UCDavis_article_2014From Where I Sit: In the Vineyards of Napa Valley
> Published in the UCDavis College of Letters & Science Alumni Magazine, Spring 2014
> PDF Article

The beauty here in Napa Valley astounds me. As I drive down Highway 29 through Napa, making my way through lush vineyards, I feel lucky to call this place home. While a student at UC Davis, I used to take jaunts over to Napa occasionally to shop the outlet malls and make my first clumsy attempts at wine tasting. I’d always felt compelled to visit, and was happy when my path eventually led to a job opportunity
in Napa five years ago. Now, I put my English degree and years of experience as a student writer for the California Aggie newspaper to work in my role as director of communications and marketing at the Napa Chamber of Commerce. I make use of my history degree on the board of the Napa County Historical Society. Often, the hauntingly beautiful vineyards trigger memories of adventures inspired by books read and deciphered in those UC Davis classrooms.

In 1998, during the summer following graduation, I embarked upon a two-week adventure through London and the British countryside, chasing the ghosts of literary legends. My path ultimately led to the fabled inspiration for Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights in the misty Yorkshire moors deep in Northern England. The sky there felt like an extension of the earth, almost as if I had to duck down to avoid hitting my head on the clouds. With the abandoned stone farmhouse in view, I was sure I could hear Heathcliff’s tortured pleas on the wind. Words first read during late-night study sessions came alive, as if I was now the one directing the characters to act out their roles. (read more about that adventure…)

That summer, I soaked up the atmosphere and inhaled their legacy. Ever since then, I have been determined to follow in the footsteps of great writers, many of whom formed the basis of my UC Davis English degree. Four years of dedicated guidance and instruction from professors like Jack Hicks sparked a life-long interest in the stories behind the words. His “Literature of California” course brought my love for literary history home. At the time, I was a bright-eyed Aggie reporter. I remember distinctly the April 1997 memorial that Professor Hicks held for poet Allen Ginsberg. Aware of my interest in the Beat genre, he invited me to meet writer Gary Snyder following the memorial. Both intimidating and inspiring, it was a moment that cemented my desire to build upon introductions made in the classroom and shake
hands with the great figures of literature.

Eleven years after graduating from UC Davis, I found myself back in the Bay Area, embarking upon a masters’ thesis project focused on California writers. I often thought back to Professor Hicks’ classroom, where we delved into the poetry of Robinson Jeffers, the tales of Jack London, and the words of John Muir, John Steinbeck, and Mark Twain. Studying the life stories of the writers—exploring that intersection of literature and history—often interested me as much as the words themselves. These explorations have formed the basis of my “Literary Legacies” blog, a growing collection of stories about my literary ghost hunts.

The tattered, college-issued novels remain on my bookshelf. These books serve as reminders of long nights spent devouring language and days in the classroom searching for the meaning behind it. These books have inspired journeys. Isn’t that what education is all about?

ImageWhile many of the historic literary sites I’ve visited easily evoke the writer’s inspiration, others require a little more imagination. This past summer I happened upon Eugene O’Neill’s childhood home in New London, Connecticut. I was visiting my fiancee’s family over the fourth of July in Westerly, Rhode Island and we took a drive down the coast one day so I could see the sights. Several road signs referring to O’Neill sparked my memory of his connection to the area from my thesis-writing days – O’Neill was one of the subjects of my four-part masters thesis (he was in good company with Steinbeck, Stevenson and Muir).

We had just a short time to visit his home – the Monte Cristo Cottage – where he had spent summers as a boy in the late 1800s. The home is beautiful, set back from the street on a large expanse of lawn. A sweeping porch wraps around the facade, and it has more a feeling of wistful airiness than solemn foreboding, as one might expect after reading his Long Day’s Journey into Night, which was based on his family’s time at the home.

ImageO’Neill is a troubling character himself. He’s the writer I had the hardest time wrapping my mind and words around in my thesis. I still feel as if I should keep him at an arm’s length, and not pretend to have a full understanding of his genius. And yet, I feel a fondness and familiarity for him, as I have spent a good amount of time working with the good people at the Eugene O’Neill Foundation, Tao House, in Danville, CA.

ImageTao House and the Monte Cristo Cottage could not be more different in style and feel. While Monte Cristo has a classic, New England stateliness and formality about it, Tao House reflects a more modern, stylized sensibility. Tao House, where O’Neill and his wife lived from 1937-1943, represents just how far O’Neill had come since his childhood days. He and his wife designed the West Coast home themselves, to provide privacy and seclusion for his writing. It’s features are meant for optimum feng shui, and follow Taoist philosophies – including winding pathways to the front door, intending to confuse evil spirits.

ImageThe O’Neill of Tao House was easier for me to grasp than the O’Neill of Monte Cristo Cottage. The thick walls, cold stone and mountain-top solitude of Tao House encapsulate the darkness that pervades so much of his writing. Monte Cristo’s grandeur and dimly lit interior does evoke a sense of drama and constraint, but it is difficult to imagine the tortured scenes of Long Day’s Journey playing out in such stately walls. Monte Cristo Cottage puts on a welcoming facade, while Tao House, with its winding paths, elusive doors and hidden inner chambers, makes no pretense of its solemnity.

During our visit to Monte Cristo Cottage, we were only able to walk around the main floor of the home, as it was technically closed to the public at the time. It’s beautifully preserved and contains many interesting artifacts from O’Neill’s life. For me, it was a fascinating glimpse into the early life of a writer whom I had previously only known tangibly through my connection with his later dwelling. Decades of life experience span between the two homes – each book ending a life lived to the fullest. My gratitude goes out to the organizations that have kept these homes alive with the legacy of such an important figure in American literature.

> Check out my (amateur) video about my thesis, produced in 2009

Image taken from the pamphlet at the Shelley grave site in Bournemouth.

Image taken from the pamphlet at the Shelley grave site in Bournemouth.

This Halloween eve, I was reminded of one of the greatest ghost stories never written. Back in the early 1800s, a young and precocious Mary Shelley traveled with her family around Europe, traipsing through forests and exploring abandoned castles (or so my imagination assumes). During a stay in Scotland, she took up with Percy Bysshe Shelley, the prince of the Romantic poets (I bestow upon Keats the title of “King”). Percy would become her husband while both were still teenagers and the two were known for their adventurous jaunts through France, Switzerland and England.

They were also known for their desire to tell the most compelling of horror stories. It was during one summer in Geneva that fellow literary great Lord Byron joined the couple, along with other friends. Mary wrote in her journals that the weather was particularly dreary, and the group was inspired to converse about modern-day experiments in corpse revival and other such topics of interest. These stories eventually led to Mary’s creation of Frankenstein (though the book was initially published anonymously, and she acknowledged extensive input from Percy). Little did any of them know that they had conjured one of the greatest figures in literary history… and a Halloween icon that endures nearly 200 years later.

photo 2Mary’s own life took a ghastly turn itself when her husband died in a legendary “accident” at sea in Italy when he was just 29 years old. There was much speculation over the cause of his death and it’s said that he was found with a book of Keats’ poetry in his pocket (whether true or not, that’s one of my favorite stories ever). Also highly speculated upon is the state of Percy’s body, particularly one organ. As was the custom at the time following a death at sea, his body was burned on shore. Legend has it that the ashes of his heart were saved by a grieving friend, or even more gruesome, it’s possible that his heart was cut from the body before cremation.

photo 1

St Peter’s Church, Bournemouth with Shelley vault in foreground

Flash forward 29 years and Mary lay on her own deathbed. At 54 years old, she had led a solid life and continued writing throughout.  She was buried in Bournemouth, England, a rugged coastal town where she had moved with her son and his wife. One year after her death, the family opened a trunk of personal items and found, among other keepsakes, an envelope containing the ashes of Percy’s heart. The ashes were supposedly buried in the same vault as his wife, and the two now peacefully overlook the sleepy sea-side town, along with Mary’s parents, son and daughter-in-law.

I visited Bournemouth during my post-college literary tour of England back in 1998. The cemetery is suitably spooky for holding the remains of two such lives of tumult. Before visiting, I wasn’t aware of the story of the buried heart, but I think of it often. What a story. What a fitting tribute for such a free-spirited, creatively driven couple. It’s a story of romance perfectly fitting for Halloween.

Jesse Edsal Dalrymple, c. 1900

Jesse Edsall Dalrymple, c. 1900; Elmira, NY

When I started this blog, I never expected to uncover such a personal connection to a literary legacy. A family reunion this summer brought me to Elmira, in upstate New York. The small, rural town boasts of its enduring connection to Mark Twain. It also contains innumerable references to the Dalrymple family, which staked its claim in the area back in 1841. It turns out that while my great+ grandparents were physically toiling in the fields to create better lives for their families, Mark Twain himself was mentally toiling away in the adjacent hills to create some of the most iconic works of American literature. More than 130 years later, both of their legacies continue to inspire a whole new generation.


Mark Twain looking over Elmia from his study at Quarry Farm

Mark Twain looking over Elmia from his study at Quarry Farm, 1903

Elmira, NY milks all it can out of the Twain connection. And well it should, as it has suffered from the blight of the downturn in economy and vacating industry. The once bountiful farmlands that sustained generations (including my ancestors) are quickly being converted into mega Wal-Marts and sleepy strip malls. Though the land retains its bucolic charm, it’s much different from the Elmira that Twain knew and loved. Though, I think he might get a kick out of the Mark Twain mini-golf course (which granted me a hole-in-one on hole 9), the Mark Twain little league stadium, the Mark Twain Motor Lodge, Cafe, Highway, etc. etc…


Dalrymple & Twain graves in Woodlawn Cemetery, Elmira, NY

Dalrymple & Twain graves in Woodlawn Cemetery, Elmira, NY

This August, more than fifty descendents of Andrew Dalrymple celebrated the tricentennial of his arrival to America from Scotland. Ephraim Dalrymple purchased the original farmsead in Southport, NY (near Elmira) in 1841 and moved there with his son, Daniel. Future generations, through today, remained to raise their own families. I was astonished to find a plot of Dalrymple graves in the same cemetery as Mark Twain. Could they have possibly crossed paths during their lifetimes?  My great grandfather Jesse lived in Elmira from 1880-1926 and my great-great grandfather Charles from 1854-1938 (on the farm established by my great-great-great grandfather Daniel and his father in 1841). Twain spent more than twenty summers writing in the hills overlooking my ancestors’ farmland from about 1870-1890. There’s a good chance that when Twain came down from his study at Quarry Farm, he could very well have engaged with one of my direct ancestors. The literary fiend in me is giddy with excitement over that possibility.



Proudly sporting my reunion t-shirt in the Twain study

During our reunion bus tour of historic family sites, we made two Twain-related stops: one at the grave in Woodlawn Cemetery and one at Twain’s study, located on the Elmira College campus. Originally located at Quarry Farm, the hilltop home of his sister-in-law, the study was where Twain wrote many of his most-loved works including:  The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876), The Prince and the Pauper (1881), Life on the Mississippi (1883), Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885) and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (1889). The unique, octagonal wooden nook was moved to the campus in 1952 to save it from vandals and to preserve its literary sanctity. Now, it’s a busy tourist destination.


Our tour guide, Emily, presented an informative overview of the study, pointing out photo 2interesting bits about the man and his inspiration. He apparently found Elmira to be reminiscent of his boyhood home in Missouri and fuel for writing his masterpieces. His wife’s family resided in the small town and, as they visited their home on the hill each summer (and she couldn’t stand his incessant cigar smoking), his sister-in-law had a separate study built for him in 1874. Twelve years later, he stated:

This may be called the home of Huckleberry Finn and other books of mine, for they were written here.

photo 3

Twain study on a busy summer Saturday

It’s a small but cozy space, ideal for pacing, thinking, gazing and ultimately, writing. While I was honored to stand in the walls of such inspiration, it’s among the surrounding vast, rolling, green lands that the spirit of Samuel Clemens and his endearing characters endure. And it’s on those same lands that a vital chapter in the story of my family was written.

View of Dalrymple family reunion dinner from Hilltop Inn in Elmira, NY. Similar view as Twain from his study at Quarry Farm.

View of Dalrymple family reunion dinner from Hilltop Inn in Elmira, NY. Similar view as Twain from his study at Quarry Farm.

Savoring the journey

Wallace Falls State Park sign As I trudge uphill, my thoughts focus on the summit. My muscles burn, my heart pumps, and I wonder how many more bends in the road are ahead. I curse the seemingly endless rocky hills. Once the summit is reached, I catch my breath and do my best to enjoy the view, though often I admittedly am more focused on the next goal – making it back to the car.

It takes a truly extraordinary moment to bring me back to the beauty of the moment – a family of deer traipsing through the brush, a waterfall crashing, or a perfectly illuminated redwood situated in a majestic grove. I’ve had many such moments in the past six months, since I started hiking more regularly. However, I often find the journey obstructed by constant thoughts of “what’s next” and “when does this path end?”

Armstrong Woods State Park

Armstrong Woods State Park, CA

My own personal path has also taken several unexpected twists and turns over the past six months. A new chapter has begun, featuring a new leading man, a new home and the realization that it is time to redefine myself independent of a job title. I’ve chosen a different and more intimidating path, which I’m confident will provide new opportunities and an amazing view at the summit. I just need to trust the process and enjoy the journey ahead.

Point Reyes National Seashore

Point Reyes National Seashore, CA

This is a major challenge for me – so I rely on inspiration from  my favorite writers to keep my focus in perspective. Two weekends ago, we visited my sister and her family in Seattle, where we took an amazing hike at Wallace Falls State Park. A sign greets hikers at the beginning of the path: “Come forth into the light of things. Let nature be your teacher.” These words by the English romantic poet, William Wordsworth resonate strongly with me as I embark upon my next journey. It’s time to embrace the light where I stand… the summit will make itself clear soon enough.

Coming this summer… a trip to Mark Twain country (Elmira, NY) and a visit to the Rhode Island coast (literary connection still to be determined, suggestions welcome)

Enjoying the view from the summit

Burdell Mountain summit

View of Doc Ricketts' Pacific Biological Laboratories

View of Doc Ricketts’ Pacific Biological Laboratories

I’d wandered up and down that street a hundred times looking for the unassuming wooden facade. On two separate visits in the past four years, I looked for Ed “Doc” Ricketts’ Pacific Biological Laboratories, knowing it only from photographs published in the many biographies of John Steinbeck I’d read for my Masters’ thesis. It was the one remaining piece left to be placed in my quest to trace Steinbeck’s time in the Monterey Bay. Finally, two weeks ago, during an unseasonably warm mid-winter visit, I found myself unexpectedly face to face with the elusive lab. An incredible sense of fulfillment overwhelmed me as I realized the final piece had been placed.

View of the back yard of Doc Ricketts' lab, including holding tanks for specimens that were brought in from the Bay.

View of the back yard of Doc Ricketts’ lab, including holding tanks for specimens that were brought in from the Bay.

How had I missed it before? Perhaps construction on the adjacent hotel had covered the tiny building from view? Perhaps it was obscured by scaffolding, a truck, or one of the many throngs of tourists? Perhaps it had been in plain view all these years and I needed to find it now, as a reminder of just how satisfying it is to come across another literary jewel. This tiny plank-covered building was an epicenter of inspiration back in the early 1930s. Steinbeck spent mass amounts of time here with his buddy Doc. They studied sea life, traveled through the bay and beyond in search of new discoveries and gleaned from each other a sense of camaraderie that endures through the words of Steinbeck in books like Cannery Row and The Sea of Cortez.

On the front porch of Doc Ricketts' lab

On the front porch of Doc Ricketts’ lab

Although my thesis (Literary Legacies) was completed four years ago, the thrill of sitting on the front porch of one of Steinbeck’s classic haunts remains. A spirit of inspiration, friendship and discovery radiates from that place, and will continue to do so thanks to the fact that the building  has been put on the National Registry of Historic Places. Few other people walking by recognized its significance. Two other couples stopped to take photos, but most tourists walking by were too distracted by the looming Monterey Bay Aquarium next door to realize the significance of this tiny jewel of a shack that once lured intellectuals and philosophers amid the buzz of Cannery Row.

> Learn more historic detail in This article from NPR.

> Related post: Stevenson & Steinbeck in Monterey

Through Younger Eyes…

It’s been several months since my last post about Jack London’s Wolf House in Glen Ellen, Ca. I returned there today and was again inspired by the beauty and history of the place. This time I visited with a good friend and her family, including her two young sons. Seeing the place through the boys’ eyes was like visiting it again for the first time.

They noticed things like suspiciously placed hinges on a bookshelf,  mysterious passageways in the burned-out hull of Wolf House, a trap door leading (supposedly) to the basement of London’s cottage, and the surprisingly large collection of African spears displayed in the museum. They chased lizards down the rocky paths, were spooked by the century-old grave site, and explored every nook and cranny they found (even convincing me to follow them into a former pig pen on the ranch). London would have been proud.

These boys were captivated by the details and questioned everything; they led us down paths we may have otherwise ignored and opened our eyes to formerly overlooked nuances. They provided me with some much-needed perspective and served as a reminder of how important it is to retain an adventurous and inquisitive spirit.

I have always loved to buy books on the spot where they were written, so I secretly bought the boys their first copy of White Fang and Call of the Wild. Watching Nico immediately open it and start paging through warmed my heart. He carried it with him down the path to Wolf House, and while I know it will most likely lose attention to one of any kid’s many electronic distractions, I hope one day he’ll come across it, read my inscription and discover the words of the writer whose land we explored on this idyllic summer afternoon.

“Buck possessed a quality that made for greatness – imagination”
The Call of the Wild


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