Author: punchwpadmin

Not many dogs start their lives known as the Bengal Tiger Dog of Sewanee, Tennessee. I got that nickname because of the stripes on my face.

My three brothers and I were dumped on the side of the road in Sewanee when we were eight weeks old. I was the one always on the lookout for help—even when my tummy rumbled and my skin itched from the fleas.

Help came in the form of a nice couple that just happened to be relatives of Nancy and George, the family I now live with on the Peninsula. They took all four of us in, and Nancy flew all the way from California to meet us. She had first pick, and, of course, smartly picked me. My brothers ended up with families in Philadelphia, Boston and New York.

While I always knew I was a Great Pyrenees, Nancy and George somehow mistook me for a mutt. Because they wanted to know what I was, they sent off a sampling of my slobber that proved I was indeed a Great Pyrenees.

I’m nine years old now and I like to bark at the wind and howl when I hear sirens. I pride myself on being adaptable and sometimes stay in SF with another family member, Chris, who takes me to work with him.

At 100 pounds, I’m a good-sized dog but I’m gentle with other animals. I live with two cats, one of whom, Bronco, likes to go walking with me around my neighborhood. She jumps over me and dashes under me. I’m patient with all of her antics, although, to be truthful, I think she’s a tad ridiculous.

She drapes her left arm behind the back of her chair. The audience seated in rows facing a small stage at the rear of Kepler’s Books in Menlo Park takes note and settles in. With unwavering focus, Angie Coiro connects with her subject, which for tonight’s installment of the This Is Now interview series is author Tamim Ansary. He’s touring on behalf of a scholarly tome that recounts the last 50,000 years of human history, and Angie has just one hour to distill it down for her listeners, both in the room and soon on the airwaves through her syndicated radio show. Local affiliates are KALW San Francisco and KZSU Stanford.

Absorbing every word Tamim gives her, Angie sometimes rests her chin atop her two fingers in a pose of contemplation. Her eyes crease in a fixed gaze with facial expressions reacting to the twists and turns of her subject’s train of thought. When it’s time to ask a question, Angie often speaks with her hands, weaving conversational threads with a mid-air grace while the numerous rings on her fingers flash in the bookstore spotlights. Refraining from ever speaking over her guest, Angie is the antithesis to, say, KQED’s Michael Krasny, who has a tendency for such conversational divots.

But Angie would never make that comparison. Not because she worked at KQED for years during the ’90s and would sometimes fill in on Krasny’s popular Forum show, but because she’s just not one to throw shade. She may disagree vehemently with someone’s opinion, but instead of rattling off rhetoric, she’d prefer to have them as a guest on her show for an open interview, or, as she prefers to call it, a conversation.

Part of Angie’s magic is how she positions all the focus onto her subjects—even though Angie herself is brilliantly vivid, an astute lover of the colors blue and purple that add hues to her enchanting aura.

“There’s a shift in journalism now; it’s a lot more self-revelatory. Twitter has something to do with it. The neutral voice lies in the question,” she says, over a cup of black coffee in downtown Menlo Park.

“I never fully separate myself from my voice. I’ll disclose my bias while treating everyone with full respect, whether I agree with them or not. My most constant compliment is that I realize it’s not about me. People don’t show up to Kepler’s for me, they come for the guest. I know how to present them to the audience. I’m sitting in the chair for the audience.”

Angie is a surrogate for the lot of us, as she has been for over 30 years on the radio in Hawaii and the Bay Area. Angie moved to the Peninsula in 1986 and her resume reflects a career in the annals of popular local radio: ten years at KQED-FM and KQED-TV, the show Spotlight on KCSM-TV and a host for Mother Jones Radio on Green 960.

Angie now helms This Is Now, an interview series with headliner guests she began as an independent production in 2007 and then partnered with Kepler’s Literary Foundation in 2016 for frequent live interviews throughout the month.

Her guests vary with the subjects discussed, differing in content as much as the wardrobe worn on stage. Some guests don suits while others appear in jeans. (For her part, Angie always has a splash of purple either in her clothing or streaked in her hair.) She’s sat across from a slew of prominent guests on stage—Al Gore, Roxane Gay, Dan Savage, Congresswoman Jackie Speier, Dana Carvey and Mary Robinson, the former President of Ireland—however, big names don’t mean so much when you’re Angie and your goal is to nurture a live conversation.

“I was thrilled to interview Al Gore—yay!—but it’s an interview. I don’t think there’s anyone I’m so awed by that I’d be put off by it,” she reveals. “What makes me nervous about an interview is if I had trouble getting my mind around a book or topic. Tamim was an intimidating interview. It was a book that was very dense and I had to walk a fine line between discussing that fabulous minutia and showing people what his main concerns were.”

In preparing for her interviews, Angie digests the book through a close reading and by listening to the audio version. She’ll amass an internal database of the author and subject but the notecards she totes on stage typically have no more than three questions. It’s a method she carried over from her early years training to become an actor: learn everything you can about the character’s motivation and then throw it all away when you get under the lights.

Acting was Angie’s initial life motivation, a passion she inherited from her mother while growing up in South Bend, Indiana. The two would watch old movies on Channel 9 Chicago and her mom would test Angie’s knowledge of the silver screen stars. “We had a game,” she says. “My mom would tell me the real name of the star: Who was Lucille LeSueur? And I had to guess ‘Joan Crawford.’

Although she still carries a hint of a Midwestern accent, Angie always knew she’d leave her home state behind. After studying acting at Indiana University, she moved to Hawaii, where she began her first stint on the radio. She was considering taking a job offer in Boston when she visited San Francisco. One night during her stay, she was alone when it started to rain.

“I parked my car in the rain and I had no idea where I was. I parked under a bridge—the Bay Bridge. Is that the famous one? No, that one is orange…” she says, laughing at her neophyte self. “I walked by a doorman who yelled out if I remembered Gene Kelly. He then did a full Singing in the Rain dance. San Francisco has a more pervasive spirit. Everything is possible.”

Angie first lived in San Mateo, then spent 20 years in Redwood City before moving to San Carlos four years ago. She owns three cats including Miss Violet Devine. (“My companion for 19 years,” she says. “She’s been through everything with me.”) Angie took a blind date off OK Cupid ten years ago with a man named Bruce. Their first date lasted five hours, extending from a wine bar to a restaurant to a long stroll before ending up at Heidi’s Pie for a midnight snack. She and Bruce will marry this summer, and she recounts how she liked him immediately, partly because he had no knowledge of her prior to their meeting.

“It’s an awkward expectation when people have this whole impression of me,” she says. “In a very subtle way, I’m an introvert and that brings it out.”

A couple of nights after Angie’s conversation with Tamim she was set for an interview with a journalist who wrote a full expose on Uber. She works on her interviews up to the moment she hops up onstage and while her process may include blasting the radio on the drive over to Kepler’s, she has a favorite spot for curling up during one of her deep dives.

“I’m superb at making my space, my space. I went on Craigslist and found this immensely beautiful floral chair. You can sprawl on it; you can take a nap. I went to the Acme Stage Company when it was closing down in South San Francisco and found a throw blanket that matched it. On the blanket, someone had initialed “AC” on the tag. I threw my hands in the air!” she says with an exuberant grin. “Everyone sits at their desk at work, but I get to sprawl.”

When my children were young, I was their teacher. From sports to academics to our family traditions, they looked to me for guidance. I taught them how to throw and hit a ball; I showed them how to study and to write; I led them as we practiced our Jewish life. And I figured it would always be that way—me the teacher and my children the students.

In the last couple of years, though, I’ve found a new source in my efforts to become a better person, something where there’s endless potential. I study a Jewish area of learning called Mussar that’s been helpful in moving the dial, but the new source of wisdom and learning I’ve found is, to my surprise, my children.

These four kids who tore apart our home, snuck beer into our playroom with their high school friends and wrecked more than one car, have, as it miraculously turns out, some things to teach me. And the more I look, the more I seem to find.

Josh, my oldest, and his wife Adara bought a small home in San Mateo near Hillsdale Shopping Center. As they were searching for a home that they could afford, they came across one and asked me to look at it. I told them to forget it, that it was the worst home I’d seen. They soon bought it.

And then Josh, with no experience, began remodeling the home. He pestered me to help him when I could. Every weekend he’d tackle a new project, without bothering to realize that he had no idea what he was doing. Plumbing, electrical, woodworking—it didn’t matter. I kept telling him that he was going to kill himself. When he told me that he was putting recessed lighting in his kitchen, I thought he was out of his mind. But then, there they were, lights perfectly in place and working.

I’ve learned from Josh that I need to pay no heed to my ignorance and just assume that I can do whatever it is that needs doing. I’ve even fixed a couple of things on my car—now there’s a miracle! I just have to ignore the fact that I have no idea what I am doing and dive in.

Speaking of projects, it’s my nature to rush to get things done. I can’t check things off my list fast enough. Unfinished things make me nervous. My daughter Arielle, on the other hand, never rushes through what she is working on. She’s an interior designer and will work on a project with the patience of Job. If she needs one hour, she’ll spend three, making sure it’s perfect the first time.

When I’m rushing to get something done, I try to think of her. Slow down, I tell myself. Take your time. It’ll be fine. Take a look at it one more time and make it is as good as it can be.

When my daughter Tali walks into our home she’s always singing or whistling, always upbeat, always happy. She makes the room come alive. Though she’s a Berkeley graduate, she doesn’t spend her time worrying about the world; instead, she’s able to focus on enjoying life in the present in a happy, contented way.

I, on the other hand, can’t stop seeing the mess in everything, be it the broken sidewalks of Menlo Park, the horrific trash on the 101 or the Iranians trying to create a nuclear bomb. I’m trying hard to emulate Tali; trying to focus on the here and now, the beauty of what I have and the love all around me.

My youngest son, Coby, is a kind soul. He had a health issue growing up that, I think, made him especially sensitive to other people. He never speaks badly about anyone. He goes out of his way to do nice things for strangers. And he rarely complains about anything. He’s a true mensch. When I’m with him, I watch him to learn how I can be a better person. When we’re apart and I’m going about my life, I try to remember to ask myself how he might act in that situation. And, of course, I admire the heck out of him for being a disciplined and decorated Israeli soldier.

I never dreamed that my motley crew of kids would turn out to be some pretty good adults, and that I could, if I paid attention, learn from them. Who knew that this was a possibility? Until I took the time to see all the good qualities in them, I never imagined how much of a better person I could become by allowing myself to learn from them.

Of course, I hope that they’re still learning from me. It’s just that now it’s going both ways.

Located about five miles from the Stanford campus in the eastern foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains, Jasper Ridge Biological Preserve is a Stanford University biological field station. Photographer Mary Fischer captured this Perfect Shot during a Stanford Continuing Studies nature photography workshop: “Walking down the trail, I turned a corner and saw the light filtering over a giant boulder with a stream running next to it. The moss with its greens and golds and the shadows of the leaves overhead created an abstract mélange of beauty. It gave me a feeling of another time and a connection to the earth with its layers of life.” Visitors can sign up for docent-led tours of Jasper Ridge at jrbp.stanford.edu/visit

Courtesy of Mary Ries Fischer / maryriesfischer.photo

Driving the Peninsula’s El Camino, glimpses of bells periodically catch the eye—whether you’re stopping at a red light by Palo Alto High School or passing the colorful signage welcoming you to Redwood City. El Camino Real, or the King’s Highway, traces its origins to the historic pathway started by the Franciscans in 1769 to connect California’s 21 missions and principal towns. In 1906, Mrs. Armitage C. E. Forbes led a civic coalition to install commemorative guideposts marking each mile of El Camino Real, each mission and select historical landmarks. Forbes herself designed a cast iron 85-pound bell and piping and created California Bell Co. to manufacture them. By 1913, 450 decorative bells lined the route, but within decades, most of the bells had disappeared and Forbes had sold off the company. In 2000, when Saratoga’s John Kolstad sought to secure one of the historic bells for his backyard, the owner of the defunct California Bell insisted he buy the entire company, including the original foundry molds and boxes of historic photographs. Although Kolstad only wanted a single bell, he agreed and proceeded to resurrect the business. Teaming up with Caltrans, California Bell now works with local cities to reinstall the original mission bell markers, with about 585 placed so far, from Los Angeles to San Francisco—with plans to cover the remaining areas of the original route. In addition to selling to cities and counties, California Bell also provides bells (even just one!) to individuals for their personal use. To learn more, visit californiabell.com

The gift-giving season is here, but giving back is something you can do all year round. And while you shouldn’t hesitate to pull out your checkbook or donate online to a worthy cause, there are also countless ways you can give of yourself. What do you care about? What’s your passion? With a little bit of hunting, you can find meaningful opportunities to help out close to home. Even setting aside a little bit of time can make a difference. Here’s a sampling of some hands-on ways to volunteer in our Peninsula community. For more ideas, volunteermatch.com is a handy resource for finding just the right fit for you.

1. Make an Animal Friend 
   
   

   Pets In Need, Northern California’s first no-kill animal shelter, is looking for a few good neighbors willing to make a shelter dog’s day. Founded in 1965 and headquartered in Redwood City, Pets In Need also operates the Palo Alto Animal Shelter, a public shelter serving Palo Alto, Los Altos and Los Altos Hills. Through the Doggy Day Out program, volunteers take dogs on half-day field trips, whether it’s a relaxing morning at home, a visit to a park for playtime or even a hike on one of the Peninsula’s dog-friendly trails. At the time of the outing, volunteers are provided with everything they need, including food, treats, a leash and an “Adopt Me” vest for the dog. Visit petsinneed.org to register. (Slots are posted on the 15th for the following month.) You can also browse adoptable pets and learn about fostering—taking in cats, dogs, kittens and puppies that aren’t quite ready to be adopted. Pets In Need provides the food, supplies and medical care. You provide the love.

2. Bake a Difference

   If the thought of icing a cake triggers euphoria, Icing Smiles needs your help. This nonprofit organization provides custom celebration cakes and other treats to local families impacted by the critical illness of a child. Whether you’re a professional baker or a hobbyist, opportunities include donating a dream cake (three-dimensional or carved), fun cake (single-tier) and custom decorated cookies. Families suggest a theme, and the execution is determined by the baker. Menlo Park volunteer Shoshanah Cohen has whipped up everything from alligators to unicorns and rainbows. While the designs can be complex, the mission is simple: Create a positive memory and a temporary escape from worry. Go to icingsmiles.org to join the roster of Sugar Angels donating their time and talent. To get added to the volunteer database, you’ll need to share an online gallery or attach a few photos of your work.

   

3. Become a Weed Warrior

   Looking for a way to help the environment? You’re living in a globally recognized hotspot for biodiversity, but keeping our local part of the planet vibrant and healthy takes work. Grassroots Ecology engages over 12,000 people of all ages each year to keep invasive plants in check, grow locally native plants, support stream restoration and water quality monitoring projects and plant a diversity of species to feed wildlife. To see a calendar of upcoming activities and sign up, go to grassrootsecology.org. Whether you’re helping with habitat restoration at Byrne Preserve in Los Altos Hills or joining a team of Wednesday Weed Warriors at Pearson-Arastradero Preserve, come prepared to work outdoors; long pants and long sleeves are recommended along with sturdy, closed-toed shoes good for hiking hilly terrain. Gloves, tools and light snacks are provided as well as the opportunity to bask in the beautiful views around us.

4. Horse Around with Kids

   Located in the training barn area of the Horse Park at Woodside, B.O.K. (short for Be Okay) Ranch helps riders regardless of special needs enjoy the physical, mental and emotional bond that develops with horses. B.O.K.’s equine-assisted activities include full-inclusion riding lessons, vocational programs and summer camps, all with the intent of encouraging a sense of well-being and accomplishment. For example, individuals who may have challenges with mobility can improve muscle tone, balance, core strength and overall body awareness while riders with limited expressive language can be inspired by interacting with horses. Volunteers assist with grooming, tacking, preparing students and horses for lessons and general stable management—with horse handlers, side-walkers and spotters helping out during lessons. Experience with horses or those with special needs isn’t required. Visit bokranch.org to fill out an online application and sign up for B.O.K.’s volunteer orientation and training. Volunteers are asked to commit to a once-a-week shift for a minimum of eight consecutive weeks.

5. Rebuild a Better Peninsula

   President Jimmy Carter is 95 and continues to wield a hammer, partnering with Habitat for Humanity to build houses. In October, he generated headlines by returning to a construction site with a black eye just days after a fall. Not everyone can be The Peanut Farmer. But if you have any background in construction or are just all-around handy, Rebuilding Together Peninsula (RTP) is looking for volunteers. RTP provides renovation and repair services for the Peninsula’s most vulnerable homeowners—seniors, veterans, persons with disabilities, low-income families with children and community facilities. If you’re a problem-solver and experienced project manager, you can be a “Construction Captain,” meeting with homeowners or nonprofit managers to scope project requirements and determine effective repair methods. Lending a hand can also be as simple as raking, shoveling and doing painting prep work. The organization relies on individual volunteers to help prepare for National Rebuilding Day, the last Saturday in April, along with year-round repair projects depending on skills, interests and availability. Check out rebuildingtogetherpeninsula.org for ways to help build a more inclusive Peninsula for everyone.

   

6. Share your Interests with a Senior

   Are you a local history buff? Would you enjoy sharing vacation photos from a recent trip? Do you love music, cooking or reading? A captive, kind and understanding audience eagerly awaits you. With the goal of helping aging adults maintain their dignity, independence and sense of usefulness, Peninsula Volunteers Inc. serves the mid-Peninsula and Silicon Valley through programs like Rosener House, Little House and Meals on Wheels. At Rosener House, an adult day program for those with Alzheimer’s and other dementias, any skill you’re willing to contribute can trigger access to memories and stimulate conversation. Teach a ukulele or art class or grab your band and perform at Little House, a senior activity center focused on health, wellness and social interaction. Pack food or deliver meals and a smile to homebound adults for Meals on Wheels. Learn more and fill out a volunteer application form at penvol.org. Ranging from one-time events to an ongoing commitment, you’ll find countless ways to get involved.

7. Take Time to Teach

   You can spend 90 minutes a week stuck in traffic, so why not repurpose that lost time for some proactive education? As a volunteer for Citizen Teacher, a nationwide organization that’s recently teamed up with McKinley Institute of Technology in Redwood City, you’ll lead a 10-week apprenticeship on a topic of your choosing for an hour and a half each week. Welcome a generation of students into science, architecture, law, business and more. Throughout the country, Citizen Teacher has organized mentorships in documentary filmmaking, running for office, college prep, electrical engineering and pretty much any area of interest. You receive five hours of training on how to make your course engaging and keep students on task. Apprenticeships are taught between 2PM and 6PM, either during fall or spring semesters. Can’t commit 100 percent but still interested? Many apprenticeships are taught by teams of Citizen Teachers of two to four co-workers or friends. Everyone has something they can teach—what can you contribute? Visit citizenschools.org to learn how you can help students discover and achieve their dreams.

8. Eliminate Illiteracy 

   If you can read this, then you can help. With programs in San Mateo, Menlo Park, Redwood City and East Palo Alto, Project Read is a volunteer-based literacy program serving adults, children and families. The award-winning organization provides literacy training and tutoring lessons designed to break the cycle of illiteracy by surrounding adults, youth and families with literacy services that promote a lifelong love of learning. In Redwood City, for example, one in five adults reads below an 8^th grade level and more than 38% of school-aged children fail to complete the 12^th grade. Within Redwood City’s North Fair Oaks area, there are few options available for after-school activities in supportive educational environments. Since 1987, Project Read has provided adult services to 400 adults in Redwood City, increased reading skills by an average of three grade levels in a single year and trained over 150 volunteer tutors. Tutors complete 15 hours of training prior to being matched with a learner. Projectreadredwoodcity.org and projectreadmenlopark.org are a few sites to help you get started.

9. Offer Threads of Comfort

   Collecting, sorting, labeling and counting clothes may sound like a simple act of service but when volunteering with the Grateful Garment Project, it’s a deed that can significantly assist a person in their darkest hours. Every day in California, between 25 to 40 victims of sexual assault are provided with clothing and resources from San Jose-based Grateful Garment. The organization sources clothing from the public and is always in need of contributions. Donate a box of unused clothes or organize a drive in your community to gather garments for a person in need. When sexual assault victims seek medical attention and rape kits are performed, they are asked to surrender their clothing for DNA evidence—leaving them with little else to wear than a hospital gown. Grateful Garment is there with a warm response. Find out more ways to get involved at gratefulgarment.org

10. Assist with Immigration

    If you think navigating the American legal system is difficult, imagine being a non-native English speaker. The Immigration Institute of the Bay Area (IIBA) is always seeking volunteer support, ranging from one-time events to long-term commitments. IIBA Redwood City provides immigration legal services, monthly citizenship workshops and free citizenship classes in San Mateo County. Everyone is welcome—from attorneys seeking immigration experience to law students looking for an internship to community members who want to help. The IIBA provides training and supervision to volunteers. Check iibayarea.org or call 650.780.7530 for specific volunteer opportunities at any given time. Examples include office assistance, Spanish-English translation support for the legal staff preparing immigration applications and volunteer teachers for IIBA’s Citizenship Preparation Class.

Our December Perfect Shot is the perfect reflection of 2019 drawing to a close. Burlingame photographer Susan Munroe was curving along Highway 1 on a Tuesday evening near Pescadero State Beach when the sunset demanded a detour. She pulled off and spent the next 20 minutes admiring the day’s end, allowing the moment to celebrate her home and roots. “The way the clouds filtered the sun on the edge of the cliffs was unusually serene,” she notes. “There was a slight chill in the air as the waves rolled across the unmarked sand. I’m grateful to live in this beautiful place.”

Image Courtesy of Susan Munroe / Susan-Art.com

During the off-seasons, Santa’s Tree Farm and Village is perceptively more relaxed. Save for the thousands of pines and firs bristling in the wind, not a creature is found stirring, not even a mouse. The Elves Workshop, located in the heart of this holiday hamlet nestled within the hills that roll into Half Moon Bay, is dormant—for now.

Santa is expected soon, arriving the weekend before Thanksgiving. Until then, this workshop stores his throne, stock loads of tree stands and twine and a motorized trolley train that was made using a repurposed airport baggage carrier. Further examples of homemade holiday craftsmanship are evident in every piece of snow-white trim that lines the building tops or the wooden red and white candy canes used as a handrail for a staircase.

A map of the village is posted outside on the workshop wall and from this perspective, Santa’s Tree Farm and Village looks like a golf course. The 487-acre farm includes 70 acres for six species of Christmas trees: Douglas, Grand, Concolor and noble firs, Redwood and Monterey pines. The property is split by Highway 92 where a sharp turn on a y-shaped intersection reveals a gravelly road leading into the village. A sign reminds visitors that this a choose-and-cut operation (saws and Christmas cheer supplied) with the welcoming motto: “For those who truly believe.”

When the first trees sprouted here in 1972 (originating in 1969 as a Future Farmers of America project), a dairy farm was transformed into a holiday village. Folks from every corner of the Bay Area flock here to spend an afternoon hunting for the perfect pine to build their Christmas around. They come with picnic spreads and an unwavering sense of the season, spending hours to indulge in the offering of hot cider and original puppet shows. The farm is free to roam and trees are priced according to species, not size, averaging between $60 and $75 each.

It takes a family to raise a village like this and that would be the Sare family. Dan grew up on the farm and planted Monterey pine Christmas tree seedlings in high school for a class project. Several years after establishing the business, he met Natalie from Pescadero, who answered a help wanted ad to work on the tree farm. They married in 1992 and their son, Mike, soon followed.

Today, the Sares run the Christmas village together. On a recent morning, Dan was out with his three full-time employees for maintenance on the various structures and to inspect this year’s crop of trees, which can take a dozen years to grow.

Since 2009, Mike has written a fresh puppet show using pre-recorded audio and hand puppets. Past favorite editions include “The Day Rudolph Went Missing” and “Santa Claus Who?” in which Santa develops amnesia and thinks he’s in a band. He also designs t-shirts for the village, finding one from a previous year that’s in forest green with the words “Christmas isn’t Christmas without Family” written in white.

Natalie answers the phone and runs the operations, coordinating with Mr. and Mrs. Claus’s PR for their arrival and organizing the 20 or so volunteers who help out on the busy pre-holiday weekends.

“This morning, I was talking to the mistletoe kid whom we’ve used ever since he was 12 years old,” she says. “I still want to support him because he’s so wonderful and hardworking. Now he’s getting ready to go off to college.”

When the gates open in late November, the village erupts with visitors through the weekend before the Big Day. That’s five weekends straight of holiday hustle. “We’ve been told we’re not just a place to go to but a destination,” Dan says. “A customer said it was like coming to Disneyland.”

Much of the property is open for visitors to explore and picnic at their leisure; a popular meadow for lunch is in the village’s North Pole, past the wooden Gumdrop Pass Covered Bridge and at the end of Candy Cane Lane. One area that’s private is the family home, a cream-colored one-story house with a brick chimney and a rain chain. A tree with ornaments and lights will soon decorate the living room and the Sares switch off each year who gets to choose it.

Instead of pen marks on the wall when he was growing up, Mike’s height was graded by the trees outside. “I’d say, ‘You’re about the same height as a three-year-old fir,’” Natalie tells him, and, like any 26-year-old, Mike smiles politely as his mom gushes with tales of his childhood.

The Sares keep in contact with other tree farmers and belong to several associations. Their trees are well respected in the field, receiving accolades from the California Tree Growers Association for their noble firs. They’ve won “Best Fir Tree” multiple years in a row. The coastal climate and terrain is suitable for growing these species but maintaining thousands of trees a year requires time and hard work.

The process starts on December 26 when they tally how many trees are missing and what to put back in. The first three months of the year are for irrigation, working alongside the rains, and in March they begin fertilizing. By summer, they’re pulling weeds and pruning the bottom of each tree. “That’s labor-intensive work,” Dan says without a hint of fatigue.

Type “Santa’s Tree Farm and Village” into YouTube and you’ll find a grainy homemade video of a family on a tree hunt in December 1989 next to a compilation of media clips from throughout the years.

The farm attracts news stories and the Sares are sometimes called for their take on holiday trends. Recently, a reporter asked Natalie how the new line of artificial Christmas trees sold through Amazon is affecting their business. Rather than look at the downside, she takes a broader and brighter perspective. After all, this is a village for those who truly believe.

“They wanted to know if it took away from our customer base and it absolutely does not,” she says. “I think it’s helpful for the people who can’t get out to the tree farm. It’s all worth it as long as it’s satisfying the needs of people so they can celebrate Christmas.”

Good day! What’s cracking? By way of a more formal introduction, my name is Ollie. I am a Welsh Pembroke Corgi, and I was born in Swansea, Wales. As Welsh lore tells it, Corgis were once the steeds of fairies, and I’m working hard to be legendary in my own right.

My family is originally from Menlo Park, but Butch, Judy, Jacob and Jill moved abroad back in 2011. They brought me home in 2017 and we lived just outside of London. I grew up exploring the canal paths along the Thames. Lots of pubs have gardens, and when Butch and Judy would enjoy a pint, I’d come along and get a treat.

Blimey! That’s what I barked when I found out we’d be leaving my beloved England. My family moved back to Menlo Park in 2018 and it definitely took a while to adjust. When we first went to the park, the other Corgis stared at me. You see, I’m much bigger (about 50%) than the typical Corgi here, plus I have a striking tail that I constantly wag. (Most Corgi tails get docked in the U.S. so I don’t adhere to local fashion.)

My favorite event is Corgi Con San Francisco. Twice a year, over 1,000 Corgis and Corgi lovers meet up at Ocean Beach near the Cliff House. I love chasing balls, and I make a point of always bringing the ball back to someone I haven’t met. If I give them just the right look, they’ll toss the ball and flash me a smile. You should try it sometime. It’s a great way to make friends.

If you’re business-focused, this is Q4, but for everyone else, the last few months of the year are for the holidays. Independent toy store owners are somewhere in the middle. After all, isn’t their business to help supply holiday cheer?

Although gifts aren’t the reason for the season—the original Christmas presents of gold, frankincense and myrrh were more symbolic than practical, especially for a newborn child—the exchanging of gifts is a tradition that begins with a visit to the little shop around the corner.

Here on the Peninsula, we’re treated to several: Talbot’s Toyland in San Mateo, Ambassador Toys in Palo Alto,  Adventure Toys in Los Altos and Cheeky Monkey in Menlo Park. The owners champion the power of playtime as much as they do one another, referring customers to each other’s stores or collaborating over large toy orders to split the cost. Together, they forge ahead, embracing the pros and woes of running a toy retail in the age of delivery.

“So many people come in to use our store like Amazon shopping. They take photographs and say, ‘I can find it cheaper online,’” says Linda Kapnick of Ambassador Toys. “I don’t think customers understand the level of work it takes to put that toy on the shelf. With all the research and curation, toy stores are a little bit like a museum.”

Talbot’s Toyland

When Santa Claus arrives at Talbot’s Toyland on Black Friday each year, he does so in style, appearing on the back of a San Mateo Fire Department truck. Hundreds of folks show up to greet him, in a tradition that still packs an emotional punch for the toy store’s general manager.

“I call it a ‘very magical Santa arrival,’” Keith Schumacher says. “I get choked up; I’m 43 years old and it’s really him! We get people every year who complain about the line for Black Friday because the kids actually get some face time with Santa. He asks about how they get along with siblings. It’s not [in a reference to The Christmas Story movie] ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!’ and then get the boot on top of the head.”

The 30,000-square-foot toy hub in downtown San Mateo approaches Christmas with fastidious care. Need help hiding gifts from the kids? The store offers up the top of its warehouse as a hideout until Christmas Eve.

And beginning last year, Talbot’s introduced a giving tree inside the store where philanthropic patrons can purchase an ornament representing a different toy to provide homeless families with gifts through the Menlo Park organization LifeMoves.

“Giving back, that’s what people don’t realize with the Internet shopping,” Keith explains. “The little independent toy store sponsors Little League teams and gives back to schools. You just don’t get that from Amazon.”

Keith has watched Christmases come and go, along with their fads. He said the last hot item was the Kendama, a Japanese spin on the old ball and cup toy, which sold thousands in one holiday season. Popular toys won’t pop until as late as November, which keeps Talbot’s on its toes, tracking trends like a stockbroker on IPO day.

“When Tickle Me Elmo came out, we were in New York at a trade show and didn’t think it would do much. The guy at Tyco said it was the hottest of the season but we heard that 90 times already,” Keith remembers. “We probably ordered 40 and were going to get rid of them until we decided to wait until Christmas. The minute Rosie O’Donnell squeezed the toy and Elmo said, ‘I love you!’, it became the hottest new thing.”

Ambassador Toys

When Linda Kapnick began envisioning Ambassador Toys 22 years ago, opening first in San Francisco before landing at Town and Country Village in Palo Alto, she designed her store with both the child and parent in mind. She said the Bay Area circa 1997 was lacking independent toy stores, leading her to consider what was missing.

“Toys “R” Us was a difficult place to go into as a young mother—it was a cavernous warehouse. I thought there are so many beautiful places for adults but nothing for children,” she says. “Looking to the future, we wanted to bring ideas to children of the global community and create an environment for education—plus fun.”

Learning with playtime became integral building blocks for Ambassador Toys, which specializes in items that stimulate the scientific, technological, engineering and mathematical minds. “Long before the whole STEM movement, I had what we called the Space Room, which was all about science,” Linda says. “It’s where we put the glow-in-the-dark stars, science kits and all things NASA.”

The San Francisco location is larger than Palo Alto’s, which allows Linda to globetrot without moving, dividing the West Portal store into continents featuring toys from far-away places. Working with a smaller size at Town and Country allowed her to focus on providing more books and board games, an activity she’s seen remain stable amidst eye-grabbing video games.

Ambassador Toys outlasted the 2008 financial crisis and is rolling with punches from Amazon and e-commerce. But adapting a timeless practice like playtime into the new millennium didn’t come without challenges. It’s why Linda has only admiration for her independent cohorts.

“I have respect for anyone who gets into this. Back in 1997, I considered Talbot’s to be the Wizard of Oz—it had such a reputation! I didn’t want to go there because I was going to get scared,” she says, laughing. “I don’t want to pull back the curtain, but it’s a wonderful place with wonderful people.”

Adventure Toys

The holidays don’t officially kick off in downtown Los Altos until Adventure Toys reveals their annual window display. Taking cues from the Macy’s windows in New York, store owner Leslie Chiaverini spends the last weekend in November decking the walls with lights and seasonal flair. This dedication repurposes Adventure Toys as a town square or gathering place for families.

“We’re part of the community in many ways,” Leslie says. “Not only are the tax dollars supporting schools, but we also provide a social environment. Parents see their neighbors in here and you’ll oftentimes hear, ‘Hi, how are you?’ five or six times in a day.”

Adventure Toys began as a mother-daughter venture in 1986 before Leslie purchased the store alongside her own mother in 1999. She’s since assumed full ownership and developed the store with a focus on educational toys and games.

“I do my own buying and that becomes the differentiation from other stores,” she says. “We may have many of the same products but we actually do have different clientele. The store becomes more curated because we’re buying what we like and what we think our customers would want.”

This equates to educational fun such as Legos, Ravensburger puzzles and Playmobil sets. Leslie likes to offer games because they teach kids how to win or lose, and how to be a good sport. The store promotes science kits that teach children to learn by doing. She recently noticed how manufacturers will slap a STEM sticker on just about any product with hopes of convincing parents it’s educational. She’s carved out a more refined educational niche in the local toy shop scene and the other stores are her compadres, Leslie says, not competitors.

“I’m personally friends with Anna and Dexter at Cheeky Monkey. We go out to dinner together when we’re at toy shows and we’ll share orders to get free freight to keep costs down,” she says. “It’s nice during the holidays to call them; I once called Talbot’s for wrapping paper! I think it’s important to support each other. There’s a community within our own group of stores.”

Cheeky Monkey

Anna Chow, who owns Cheeky Monkey Toys alongside her husband, Dexter, has developed a simple technique for understanding the world at large.

“My basic philosophy is that you can tell the state of the world through the sales of Whoopee cushions and finger paints,” she reveals. “When things get stressful, Whoopee cushion sales fall off because we lose a sense of humor. Now, finger paint is popular because it’s a little messy.”

The Chows have a front-row seat for observing a world in flux through their downtown Menlo Park toy shop. They’ll notice how hot toy trends begin on the East Coast before reaching the West (middle America is last in line) and they’ve recently bolstered their inventory for small items fit for a care package. The tween-age market is currently devouring things like the plush toy Squishmallows or the kind of pom-poms you hang on a bag.

The Chows watched as the toy store juggernaut Toys “R” Us ceased operations last year and then disrupted the toy ecosystem. “Toys “R” Us infused a lot of money into the toy industry and would purchase a lot of toys from a lot of manufacturers,” Anna says. “Now they don’t have that channel. A couple of smaller manufacturers went under because Toys “R” Us owed them money and they had no capital.”

Cheeky Monkey began in 2000 in a smaller unit down Santa Cruz Avenue and the Chows took over in 2002. They have since quadrupled their store’s size after moving to their current location in 2007 where they designed the space to have easily-accessible sections. “With a store this big, we don’t want it to feel too cavernous,” Anna says.

They’ve created a playful ambiance that might borrow inspiration from toy store giants of the past, while remaining a store uniquely their own.

“FAO Schwarz created the experience and that’s what we hope to do here,” Anna says. “We’re more West Coast and have fun as opposed to white gloves holding the front door open. We’ll get down on the floor and play.”

Katharina Pierini enjoys her modest, private lifestyle. Her quaint one-room cabin in Davenport is situated deep in the hills south of Half Moon Bay. She works full-time as a groundskeeper for UC Santa Cruz while also finishing up a degree in linguistics.

Nothing about her background suggests she is one of the most prominent trail camera photographers in Northern California.

“I’m just an example of what a regular person who’s passionate and interested can do,” she says.

Katharina has documented wildlife in her area using trail cameras for over four years. At first, the photos and videos were just for her enjoyment, but after creating an Instagram account to share her captures with coworkers, Katharina’s notoriety soon ballooned. Her trail camera documentation of wildlife along the Big Basin ridge offers a peek into a rarely-observed ecosystem.

Trail cameras—also known as game cameras—are typically employed by biologists or hunters attempting to monitor the activity of animals in an area. Katharina’s work shows that these cameras are capable of more than just observational footage. The composition of her best photographs and videos are equivalent to point-and-shoot wildlife documentation, where the photographer can actively control the elements of the shot.

By no means is Katharina’s work a product of luck—she spent years perfecting the art of the trail camera shot. Rather than spreading out her cameras over her property to maximize the quantity of shots, she scouts out the best locations to place cameras by identifying subtle, animal-made paths using Google Earth. Katharina then sets up multiple cameras in a spot where animal paths intersect the unregulated, human-made trails connected to her property.

Her placement of each individual camera is meticulous.

“I crawl on the ground,” Katharina explains. “Walking towards a camera to see when it triggers and make sure there is enough room to walk towards it before it starts recording. I’m not just shooting for the animals, I’m looking at the background, too.”

Even with such extensive preparation, Katharina says that editing is still a huge part of the process.

“For each good centered shot there are hundreds and hundreds—probably thousands—of partial shots,” she says.

Besides the patience required to manage all the cameras, she must maintain all the trails that connect to her cabin. To keep these steep and rugged trails accessible, Katharina drives her dirt bike up and down the trails and hacks away at underbrush with a weed-whacker or a small chainsaw.

Katharina is approaching 12,000 followers on Instagram and she delivers weekly presentations at the Costanoa Lodge in Pescadero. She is routinely asked for advice on trail camera photography by park rangers, university biologists and the general public. For Katharina, this kind of attention is foreign to her typical way of life.

For her first public presentation of her work, Katharina says she was so nervous to speak that she created a video compilation to cover the entire length of her speaking commitment. She has since overcome her stage fright, but Katharina says she still has reservations about her relationship with the public—especially when it comes to interacting with her online followers.

“I’m walking this really odd line, where I poke my head out a little bit and I’m like, ‘Here I am. I’m doing something cool,’ and then I almost immediately recede,” she says.

Her followers are all over the political and social spectrums. Katharina recalled how shocked she was at the backlash she took from some of her conservation-oriented followers after she replied with a simple “Thanks” to a compliment from a hunter on one of her posts.

“I want to remain in touch with everyone,” she says. “I feel like it’s much more conducive to everything if you don’t shun people you disagree with.”

Katharina says that while she is not in favor of outright extermination of mountain lions, she is keenly aware of the danger they pose. Several times she has checked camera footage only to discover that a mountain lion passed by the same spot minutes before her. But Katharina does not let her trepidations about these predators get in the way of enjoying this hobby and the natural world.

“A lot of people feel like they don’t belong out in nature because they have a little fear,” Katharina says.

“I have not seen an animal yet that isn’t a little bit fearful. So your belonging in nature has nothing to do, as far as I am concerned, with some fear. You’re an animal, of course at night you don’t want to be out there alone—why would you? Now, if you can reach this ‘zen’ place where you’re ok with life and death and everything else and you’re not afraid, then good for you.”

Born in Switzerland, Katharina moved to Italy with her family when she was nine. In 1985, she spent five weeks at UCSC as a part of an English language immersion program where she was awestruck by the prevalence of wild animals in the area such as seals, whales, foxes, coyotes and bobcats.

She acknowledges that while Europe is beautiful in its own right, the continent lacks the raw, unhindered, wild ecosystems of America. So when she turned 19, she bought a one-way ticket to California and has called the Santa Cruz coastline home for almost 30 years. “I lived for the idea of heading West,” she says. “And now I feel like I’ve done it.”

The footage Katharina collects demonstrates a relatability found between our world and in nature. She enjoys watching the circle of life unfold on her cameras in little moments: playful skirmishes between young animals, predators stalking prey, power struggles between birds at the watering hole. She says the footage demonstrates that these animals have stories—good and bad—just as every person has their own story.

“It’s a little window into the world,” Katharina says. “And to follow it, is to make peace with it.”

My name is Norman. I’m a Basset Hound and I live in Redwood City with Michele, Jay and David and my fellow Bassets, Bonnie and Charlie. I’m probably 13 or 14 years old, although that’s a guess. When I was quite young, some kind police officers found me wandering in a field and connected me with Golden Gate Basset Rescue. Michele was looking for a young companion for her elderly dogs, Bobby and Harry, and chose me to add some spring to their step. The minute Michele brought me home, I snuggled up with her son David on the couch and I’ve been the happiest of hounds ever since.

Today, I’m thrilled to have Bonnie and Charlie in the family too. They are very lively, but I think I can teach them a lot. For example, I’m an expert counter-surfer. I have amazing reach for a dog with such short legs. I’ve been known to spread a single box of cake mix to places that you can’t even imagine. Sadly, Michele and Jay have started pushing everything edible to the very back of the counter so that I can’t snag an unplanned snack.

I am also a master of the ‘Basset 500.’ This is a very special Basset Hound tradition: a few moments of crazy time every day when we zoom around the house and garden as fast as our little legs will carry us. Today I’m a bit older and slower, but I’ve trained Bonnie and Charlie well and they’re clocking record times.

I’m howl-at-the-moon grateful to Golden Gate Basset Rescue for sheltering me and placing me with my wonderful family. They are always looking for foster help and forever homes for hounds, so visit ggbassetrescue.org to learn more.   

When my children were young—Josh, our oldest was ten, the girls Arielle and Talia were eight and five, and our baby, Coby, was three—we moved into the brand-new Menlo Park home that we had conceived and built. We meticulously planned the home and watching it slowly come alive was great fun.

When the house was finally complete, it was an exciting endeavor to move in. The kids went from being crammed into two small rooms to having some space of their own. When we were working on the plans, the boys wanted to stay together so they got a large room and their own bathroom. The girls each wanted their own room, so that’s what we did, along with a girls’ bathroom.

The great thing about a new home is that you’re the first owner. You receive a pristine environment without someone else’s issues, damages and mistakes.

I was proud of that new, freshly finished home and yet moving into it with our four young children presented conflict for me. I’m compulsively neat, a horrible trait that I can’t shake. I make my family—and sometimes myself—crazy at times. When something is lost, I’m inevitably blamed since I have a tendency to throw things away when they seem inconsequential.

And so I was constantly worrying about potential damage—small and large—to our new home and yard. This need for perfection is like an itch that can’t be fully scratched. I don’t think I’m diagnosable—though my family might disagree—I just think I like things organized and neat. What’s wrong with that?

A year or so after we had moved in and had recently finished putting in a brick patio, the boys and I were in the backyard swinging golf clubs and chipping balls. While I was showing one of them how to chip—and I truly can’t remember which one was doing what—the other went to the one stair leading down to our grass yard and took aim at it. A small chunk of the brick came flying off and almost hit us. Several years later, a similar incident happened, and so there were two chip marks that annoyed me every time I looked down at them.   

As the boys got older, I had the keen idea of getting a BB gun for them. I know what you are thinking, and you’re right. I told them they could only use it when I was around and then only at carefully placed targets. Despite this instruction, I was cleaning the back windows one day, and there it was: a neat, round hole—unmistakably from a BB—in the corner of one of our French pane windows. Apparently, something ricocheted off a plastic water bottle. Every time I was in our family room, my eyes would automatically be drawn to that small hole in the glass and it would bother the heck out of me.

Our stairs and many of our floors are wood. They were perfect when we moved in, but I’d watch in horror as one child after another would drop something sharp or heavy on them or drag something to or from their rooms and create scuffs and dents and long, deep grooves in the wood. It pained me each time I saw a new bit of destruction.

Over the years, with growing despair, I would find newly damaged parts to our home: gouges in the paint, broken knobs, holes in the walls, missing pool tiles, stuck doors and much more. I did my best to fix and patch things in an attempt to keep things in their original condition.

But I finally came to the realization that I’d lost control. Four kids, a few dogs, just about every other pet you can imagine, and an endless stream of friends made that impossible. The virgin state of our new home slowly morphed into a rather used home. Like a rich patina on a once bright brass cup, time and use gave our home a more weathered identity.

My kids are grown and now have their own homes to worry about. But their marks on our home are still with us. And now I feel differently about all that destruction. The broken bricks, the damaged stairs and that perfect little hole in the glass have become old friends to me, reminders of the joyous times when I had a rambunctious group of children enjoying the home that we built for them. I look at those marks and happily recall those children, wistfully wishing that the time had not gone so quickly, sorry that I can’t crawl some of it back.

We’re talking about renovating the home now. As much as I would enjoy the beauty and newness of a redo, I secretly hope we can keep the BB hole and the chips in the bricks. That would be just fine with me.

Driving north on I-280 between Alpine Road and Farm Hill Boulevard, getting off the Bayshore Freeway in Redwood Shores or cruising through the Jefferson Avenue and Alameda de las Pulgas intersection in Redwood City—these spots all share a view of the 94-foot Emerald Hills Easter Cross. Back in the ’20s, Redwood City was developed as a San Francisco getaway, and in 1929, an outdoor amphitheater called the “Easter Bowl” and accompanying cross were built at the summit of California Way. The original cross was 82 feet tall but after being struck by vandalism, it was eventually rebuilt to its current, more impressive height. Although you might expect the cross to be surrounded by fields of flowers and wildlife, quite the opposite is true. Barbed wire fencing, water tanks and trespassing warnings blanket the area—not to mention that the cross is nearly tucked into someone’s backyard. However, the vantage point just below the cross is public, and if you walk down the hill, there’s a secret tire swing under a canopy of oak trees. California Way is the perfect spot to capture a sunrise photo or a clear shot with the stars at night.

Words by Sheri Baer

Hours before any self-respecting rooster would think to crow on a Saturday morning, the alarm goes off at Full Belly Farm in Guinda, California. Farm co-owner Dru Rivers has the routine nailed down: up at 2:45AM and on the road by 3AM in a 16-foot box truck loaded with six- to eight-thousand pounds of produce. Factoring in a CSA farm box delivery along the way, it’s a 2.5-hour drive from Yolo County’s Capay Valley to downtown Palo Alto.

Arriving on Gilman Street between Hamilton Avenue and Forest Avenue by 6AM, the Full Belly crew launches into action, popping up canopies and wooden tables, along with tackling the really big job of unloading. “It’s quite a workout,” Dru remarks, as she stacks up a colorful mix of winter squash in red-draped display boxes. “With five other people, it takes us two hours to set up and make it look really pretty.”

Over those same two hours, about 50 other vendors follow their own familiar drills to set up shop—from prepared (Indian to Oaxacan to Jewish deli) foods in an adjacent Gilman Street parking lot stretching across Gilman through fresh baked goods, meat cuts and locally-caught fish to a second lot packed with diverse stalls touting lavender oils, organic jams and teas and every type of produce imaginable.

Volunteers in green aprons walk past “No Thru Traffic” and “Road Closed” signs to set up  eye-catching street banners. Edging towards 8AM, customers toting recyclable bags begin to converge, patiently waiting, mentally ticking off shopping lists in their heads. “Ding, Ding, Ding!” At 8AM, with the sounding of the opening bell, the Downtown Palo Alto Farmers Market springs to life—in a tradition dating back nearly 40 years.

Back in the early ’80s, Palo Alto faced a shocking new reality. Liddicoat’s, the last local grocery selling fresh produce, had moved out, effectively rendering downtown Palo Alto a food desert. A group of local citizens, many of them affiliated with the Avenidas Senior Center, convened to find a solution. “‘Well, we can’t have this,’ they said,” is how Eva Heninwolf recounts the story. “‘We have to do something about this!’”

What they did was create the Downtown Palo Alto Farmers Market. Supported by an all-volunteer board, using outdoor space donated by the local branch of Wells Fargo Bank, 11 farmers showed up on June 27, 1981. Overwhelmed by the huge turnout of customers clamoring for leafy greens and fresh fruit, the farmers sold out quickly. “Back then, there were only maybe three farmers markets on the entire Peninsula,” Eva says. “We drew from Los Gatos all the way up to San Francisco.”

The need was clear—and over the years, the Downtown Palo Alto Farmers Market grew and evolved. In 1982, the market made its first annual charitable donation to Avenidas, followed by a move to its current location on Gilman Street in 1983 and incorporation as a social welfare organization in 1986. Still run by an all-volunteer board today, the market remains true to its mission, with cumulative donations to Avenidas now totaling over $600,000.

“The fact that we’re volunteer, the fact that we donate all of our proceeds right back to the community, that makes us very different from a lot of the other farmers markets around,” Eva says, speaking from the perspective of a market volunteer since 2000. This year, the former software engineering manager and three-time past president is wearing the VP hat. Bob McDiarmid, a marketing web engineer, is taking a turn in the top spot. “I was a longtime customer and I saw on their website that they were looking for marketing help, so I signed up, and here I am,” Bob says. “It’s a very passionate group of people. We’re here because we care about food and we care about the community.”

The board usually ranges from 12 to 16 volunteers, all committing to a minimum of eight hours a month (“It can be a lot more than that,” Eva notes.) with tasks ranging from market shifts and publicity to financials, crafting market policy and community outreach. Retired insurance claims adjustor Lee Carlson traces his involvement back to 1992. “I grew up on a farm, so I relate to the farmers,” he says. “It’s kind of strange to be a farm guy in Palo Alto. There aren’t too many.”

Along with market manager Yvonne Portra, the board aspires to keep Downtown Palo Alto flourishing, especially as competition from other markets heats up. To that end, in 2020, the market will record another major milestone. Traditionally running May to December, Downtown Palo Alto will start serving the community year-round. “We’re hardly the only game in town,” Bob says. “We’re trying to widen our audience and going year-round is a big part of that because consistency is the key.”

When asked how vendors are selected, Bob explains, “Curation is the word we like to use. Big markets can afford to have four people selling all kinds of apples, right? We try to pick vendors who are going to bring a unique product, so if they have apples, we say, ‘What apples do you have that our other vendors don’t provide?’ We really try to curate a sense that this is the only place you’re going to get this quality product.”

“We have people who make special trips down from San Francisco for mulberries,” Eva chimes in. “They say, ‘Where are the mulberries? We’ve heard about the mulberries.’” Bob nods in agreement, adding, “We even have a rockstar vegan pastry vendor with vegan pastries that will knock your socks off. I don’t know how she does it.”

“Once we have a vendor come in, we want that vendor to be successful,” Lee summarizes. “We’ve had vendors who have been here since day one.”

With walnut and apricot orchards located an hour away in Hollister, Gibson Farms is one of those vendors. “Our parents first came when the market opened in 1981,” says Gilbert Gibson, who maintains the unbroken tradition with his sister, Ginger Lobeck. “When their health declined, Ginger and I were asked to step in, and since we both had other jobs, Saturdays were doable for us.”

Listening with half an ear, Ginger hands back change, completing the sale of a half-pound slab of dried apricots. “These have become my go-to gifts,” her customer pipes in, as she runs off  to drop her daughter at cross-country practice. Ginger waves a quick goodbye. “A lot of these customers knew my parents and have been coming to us for years,” she says. “Relationships get built over time and that’s part of the reason we still come here.”

With a blazing selection of freshly-cut dahlias, hydrangeas and sunflowers set up in Gilman Street, Contreras Nursery & Flowers is another original vendor dating back to 1981. “We’ve been at this market since we opened,” Jesus Contreras says, referring to his family-run business based in Moss Beach. “I know most of the customers. They give me a hug and ask how I’m doing.” Nearby, his daughter Mayra is bundling up bouquets with some advice. “For the dahlias, put a teaspoon of sugar in the water,” she counsels. “For the hydrageanas, now we have a new trick. Cut the stem at an angle and add hot water in the vase.”

Mayra glances over at her niece and daughter who have tagged along for the day, triggering memories of her own. “I have a full-time job during the week, so I help my dad out on the weekends. I’m so used to coming to this market,” she says. “I remember coming with my parents and knowing everyone. I’m 42 years old and people are always saying, ‘I remember when you were this little.’”

A few stalls away, Karin Johnson, the proprietor of Karin Johnson Specialty Cakes & Pastries, is packaging up a selection of freshly-baked cookies: two Pecan Macaroons, three Brown Sugar Shortbreads and three Cowboy Cookies—a yummy oatmeal chocolate chip concoction with dried cherries. Working out of her Castro Valley bakery, assisted by a small staff that includes her mother, Sherry Johnson, Karin juggles the demands of three farmers markets every weekend. “Friday is our big day to start baking—we’ll put in 10 to 12 hours. We have an overnight baker and then I’m in by 4AM to finish the baking,” she says. “We leave the bakery at 7AM, zip over to the market, unload, sell for four hours and then go back and get ready for Sunday.” Karin started coming to Downtown Palo Alto in 2009. “I really like the Saturday market because of the size. To be able to hang out with all these amazing people every week makes all the hard work worth it,” she reflects, as she gently bags up an apple galette and orange zest scone.

While polling foot traffic isn’t precise, Eva estimates that the 8AM to Noon Saturday market draws 800 to 1,200 customers on any given weekend. Carolyn Helmke counts herself as one of the regulars—she’s been shopping here since 2002. “You see so many friendly people, there’s music. It’s just a really nice scene,” she notes. What’s filling up Carolyn’s reusable market bag? “Apples, arugula, tomatoes, flowers, bread,” she reveals. “I love the new bread vendor. Oh, and I get fresh eggs from Full Belly.” When it comes to buying fresh, quality food, Carolyn acknowledges that she is not particularly price-sensitive. “If it didn’t taste good, I wouldn’t be shopping here. And I like to support the farmers. I like that there’s no middle person.”

That lack of a middle person was clearly evident on a recent weekend when board members hosted their annual luncheon for the vendors—laying out a smorgasbord of favorite home-cooked dishes and breaking bread shoulder to shoulder after the market day wrapped up. “It’s beyond the normal relationship that many farmers market boards have with their vendors,” Bob observes. “These people are our friends as well as our clients. The relationships we build are just irreplaceable.”

Nearly 40 years after the market’s opening, the food desert of Palo Alto is now an oasis—with Whole Foods just blocks away and more than two-dozen seasonal and year-round farmers markets regularly setting up stalls in San Mateo County alone. The all-volunteer board knows the shift to a year-round schedule is the right move, even as it effectively doubles the board’s commitment. “We’re all doing it because we love the market,” Eva emphasizes, as she contemplates the ramp-up ahead. “Our mission is to directly connect our farmers and our food artisans with the community.”

By noon, the market buzz turns to packing up and closing down, with vendors setting aside unsold produce for donation to St. Anthony’s Padua Dining Room. Over at Full Belly Farm’s stall, Dru is reversing the early-morning drill, knowing it’ll be 6PM before the farm’s 16-foot box truck pulls up in Guinda. “It’s a long day,” she admits, reflecting back on years and years of Saturdays. “We used to bring our five-month-old baby to the market, and now he’s 35. I still come every week, and I just feel like it’s become a second home. We see kids of our original customers buying from us, so it’s fun to see that progression to the next generation.”

Ibet you couldn’t guess what kind of dog I am! Well, to be fair, I am a melting pot of breeds, and I’m still sorting it all out myself. My name is Maverick. I recently celebrated my first birthday, and I live in Menlo Park. Apparently, I came from a litter of 11 in the East Bay. That’s a whole lot of puppies, so we ended up getting rescued by a local organization called Pound Puppy Rescue—which helped me find my family, Jessica and Sean. Given my adorable (and distinctive) looks, Jessica and Sean were curious to learn more. Here’s what they found out about my unusual brindle-furred appearance: I’m part Great Pyrenees, part Labrador Retriever and part Australian Shepherd. My family says that my three breeds come out individually in my funny personality. From my Pyrenees background, I’m very thoughtful and engaged and love to sit back and observe. Like a true Australian Shepherd, I’m a herder by nature, although my clumsiness tends to get in the way. Lately, I’ve been getting more in touch with my Lab side. I’ve discovered this amazing substance for both playing and drinking—it’s called… water. I still have a lot to learn about myself, and Jessica and Sean are having fun watching all my different qualities emerge. I’m a good boy and with just a little love and a water hose, I’m a happy pup too. Learn more about future adoption events at poundpuppyrescue.org   

At two years old, Menlo-Atherton grad Scott Huffaker was a notoriously bad sleeper. In fact, the only way his parents Kirsten and Greg could convince him to close his eyes was to strap him into his car seat and cruise the steep streets of San Francisco. “We would drive up and down the hills and across the Golden Gate Bridge and back,” Kirsten recalls. “Every time Scott would start to nod off, we’d get to a stop sign. Scott would jolt awake and say, ‘Again! Again!’ and Greg would step on the gas.” Clearly built for speed, Scott never wavered from the course he set as a toddler.

At five years old, Scott began racing BMX bikes. At seven, he won the BMX Grand Nationals. At nine, Scott transitioned into Go Kart Racing. At 14, he got his National Auto Sport Association license. At 15, he received his Sports Car Club of America (SCCA) full competition license, and at 18, he started racing in professional SCCA events. Today, Scott Huffaker is 19 years old and racing in the International Motor Sports Association challenge prototype LMP3. “I love cars. The entire time I was racing BMX I just wanted to race Go Karts so that I could eventually race cars,” Scott says. “I’ve just always wanted it.”

Backtracking to when Scott was five, he convinced his parents to visit a BMX track near their home to watch some competitions. As a frequent spectator, Scott caught the attention of a track employee who encouraged him to enter the race. “Greg and I said no, while Scott pleaded yes,” Kirsten remembers. “In that first race with little to no practice, Scott took second place. Three months later he took third in the BMX Grand Nationals.”

After a series of unexpected wins on the bike, Scott began transitioning into Go Karts. Determined to come out of the gate strong, he spent the entire winter between ages nine and ten in practice mode. He recalls his motivation at the time: “I’m not racing Go Karts until we’ve got this nailed down.” The following two years, he raced every single weekend adding up to an epic 104 races from 2010 through 2011. “During that timeframe, he won two championships, Rookie Driver of the Year [2010] and Junior Driver of the Year [2011]. He won almost every single race he was in,” Kirsten says. In 2011, Scott also won two Go Karting championships. Just three years later at 13 years old, Scott was ready for the big leagues—racing cars.

The schedule of a teenage race car driver differs from that of a typical student athlete. “The main difference is that in most sports you play after school, five days a week and on a team of your classmates or close friends. In racing, you don’t go every day but when you do go, you could be gone for a week at a time,” Scott explains. Balancing racing with homework has always been a tough juggling act for Scott—not to mention creating some semblance of adolescent normalcy, such as playing the occasional Xbox game with friends.

Scott also grapples with the misperceptions of racing as a sport in the U.S.—either limited to a Talladega Nights perspective or the fleeting impression of cars racing in circles while flipping through TV channels. “Racing is associated with NASCAR and oval-shaped tracks,” Scott says. “That’s only half the truth.” According to Scott, the reality is much more complex, with drivers needing to be completely in tune with their cars as well as every twist and turn they encounter.

To that end, Scott is now the youngest Porsche instructor at the Porsche Club of America, sharing his expertise to help other drivers learn all the intricacies of these high- performance vehicles. If that doesn’t keep him busy enough, Scott is also a sophomore at CU Boulder studying mechanical engineering, a degree that maps to his vision of always staying involved with racing. “I want to be an engineer on a race team—the one making decisions for and changes to the car,” he says. “It’s also helpful as a driver to understand the mechanics of your car so you can drive faster and more effectively.”

Although driving appears to be a solitary endeavor, Scott emphasizes the importance of what goes on behind the scenes. “Racing is definitely a team sport; it’s like we’re all in the same car. Split-second changes like lowering the front of the car to get more grip—that’s an example of something a team engineer would do to make the car faster,” Scott notes. “It’s all about background communication—radio chatter about lap times, management and coaching—I’m honestly just driving the car. You can’t win a race without a good team, no matter how talented you are.”

Scott tells a story from a recent race in Canada where his team inspired him to make a seemingly impossible pass. “It was a three-hour race and I didn’t race the first hour so I was already starting in 12^th place. With only three minutes left to go I made a pass to second place,” Scott recounts. “I had been trying to pass this guy for about 20 minutes and he wasn’t too happy when I did, especially since he’s 27 and I’m only 19. But the entire team had a hard weekend and we all needed a strong finish. It was really emotional and dramatic.”

With obvious pride in his son, Greg puts Scott’s skillful maneuver into perspective. “They call it the pass of the season,” he says.

What’s it like to raise a natural-born race car driver? Strong nerves, obviously, but Kirsten gives Scott the nod when it comes to instilling confidence. “One of the things about Scott is that he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t take unnecessary risks,” she says. “He’s patient on the track. He doesn’t put anyone else in danger. I totally trust his driving and what he’s doing.”

In addition to being Scott’s mom and staunch supporter, Kirsten also works at Kepler’s Books in Menlo Park. As a family with local roots, the Huffakers have always appreciated the support of Kepler’s and the broader Peninsula community. In acknowledgement, Scott made Kepler’s one of the ads on his Porsche last year. “I love it here,” Scott says. “I love it here—but I don’t like the traffic,” he amends.

When asked to compare racing on the track with driving on Peninsula streets, Scott replies, “It’s two completely different things. It’s like being an Olympic swimmer versus going to a pool party.” So don’t worry, Scott has no intention of burning rubber on El Camino Real or Alameda de Las Pulgas. “Daily driving is more about following the rules. It’s not as fun. I actually hate driving—it’s boring,” he jokes.

Most people weren’t born to follow a specific trajectory, but Scott Huffaker appears to be an authentic exception. “The ‘line’ is a term in racing that symbolizes the route you take on the track. It’s an imaginary line, but it is a metaphor for the path your car has to follow,” Scott says. With a career in racing charted out clearly, Scott remains true to his own line, forever in sync with the track and the hum of his car.

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Perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean just north of Half Moon Bay, Moss Beach Distillery is an award-winning restaurant known for its spectacular views, California cuisine, dog-friendliness and haunted history.

Built by Frank Torres in 1927, Moss Beach Distillery became one of the most successful speakeasies of the Prohibition era. The secluded location and coastal fogs created the perfect cover for smuggling in illegal liquor from Canada. San Francisco luminaries and politicians visited in droves, which likely protected the notorious spot (it was even the setting of one of Dashiell Hammett’s dark detective stories) from ever being raided. The restaurant retained its popularity after Prohibition ended in 1933.

Some 70 years ago, the restaurant bore witness to a romantic tragedy that gave rise to the well-documented story of the Blue Lady ghost.  This apparition is said to be the restless spirit of a woman named Mary Ellen who fell in love with a piano player, John Contina, regularly meeting him at a hotel next door to the restaurant. She always wore blue. The affair ended when Mary Ellen was killed, although whether by suicide, accident or murder is uncertain.

Ever since, Mary Ellen’s spirit has been said to inhabit Moss Beach Distillery. Some of the paranormal activity attributed to her ghost includes objects moving on their own, whispered voices, unexplained taps on the shoulder and fleeting apparitions of the Blue Lady herself. Today, while a spectral sighting is not guaranteed, the spine-tingling tales add extra zest to the American eats and drinks and spectacular views at this popular coastal haunt. mossbeachdistillery.com

At 4AM, the iPhone alarm goes off. About half the time, Helen Wilmot is already awake, mentally outlining the day ahead in her mind. Settling in at her computer downstairs, she immerses herself in email (while spooning down a bowl of Weetabix), succinctly responding to questions and sending out action-oriented summaries to her team. At 5:50AM, Helen dashes out the door for an early-morning bootcamp session, returning by 7:15AM. After jumping in the shower, she tackles the flurry of new emails that have come in (while gobbling a poached egg and buttered toast)—and then hops on her bike for the six-minute commute from her Menlo Park home to the Stanford campus.

And that’s when Helen really kicks into gear. “I’m usually in the office by about 8AM, and then I am literally in meetings all day long,” she says. “For the entire day, I will be double-booked most of the time; I’ve become an expert at multitasking.”

That’s a good thing because that’s what it takes to do Helen’s job—which is essentially breathing life into Stanford’s new $2.2 billion 824,000-square-foot hospital that’s scheduled to open later this fall. For the past eight years, working in parallel with VP of Construction Bert Hurlbut and General Contractor Clark McCarthy, Helen shouldered responsibility for the operations planning and opening of the new hospital—while still managing all the non-clinical services (ranging from food services to building engineering) for Stanford Health Care’s patients, staff, physicians and visitors.

“In terms of the scope, my job is unique, and it came to me because someone believed I could do it. I’m so fortunate for that,” she says. “I was not given a playbook about what to do—it was my job to create the playbook and that’s a rare opportunity in life.”

Always mindful of the scarcity of time, Helen is fully aware that move-in day is looming just ahead. While Stanford’s new hospital will be defined by cutting-edge technological advancements, she keeps an old-school countdown clock mounted on her office wall, ticking off the final days, hours, minutes and seconds to “Patient Day One.”

Although Helen now lives a scant mile from Stanford, reversing the clock reveals a journey that started a much greater distance away. Born in Dublin, Ireland, the middle sibling in a family of five kids, Helen describes her childhood as one in which “self-sufficiency was kind of expected.” The unexpected happened when Helen was 12. The Rehabilitation Center at Santa Clara Valley Medical Center recruited her father to serve as medical director, uprooting her family from Ireland and bringing them to Los Gatos. “In those days, there was a weak economy in Ireland and usually about half of your family had to leave Ireland to get a job,” she says. “My parents were very forward-thinking and realized that by having universities in the area, you’d likely always have an economy, and so they believed their children could be successful here.”

From her upbringing in 1970s Ireland, Helen recounts being familiar with three defined career paths for women: bank teller, teacher or nurse. She chose nursing, with a focus on cardiovascular ICU. “I really liked it because it’s very active and it takes a lot of fast processing,” she says. “But I wanted to have an ability to have a broader platform
of influence.”

Helen earned her MBA from UCLA’s Anderson School of Management and applied her healthcare experience to consulting. “I was in a career where I was on the road for seven years—every Monday through Friday, I was on an airplane,” she says. “When we started a family, I decided I needed to get off the plane, so I joined Kaiser Permanente as an executive.” Following Kaiser, Helen started and sold a healthcare software company—and then through an “arm’s length relationship,” she got a call about a project at Stanford. The year was 2004. “I was literally doing the work within 48 hours of me going in,” she says. “And then it just grew from there.”

After consulting on the approval process for the building of Stanford Health Care’s new Redwood City outpatient campus, Helen got the nod to expand her responsibilities: “I actually had almost the same role I have now. That was 380,000 square feet. It was the largest project Stanford had ever done in the history of Stanford—except for building the 1989 hospital—and it was significant and transformative for Stanford because it was the first big clinical presence away from the main campus.”

For seven years, Helen served as VP of ambulatory care, leading Stanford’s Redwood City initiative, as well as managing 35 outpatient clinics with a staff of 1,200 people. Then, in late 2011, opportunity knocked even harder. “I was asked to step away from that and take on the operations leadership of activating the new hospital,” Helen says. “It meant walking away from something I had built and I did not know the definition of exactly what I was going to do. What does it mean to operationally plan and activate a hospital that big? We’d never done it before.”

Designed by Rafael Viñoly Architects, the new hospital at 500 Pasteur Drive in Palo Alto was envisioned as a seven-story facility equipped to deliver high-tech, high-touch care with the latest biomedical advances. Internally dubbed “500P,” the project plan outlined ambitious numbers including 368 new private rooms, 3 acres of surgical floor space, 20 operating rooms, 8 interventional/radiology image-guided rooms—along with 5 gardens with walking trails.

“It’s not just a multi-story rectangle. It’s a healing environment and it’s also an iconic architectural building for Stanford University. It’s a highly complex building that’s been designed to welcome not only patients but an entire community into it,” Helen says. “The architect Rafael Viñoly has done a fine job of combining all those elements but he also created a significant challenge for us to build.”

In 2012, Helen dove in. As VP of Facilities Services & Planning, her job encompassed multiple aspects—starting with managing impact: “The new building is being built right next to our existing hospital and clinics—noise management, dust management, parking, parking flow—all of that comes back to me, even down to the detail of sealing the windows with special tape because it’s going to be six years of dust. There’s a whole series of things to do.”

Although the new hospital’s physical structure was well defined, Helen worked closely with her operations peers to realize the vision for the new hospital, collectively addressing the question, “How do we make the building come to life?” Achieving goals like “Patient-Centric Sensing” and “Connected Care” required evaluating and incorporating cutting-edge technology and processes. “That takes a lot of thinking,” Helen notes. “You have to really dig deep into your vision and your purpose and then translate that into a true patient experience. We have to make sure that when we move into that building, the product that we deliver and the service that we deliver is different from what we do now.”

Along with coordinating with the construction team and helping actualize the hospital’s vision, Helen is charged with making sure the building will operate. “Since I run facilities, I work with my operations partners to make sure that everything works—that the O.R., the patient care team, the imaging team, the lab and the pharmacy are getting everything they need,” she says. “The project plans are very detailed and sequential.”

As an example, Helen breaks down some of the questions addressed for the pharmacy: “Will the pharmacy be in the new building? How do you get back and forth between the new and the existing building? How many staff do you need? What types of devices do you need? How many pills do you order? What’s your inventory? How do you bring them in? Do they come in the side of the building? How many trucks can come into the dock? You get down to that level of detail.”

With the board of directors, community leaders and staff, Helen also has an outward-facing role—serving as ambassador for the hospital project. It’s a vital task, given that the project’s success is tied to tolerating eight straight years of construction. “I am the PowerPoint queen,” she says. “My job is to share with people, ‘This is what we’re building. This is how we’re going to do it. This is what you’re going to experience. And this is how we’re going to get it open.’ We help everyone understand that the output at the end will be amazing.”

Over the past eight years, Helen’s roles have cycled through a series of stages—starting with operations planning (“During this level, we pulled together 152 work flows.”), through the current phase of activation (“This is where you get down to the specific details including training the staff.”), which will be followed by the move and stabilization. Although a two-day community open house took place in mid-September, the actual move or “Patient Day One” is still several weeks out. “The pre-planning for the move is super extensive,” Helen shares. “The actual move of the patients will take about four hours. It’s very precise with one patient moving every four to six minutes.”

Stabilization, a three- to six-month settling period, comes next. “It’s almost like a building has a personality. You have to see how it works before you start making a lot of changes,” Helen explains. “So I will manage a group that will meet every day, if not twice a day, after we move in to sort through the thousands of things people want to change. You have to be able to filter how much of it is for patient care—how much of it is really critical—versus how much of it can wait.”

That’s just a summary of what gets Helen up at 4AM every morning—without even touching on what keeps her up at night. Helen acknowledges that with long-term projects, “survival isn’t necessarily an objective,” but when she took the job, her intent was to see it through to completion. Thankfully, the scope of the undertaking keeps her sufficiently fueled. “I have the good fortune to have exposure to the full breadth of the project, both the width of it and the depth of it, the strategic and the small details, and so as it goes through its evolutions, I’m able to find stimulation and motivation in different aspects of it,” she reflects. “I am highly motivated by solving problems. It’s almost like the more problems you give me, the more I want to do it, and this is literally just one big, huge puzzle to solve.”

As the culmination of the project draws closer, Helen turns to the puzzle analogy to process all the emotions she’s feeling—relief and pride, of course, but also impending separation. “This puzzle has been in my head for eight years, and now all of a sudden the puzzle is solved. It’s like finishing a giant jigsaw puzzle. You concentrate and work on it and once it is done, it’s no longer a puzzle—it’s a picture, with an entirely different purpose. This hospital now belongs to the community and I have to let go of it entirely.”

However, don’t expect Helen to start sleeping past 4AM. She already knows what’s next—and it’s literally next door. Stanford’s existing hospital at 300 Pasteur, known as “300P,” is gearing up for its own transformation. “I’m leading 300P,” Helen confides. “It’ll be a five-year project taking it almost down to the studs—and it will be operationally more complex because we are building a hospital in an active clinical environment…”

But that’s another story.