big red headed guy comes up to me and starts talking.  It’s Rusty Staub, starting right fielder for the New York Mets.  I was dumbfounded.

      Knowing that the press was all over the party.  Nancy and I go back to my 5 story walk up to watch the 12 o’clock news on my black and white TV.   Sure enough the cameraman zeros in on Nancy’s backside as she’s rocking to the music.  For a girl from Queens, who’d barely been out of the neighborhood, this was a story she could tell for the rest of her life.

     The next day (we didn’t have voice mail back then) our receptionist yells out loud for all my office mates to hear, “Jeff.   Rusty Staub is on the phone for you.”

     Instant cred.

     I pick up the phone and it is indeed Rusty Staub.  (I’m assuming he was bowled over by my incredible knowledge of baseball, my wit and my sterling personality– that’s why he called).

The conversation went something like this:

    “Hey, Jeff.  It was great meeting you last night.  Frank did a great job and Toots seemed really surprised.  Say, tonight the Angels are coming into town.  And after the game Jim Fregosi and Andy Messersmith (a former Cal pitcher) and I are going down to Tucker Frederickson’s joint, Duncan’s, for some drinks and dinner.  Would you like to join us?”

     Is Elizabeth Warren a Cherokee Indian?

     “Tell you what.   I’ll leave tickets at Will Call.  Why don’t you bring Nancy—and bring a date for yourself too.”

      When one was making $1,000 a month in New York, any mention of “tickets” with the adjective “free” in front of it,  got one’s attention.

A true baseball slut, I had no pride.  

 That day was the beginning of a 45 year friendship.

     I asked another copy writer, Donna, (again thank the good lord this was before #Metoo), and Dynamite Nancy, Donna and I took the subway out to the Mets Ball Park.

     I don’t remember who won.  I don’t remember how Rusty played.  All I remember is that a car picked us all up (Messersmith, Fregosi, Staub, the girls and me) and we went down to Duncan’s.

    A rookie in New York, I had been to a few singles bars before–but never a place like Duncan’s.  That night, in the company of professional athletes, I was introduced into Big Boy night life.  This was a world I had never seen before. Glamorous, well dressed girls were everywhere, and no one said, “I ordered the salad.”

It was an all together different league than I’d been used to.  And Rusty brought me into it.

      The next week he invited us over to his apartment and cooked us a meal.  I hadn’t known he was such a chef.  I brought him a bottle of Freemark Cabernet (three years later Freemark’s Cabernet Bosche would find itself in the Paris Tasting of 1976, and help Napa Valley break the back of the French).  Rusty was heavy into wine and was thrilled that my father had been one of the founding fathers of Freemark Abby, back when there were no “boutique wineries.”

     Not everyone remembers that during that 1973 season the Mets were In last place on Aug. 30^th.  They won 24 of 33 and took the NL East with just an 82-79 record. The “Amazin’ Mets (as opposed to the Miracle Mets of 1969) then upset Cincinnati’s “Big Red Machine” in 5 games to win the National League pennant.  I credit Dynamite Nancy.

     Rusty later told me he opened the Freemark Cabernet  the night they won the Pennant and earned the right to face the A’s in the Series.  (That probably wasn’t true, but Rusty always wanted to make one feel good).

      Rusty wasn’t in game 5, as he was the hero in game four with two home runs, and two over the shoulder catches in right field.  Alas, the second one–which won the game in the 11^th inning–found him careening into the wall and injuring his shoulder—crippling him for the series.  Barely able to make weak, underhand throws, he still batted .423 with a home run, two doubles and six RBIs as New York lost in seven games to the A’s. 

     No one doubts, that had Rusty been healthy, the Mets would have won.  We forget that that team had Tom Seaver (another current Napa Valley boy), Tug McGraw (author of “You gotta believe!”), manager Yogi Berra and even an over the hill Willie Mays coming off the bench.

     As an aside, had Rusty been able to play at full strength in that Series, my guess he’d be in the Hall of Fame today.  As it is, many pundits think he is the best player never to have been voted in.

         Can’t remember when he opened Rusty’s but his “joint” was on the route of usual suspects, as we made the pilgrimage, daily after work, to Runyans, Suddam’s, Rusty’s, and Melon’s, until we lit at our “Cheers”, Jimmy McMullen’s on 3rd, near 77th St.

     When my wife, Cindy, and I moved back home to St. Helena we saw Rusty five or six times a year as he came out for the Wine Auction, Garen Staglin’s Charity event; (he always stayed with the Staglins), and other trips to the Valley to pick up  and taste various wines.       

      We also saw him in Florida when Cindy and I made trips there to visit our New York Homies—many of whom have retired to West Palm and environs.

Whenever we were together,  ineveitably, we would say, “I wonder what happened to Dynamite Nancy?”

      We last saw him about two or three months ago after church.  He never missed mass when he was out here in St. Helena.  He seemed to know and greet every vintner that filed out of church.

     He didn’t look too well—had lost weight—which was good—but he poo-poo-ed that there were any health problems–though he admitted to a couple of serious ones I hadn’t known about.

     He was his usual upbeat self, talking about his charities–how he liked helping the firemen and policeman (long before acknowledging first responders became hip) and passing on gossip about the boys and girls (who were our playmates back in the New York days) who now live near him in the sunshine state.

     I hadn’t realized he was as ill as he apparently was.

     Stupid me.

     No idea how many beers we shared or how many nights we spent out on the town.  Only know that his smile and his generosity made each one of our lives much better.  “Le Grand Orange” was an original.  He was a tough guy.  He had a big heart.  He will be missed but never forgotten. 

              I wonder whatever happened to Dynamite Nancy?

After the tragedy in Florida this week, everyone is looking for answers.

Here’s a simple one.  One that won’t stop school shootings, but one which will make the world a better, kinder, safer place—for all.

If Congress wants to do something really important, they could do worse than discontinue President’s Day–and bring back Washington’s and Lincoln’s Birthday.

In these days where the values and lifestyle of Harvey Weinstein,, the Kardashians and Jay Z  are being touted and followed on TV and in newspapers, we need to take a collective “time out.”

I feel so sad for today’s kids.

Nowadays, The 12th and 22nd of February are just two more days in a quirky month known mostly for Valentines (which are kinda yucky), and Leap Year which still doesn’t make sense to anyone.

Once, those days were filled with magic. Poems and essays were written, pictures were drawn and plays were performed acting out the heroic deeds committed by two giants, Washington and Lincoln, when they were children.

By the time we were six years old, we knew what every other grammar school child in America knew:  Our 16th President was nicknamed, “Honest Abe.”

How did Honest Abe earn that moniker? Well, there were many variations but it revolved around him  as a youth, working in a store.  According to legend, he inadvertently, overcharged a woman three pennies. Did Abe go out and treat the gang to double bubble? No. Had they not heard it at home, my kids wouldn’t know that Abe walked 5 miles to return three cents (or was it three miles to return five cents?)

Honest Abe, Whatta guy!

By age six, I also knew  that the Father of our country had once been just like me–a little boy who did something wrong and was caught.

What did little George do when his father asked him if he had chopped down the cherry tree? How many of today’s school children know that frightened little George looked his father in the eye, and replied, “Father, I cannot tell a lie. It was I who cut down the cherry tree.”

Dad’s response? The rod was spared, and so was Georgie’s backside. Though it met with varying degrees of success, there wasn’t a one of us who, as a kid, didn’t try that tactic on our own fathers.

The message was clear. There were a couple of things in it for you if you were honest.

One: people would like you so much that you could be elected to the highest office in the land. (It may be hard for people to fathom today, but until recently, all children actually wanted to grow up to be President).

Secondly: If you battle tyrants and fight for freedom, as Washington did. Or if you go to war to fight evils like slavery, as Lincoln, your reward will be the greatest reward any six year old can fathom—a Birthday Party!

And everybody in the country will come.

Think of the presents, to say nothing of the size of the cake. Definitely something to shoot for.

Unfortunately, a bunch of my contemporaries from the sixties, got wind of the fact that there was no “scientific proof” that Washington actually chopped down a cherry tree–let alone had a confrontation with his father that led to him sporting an early sense of moral righteousness. And then there was the messy issue of the fact that George Washington actually owned slaves, etc. ad naseum. That he eventually freed them never got him much credit.

Lincoln proved to be just as messy. Maybe he didn’t really grow up in a three sided log cabin, read by  firelight, or ever walk five miles to return three cents.

And then of course there were the “facts” that Lincoln suspended habeas corpus, and ordered the arrest of Kentucky legislators who were going vote for succession. Perhaps he suffered from melancholia, and may have gone to war as much for economic as well as moral reasons.

In today’s consciousness, neither Abe nor George is too politically correct. And there are countless dead souls out there who never tire of reminding us that they have the “historical facts”, to prove it. “Facts” miss the point.

These men were Giants.

Whether it is the awesome beauty of a sunset, the miracle of birth, the orderliness of our universe or a titanic blast off the bat of the Sultan of Swat, man has turned to myths–for myths contain the power and symbolism that allow us mortals to comprehend the comprehensible. Truth can actually be obfuscated by “facts”. The truth is that these men really were Huuuuuuuge—giants, indeed.

So, Mr. President, let’s once again give our kids something to shoot for.

Let’s re-institute two of the finest birthday parties that anyone ever celebrated. Let’s put a premium on honesty and character.

It will be the finest anecdote to the pop culture worship one could come up with.

Let’s teach them a higher truth–that we honor greatness, virtue and character far more than we honor mediocrity, apathy, self-gain—to say nothing of drug abuse, promiscuity, having children out of wedlock etc.

With a couple of ideals to shoot for, who knows what affect if may have. If the antics of Kapernick and Snoop Dog can influence a generation, think what the actions of real giants could accomplish?

I Know.  This alone won’t end school shootings, but it will go a long way to giving children something else to shoot for—besides death and destruction

(I put out a variation of this each year–all to no end–but at least it keeps the conversation going)

My friend coined the term, “WAJ”.  Knowing that I’m often “out in left field” (as my  mother used to say), he just shrugs his shoulders. “You’re ridiculous. That’s ‘WAJ’–the World According to Jeff. Life’s not that way, now—never gonna be.”  Well, it’s sort of a King for a day thing—so here goes.

In the world of WAJ nothing is but what is not. Fires prevent forest fires. Sunblock causes cancer. And we (In St. Helena) have more water than we could ever use—we just need to manage it.

Fire?  In WAJ, instead of spending millions to fight fires, we spend millions less to prevent them.  We do like the Indians did: create fires to prevent fires. Using masticators, chain saws and machetes, we clear the underbrush so big trees don’t burn.

The Watershed Initiative (which would lead to more severe fires) goes down in flames.

Land owners need to be able to thin forests (not clear cut) to prevent a repeat of our recent conflagrations.  It’s not Global Warming, but unhealthy, overgrown forests which are causing such sever fires in our State.

Also, by having 500 to 800 trees per acre (instead of the healthy 80 trees/acre which we had when George Yount arrived) millions of gallons of water are being wasted,  soaked up out of the ground via transpiration, which could go to springs, wells and the River.

Swimming pools are encouraged, not discouraged.  In time of fires, they save homes, as Middletown’s high school pool saved their downtown.

Speaking of water, it’s easy:  Build a one foot tall concrete barrier at the top of the all spillways in Napa County.  I could physically do it for less than $1,000 for each barrier.  Conn Lake is 870 surface acres (Bell Canyon is 70 surface acres).  That means an additional 940 acre feet per year for domestic use.  A one foot increase in the height of these spill ways, will put negligible pressure on the dams and solve Napa and St. Helena’s water problems for the next 50 years.

Wells are never monitored, as experts estimate there are only around 6,000 in the County. They pump maybe one to three acre feet per year, each—a trivial amount compared to the estimated 300,000 to 400,000 acre feet stored underground.

During light rain years, make the bathtub bigger.  Dredge Conn Lake.  During early storms “reverse” pump water from the bulging river into Lake Hennessey.  (There is a huge pipe from Conn Damn down to Rutherford that would allow this).

To prevent flooding, the River is cleared of extraneous debris (farmers up here used to burn all the brush out of the river, back in the 50’s and we had a gazillion more steelhead than today—go figure).

Locally, our problems are the same as in small town destinations everywhere, from Maui, to Aspen to Nantucket. Water, tourism, affordable housing, traffic, design control, quality of life vs. development. We are no different.

In no particular order, it would start with no more sidewalks and gutters on country roads. Especially in front of vineyards as witnessed on Pope St. Subtly paved bike paths (for pedestrians too) like around Lake Tahoe, are just fine.

No more money wasted on painting Crane Ave.  (Over the past 10 years it as been painted Red, then Blue, and now Electric Green—ostensibly for bike safety).  A worthy goal, but a complete waste of tax dollars—and unaesthetic in a rural environment.

Bike paths replace the Wine Train.

Bike racks would be everywhere and bicycle lanes would be promoted. Local charities would give free bikes to the workers in the parking lot who are looking for jobs.  (Of course most of them wouldn’t be there as they’d be clearing the forests).

Parents in town would not be allowed to drive their kids to school—bikes or walking would be the rule.

Traffic: WAJ would make the Valley a loop. All traffic from Napa to Calistoga goes north, via a three lane highway up 29 and heads south on a three lane highway down the Silverado Trail. Sure, certain families which live near cross roads (say Silverado and Zinfandel) will have to go south (down to Rutherford) to go north—and vice versa–but it’s a five minute inconvenience for a few, to unclog roads for literally millions.

In WAJ, there will be no more wasted money on feasibility studies regarding round-a-bouts.

They work.  They should be at every major crossroad from Napa to St. Helena on highway 29.

Adams Street extension gets built.

The Adams St. property is re-zoned and sold, raising over $20,000,000 for the City coffers, plus over $3,000,000 annually in TOT revenue.

A “Village Square” (complete with fountain) is built on the Daly (Adams St.) property — zoned for a Hotel (major TOT taxes) and then local serving only — featuring café, restaurant, “Kellers”, barber shop, shoe repair, hardware, machine repair, deli, and other local retail.

Main Street is turned over to the tourists.

Parking meters are re-installed on Main and side streets for five years, and the revenue goes to financing an underground parking garage on Adams or under the Sunshine Parking Lot.

Parking is removed rom Main St. and sidewalks are widened to make for Parisian style sable sitting and people watching—to say nothing of lattes a l’ exterieur.

The light at Pope St. is replaced by a helmeted traffic cop with a  baton, in a raised Gazebo, like in Europe or Asia.  Bolunteers andle the duty for free.

Beringer’s and Hotel Los Alcobas pay for a third middle turn line (how could they have gotten permits without requiring that?)

Tainter is closed between the Catholic school and Church. It becomes a joint play area for the Boys and Girls Club and Catholic school. Turn it into basketball courts and parking.

All new parking lots would be required to look like the one at Napa College on Pope St. The placement of the trees makes it look like an old fashioned orchard—not a paved lot.

No commercial trucks parked in the lot across from the Catholic Church.  They get parked in the lot at the South end of Oak.

All employees of Main St. stores park in that same lot, not on the street.

St. Helena does not become a charter city and no real estate transfer tax is imposed on locals.

In WAJ, we end the City Manager system and return accountability to the Mayor and City council.

Corkage for locals would go the way of Harry Reid.

In fact, in WAJ, our restaurants would have two menus (like some towns in Europe). A cheaper one for locals, one for outliers. Wouldn’t be bad if gas stations did the same.

On the school front—the campus is closed and school unis are mandatory.

High school practices for athletes can be no longer than a max of two hours, and the majority of them must be only 1.5 hours.

Seasons are shortened. Rather than two basketball, or two Volleyball games per week  there will be one game per week against another school, and then one Red and White game (with officials, scoreboards, the whole enchilada, at night) between roughly balanced squads. They will be “game-like” in every way, but local kids will be playing against each other. Believe me, “red vs. white” games would draw as well as a Tuesday night game against Tamales, or Lower Lake draws today—and more kids (and parents) would enjoy the athletic experience.

Each winery is charged 2 cents per case to raise money for “Teacher Town”—affordable housing for local teachers.

Install the soccer fields on the Pope St. property Dave Garden donated to the town. And no balderdash about flood plains. Fields don’t interfere with floods.

Fireplaces would be encouraged. The ban on new fireplaces would be immediately lifted.

Spare the air days are spared—for life!

Housing? City would buy a few cheaper acres on the edge of the URL rezone it for “Work Force” housing, rather than build on expensive land like Adams Street.

NO housing built behind the new levee.  Levees are always breached–eventually.

Each winery is charged 2 cents per case for schools.

Money goes to building a “teacher town” of affordable housing for teachers in St. Helena.

Random thoughts not oriented to St. Helena:

Sunblock?  It prevents the “good rays” from getting into your skin and providing a shield to prevent the bad rays from causing cancer and premature aging. (Google it).

In WAJ all theories from Kenseyan economics to Quantitative easing are replaced by one simple mantra:  “Cheap energy fuels growth and raises people out of poverty”—always has—always will.

Tom Steyer and Suzie Tompkins are forced to split firewood and eat bacon, for promoting policies which keep people impoverished, by stalling cheap energy like the Keystone Pipeline.

Antifa rioters who break windows and engage in fights get at least 1 year in jail.

The 60,000,000 who exercised their right to vote are no longer distained as misogynists, racists, homophobes, or deplorables  simply bnecause their vote was different than yours.

In WAJ the racists are identified as the ones who patronize minority groups and look down their noses at working Americans of all races.

Stop, question and Frisk gets reinstated—get guns out of the hands of felons.

In WAJ, it will be against the law to pass a bill in order to find out what’s in it.

In WAJ Mark Felt was not Deep Throat. It was a gal from Cal but why go there. No one believes it anyway.  (One thing they had in common–both were from Sacto).

In WAJ, Cal is Cal—never Berkeley—and Cal is returned to the California middle class—not rich kids from out of state and out of country.

Safe Places on college campii become extremely dangerous and the snowflakes are politely asked to leave school.

In WAJ receivers would be taught to catch footballs with their little fingers touching—not “thumbs touching.” (But you have to be a football freak to follow that one.)

In WAJ, Cal is Cal—never Berkeley—and Cal is returned to the California middle class—not rich kids from out of state and out of country.

Kate Steinle’s killer is tr-tried and convicted of her senseless murder.  The SF judge, DA and Public Defender who colluded (Jim Crow style) to exclude evidence which would have convicted the murderer are prosecuted and serve time with her killer.

I could go on, but at my age I can’t remember what else I want. Funny how so many wishes have to do with traffic. But after a certain age, there’s nothing more important than “circulation”—no matter the arena.

A few years ago, Jerry Brown finally moved into the Governor’s Mansion on 16st and H in Sacramento.

No doubt the  Governor thought he was moving into an elegant  “Mansion.”

Little did he know he was moving into a child’s wonderland of endless delights.

I know, because I spent the first six Christmas’s of my life, sliding on the rugs, playing hide and seek behind the red velvet curtains, sliding down the banister and cavorting in the kitchen with the staff as they let me and my brothers lick the icing off the egg beaters while preparing Mama Warren’s famous Angle food cakes.  Root beer floats in the kitchen?  My first Christmas memory.

As a little child, the most exciting day of the year was Christmas Eve, when my father, Jim Pop, piled us into the car and drove from the Bay Area up to the Governor’s Mansion, where Papa and Mama Warren and our five uncles and aunts would spoil us with attention.

To a little kid, everything in that Italianate Victorian built in 1877 by Albert Gallatin,  was oversized.  It started with the Christmas tree which went “all the way to the top.” The windows seemed to go from floor to 16 foot ceilings.  The curtains were higher than a basketball rim.  The cupola was 6 stories up and looked over the entire city.  It was scary to climb with no banister at the top.

Speaking of banisters, the main stairway had an almost S-shaped bannister, which was perfect for sliding down.  I’m sure my brother never meant to smash that vase at the bottom when he gained so much speed he couldn’t stop.

Papa Warren used to take his kids boar hunting on Santa Catalina Island, and Earl Jr. (Ju Ju) had a boar’s head mounted on a dresser in his room.  We used to go in there in the dark, turn on the lights, and scream while fleeing with fright when we saw it staring down on us with its huge tusks.

Bobby (Re-Bob) had a football in his room which he let me touch–no small deal in a home where nothing was to be touched!

Our aunts, Plooch (Virginia), Dottie (Dorothy) , and Honeybear (Nina) were teens or in college.   They used to sneak out on the fire escape off Dottie’s bathroom, to smoke cigarettes.  Sometimes they let us watch them, high above the manicured gardens.  How exciting was that?

We could take off our shoes and slide in our socks on the hard wood floors or jump on the small Persian rugs and skid across the hall.

The basement held trunks of costumes (actually, fabrics, clothes, gifts and artifacts from trips abroad) so we could go down and dress up with Shriners hats and perform plays for the grown ups.

The security force was housed in a separate building outside.  They would show us their guns and  Pat Patterson, Papa Warren’s personal bodyguard (an African American, who probably had more to do with Brown vs. Board of Education than anyone understands—but that’s another story), used to pin his badge on me and let me wear it.

My favorite Christmas present was the tube of toothpaste, with TV star Hop-a-long Cassidy’s picture, complete with Hop-a-long Cassidy tooth brush.  I immediately dashed into the downstairs powder room to brush my teeth without opening any other presents.  Do you remember a time when you couldn’t wait to brush your teeth?

We would gather around the piano and sing Christmas carols.  We knew all the words to all of them—even if we sang a bit off tune.

And there was the family dinner when we sat around one table and Papa Warren beamed with pride at what he’d wrought.

It was a simpler time.

I have no doubt that Governor Brown will enjoy his stay at the Governor’s mansion.  But if he has any young grand children, I can promise from the basement below to the Cupola six stories up, they will enjoy it even more.