So, the life of a writer in Napa. And yes, staying at some friends who live amongst the vines on a hill in a 150 year old family plot where the house could make any magazine. Oh, and they’re really great, friendly people. The grapes, by the way, turn into Truchard wines with the 30-year-old the winery just down the hill. Arriving here yesterday, we drank wine, go figure, walked the vineyards, had fabulous food and conversed till bedtime. Throughout the night I pondered getting up and walking to the crest of a backyard hill, sit with the vines and write, which is where I am now. Add to the masochistic scene of budding Chardonnay and Merlot vines, there are four hot air balloons floating softly above to my right, some wind-swept wispy clouds carousing above in the morning blue sky, and myriad homes nestled into green hillsides as if Monet penciled them in with a desire to return so he may add fairies and gnomes. This is where I write. It’s been a long week of adventure. It’s been a long week of family. The time for a few minutes of peace has to be sought and created, and generally doesn’t take much effort, but peace is necessary. The quiet fosters growth of the soul while surrounding environs portray mood. Whether it be an alley in the Bronx or a pastoral expanse that lies before me, peace can be obtained. As a writer the synapses of thought never shut off. There are new waves of neurons to be let and greater lengths of dendrites and axons to be stretched. In a matter of seven days, I have been granted the gift of a lifetime to write while looking over the high Sierra’s, gazing up at the granite of Yosemite, and now dancing a visual minuet while holding the hand of a blossom that will fill a soul with pleasure somewhere off in the future in some distant land and that person will look into the wine in her glass and connect with my spirit and the place I sit while touching my hand to her lips. Yes, peace is necessary and the writing of time and wine will forever be immortal.