Days of Petanque: A boule in hand

Date: February 3, 2020 at 9:10:16 AM PST

Sonoma it seems is part of our dreams, 

like a western Shangri-La
where history greets gastronomical treats 

and every other door is a spa, 

or single vineyard wine tasting room,

or veni vidi vici machiado coffee bar,

or terminally exclusive real estate office,

or a harvest sunflower dorado grape cafe,

or hip Hopmonk Murphy Steiner's Tavern & Bistro. 

It's a place where it's OK to drink wine in the park

without keeping it in a paper bag.

It's a place where Tesla's outnumber Chevys,

where the poverty line is middle six figures

and still we say it's like all the other places used to be

before we moved here. It's where the bike path is paved 

and has traffic signals as it travels from regional park to winery.

Sonoma is not so much a state of mind

as an elevated state of consciousness.

An art form really, where even the wildfire smoke

kindles love in the air and installations in the plaza.

All of that is what goes through my mind

as I stand in the circle and decide whether to

plombée, demi-portée or just roll the damn thing,

not that it makes a hair on Ruby's tail difference.

My boules go where they want to go

the way my cousin used to crawl out her bedroom window

after my aunt grounded her for a month.

Some things will go their own way, will not be contained,

will go left or right, short or long,

anywhere but where you intended.

If you will play this game,

it is something you have to contend with.

——————————————————————————

You win a few, you lose a few. Some get rained out. 

But you got to dress for all of them. —Satchel Paige