Sylvia Crawford: The final ‘Folks from Glen Ellen' column

Longtime Glen Ellen columnist Sylvia Crawford bids adieu. This is her final column.|

Hello dear readers, friends of the Glen Ellen column. I've been writing these tidbits of local news of folks in our village for 29 years. I began working at the Sonoma Index-Tribune way back in 1979 (that's 37 years) in the far back reaches and realms of machinery. Bill Lynch hired me to do ad paste-up two evenings a week. That suited this new Mama of a 6-month-old just fine. It got me out of the house, during hours when the sweet babe mostly slept and could be looked over by his loving Papa. All was well.

I deliberated over the accepting the job. Our Glen Ellen Postmaster of the day had also offered me the rural mail delivery route job as Barbara Nuss was taking a break from that.

After discussing it with Barbara and thinking it over, I decided that I loved newspapers even more than I loved delivering mail. Hence, the I-T won that round.

Mr. Robert Lynch

After several years at that job, Mr. Robert Lynch (whom I never referred to by any other name than Mr. Lynch) invited me to try writing the column. Sandy Zimmermann was “retiring” from that duty and Mr. Lynch had heard that I was one of her stalwart providers of good news.

I was thrilled to take on that duty, as I was by now the Mama of two little boys, rambunctious and enthusiastic. Sweetheart Papa Crawford would have even more opportunities to read them to dreamland.

For a time the column was twice a week and Mr. Lynch had me writing plenty of feature articles as well. I loved the challenge and enjoyed meeting the folks that I featured in the stories. The writing duties expanded my world in ways I never expected.

From the outset I followed Mr. Lynch's guidance to keep the news upbeat, to honor the people I wrote about, and to help promote a sense of community in our small village.

And so it has been. Writing the Glen Ellen column was a continuing duty that I relished and enjoyed all along the way. Like the old marriage vows, I continued the column, “in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer” . . . hmm, doesn't that little ditty end with “until death do us part?” Well, I am not dead yet. However I am departing. This is my final column.

Disappearing act

I will miss all of you, my dear loyal and occasional readers. The stories you have shared with me remain as a small town history that tells of true good, occasional deep sadness, and a fine sense of community.

Other regions, other climes

Meanwhile I'm off to other climes, other regions. Portland, Oregon. The call of our cute grandsons inspired me to move closer. We'll be living just down the street from 2-1/2 year old Shiloh Robert Crawford, and an easier plane ride away from 1-1/2 year old Martin Raphael Crawford Holbrow. I intend to spend my declining golden days with those boys. Just the thought makes me happy.

Yet. And yet, oh yet, just the thought of leaving the village I love, the people I love, the places I love makes me sad. Three dear and generous friends B.J. Blanchard, Margie Foster, and Dawn Mittleman Longoria insisted on throwing a good-bye party for me. I agreed. However, as I began compling the list of all the folks I dearly loved in this village, in this valley, I lost my courage. How could I say good-bye to these fine folks. I knew I couldn't without breaking into tears, flooding the Fosters gardens and embarrassing myself. Yes, I am sad to leave all of you, and those tears are honest. Yet, their very volume belies the excitement and joy I feel at being closer to my grandsons. I was sad to cancel the party, but I knew I must. Margie, Dawn and B.J. were understanding. So were the dear folks I had told of the plans and then told of their cancellation.

Farewell instead

Unfortunately, I fear there are a few folks out there who were told of the plans but not of their cancellation, folks who may have expected an invitation to a fine garden soiree . . . and yet no invitation appeared. I regret that misunderstanding. I love you all. I just couldn't face a round of tearful goodbyes. In fact, good neighbor, dear fellow Gary D'Acquisto cautioned me to never say good-bye. Tell them Farewell, instead. Yes, Gary, I agree. And I do hope you all, my dear readers, will fare well, today, tomorrow and into the far blown future that none of us can predict. I carry your good stories within my heart, holding them close. Someone once wisely said, “People who are with us at critical times in our lives remain important. Whether we stay in touch or not, we always have that history.” And so I do. You, too, I pray.

Special last few days

Our last few days in the Sonoma Valley were very special, intentionally planned. On the last Monday, I meditated in the afternoon with my dear spiritual companions, we five recovering Catholics. We gather every other week at Babaji's Ashram and blend our hearts together to pray for each other, our families and for the world, and then, sitting in silence, we invoke the peace of our mutual dreams.

That evening, I met for the last time with my beloved book group, the April Fools. A finer group of thoughtful and dear women, I can hardly imagine. We laugh, we share, we mourn, and we celebrate all that life brings us, through the magic of stories.

A brunch at the Basque, a movie at the Sebastiani, a and a dinner at Bob Rice's Breakaway rounded out the next day. Meanwhile, back at Creekbottom, we sorted and discarded, packed and mourned. The spirit of Creekbottom began disappearing before our eyes, as we removed artwork that made our house our home. Laura Griffith, Patrick McMurtry, Archie Horton, Scott Sherman, Ane Rovetta, Don Ponte, Connie Butler, Barbara and Ray Jacobsen, and so many others . . . each of these beloved artists, dear friends, had colored our lives in an exuberant fashion, filling the air with their fantasies of an ideal world: ripe fruit, flowing streams, waving branches, iconic bridges, misty mountains, rolling hills, the texture and heft of our valley. Even now, those paintings sit boxed, waiting to invade a new dwelling, bringing life to new walls.

Another day was celebrated by dinner at another of our favorite Sonoma restaurants. We've been celebrating anniversaries, birthdays, special holidays, and the good life for many years at Robert Della Santina's on the blissful patio. My last bites of lasagna will last until I return to Sonoma.

Animated heap of pig iron

Finally, Friday rolled around. The huge, overpacked moving van from Metropolitan Moving and Storage was loaded and ready. We waved goodbye as our entire 41 years at Creekbottom rolled away.

House cleaning occupied the next two days. Finally by Sunday afternoon, we felt ready to depart ourselves. But first, we set out to experience two quintessential Sonoma Valley events. Sweetie and I headed out Nunn's Canyon Road in search of Bryan Tedrick's studio and his latest and greatest creation, Lord Snort. Over a bridge and into a golden grassy field, we found the joyful cadre of Bryan and Terry's friends and colleagues gathered around Lord Snort, twenty feet tall at the withers, a colossus of cast-off iron and steel, who groaned and belched, squawked and snorted, while lowering his glaring head and baring his rusted teeth in threatening fashion. Even little kids, climbing around his torso, squealed with glee. What a delight! It's Bryan at his best, and it was Terry at her most charming, as she shared some of Bryan's work schedule (1,000 hours estimated, and one thousand hours accomplished. . . to which guest and fellow artist, Douglas Fenn Wilson quipped, “Bryan is fibbing,” with which we tended to agree. One thousand hours to create Lord Snort from rusted junk, flotsam and jetsam of the heavy metal world? If only.

Lord Snort is destined to parade his very cranky self on the Nevada playa at Burning Man, impressing a few more folks, though I doubt anyone will praise Bryan Tedrick and Terry Roberts as affectionately as their own Glen Ellen friends and neighbors. Huzzah, huzzah, for this masterpiece of imagination.

Angel of Broadway rocks on

?Among the gathered guests that day was dear Erik Garcia, long ago one of my favored middle school students. Erik recently purchased the Wedekin's garden center on Broadway.

It's across from the street from the Garcia's rock supply, Sonoma Materials. One of Erik's first acts as new owner of the garden center was to buy Bryan's amazing metal angel wings (which, once upon a time, also graced Burning Man). We were happy to see Erik and doubly happy to know that iconic sculpture remains at home in this valley. We were also triply happy to hear the good news of Erik's brothers, Paul and Ryan, also among the hundreds of my favorite former students. Life is good.

Curtains rise and fall

Another double huzzah is due our dear friend Miss Kate Kennedy, director of dreams, the most entertaining impresario in our valley and well beyond. Kates makes us laugh, and cry, and travel back to Padua, Illyria, and other parts unknown. Sweetie and I, along with our two boys (now men with boys of their own) have been enjoying Kate's various renditions of Shakespeare's shows since she first arrived in this valley. We've never been disappointed.

Our final night in Sonoma Valley was spent at Buena Vista Winery (which has a dear sentimental distinction of being the site of the marriage of Schuyler and Amy Crawford, circa 2009). Kate greeted us and guided us to a table shared with actor Jim Kent and his Sweetie Debbie, the Accountess. We loved this year's “Twelfth Night,” and marveled over our talented friends Spencer Rank, Don Mahoney, Kathryn Del Chiaro, Bob Smith, Aaron Bremner, Jen Howlett, and others. As fine a performance as any we've seen and the perfect way to end our 41 happy years in the best small town on earth, a Valley blessed beyond measure.

As the cast took their final bows and the audience stood for the final ovation, we knew it was time for our exit, a perfect way to say Farewell to Sonoma Valley. And so, for us, the curtain falls, to rise again in a new world, as exotic as any imagined by the Bard.

Bless you always

May God bless and keep you always, may you continue to enjoy the goodness and bounty of this blessed valley, and remember us from time to time with fondness, as I will you.

Former Glen Ellen columnist Sylvia Crawford can still be reached at creekbottom@earthlink.net, or Crawford Family, 24 North East 45th Avenue, Portland, Oregon.

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