Kevin Courtney

Check out the latest installment of Napa Journal by Kevin Courtney.

“Historically” strong winds were forecast last weekend. Another big power shutdown was set for Saturday evening.

I cried when Bambi’s mother died. I haven’t cried for a deer since.

I ask not for your pity, but my car and I have been going through some hard times since last spring’s garage ouster.

I hate cold showers. Didn’t like them in the army, like them even less now.

Having once killed a rat with my bare hands, I thought I knew a thing or two about ridding a home of vermin.

Call me obtuse, but I thought I was healthy. I missed the warning signs.

Our breakfasts are better than ever these days. While eating Cheerios, we watch the Helena show on Instagram.

A neighbor wandered over last weekend and observed that I was still going full-bore on my porch project.

What would get me out of the office, bound for San Francisco, on a Wednesday morning?

Cheryl and I both work 40-hour-a-week jobs, then we come home and Cheryl does all the cooking.

How quiet is my street most weekends? So quiet that cats have been known to wander onto the warm asphalt for a little snooze and not get flattened.

Body parts can fail without warning. Working one moment, malfunctioning the next.

Not to get all paranormal, but when I visit Napa Valley Expo these days I see ghosts.

Anyone returning to Napa after being away for a decade or so would be stunned by the changes around Soscol Avenue.

When we scheduled our four-day July “vacation,” things were deliberately left loosey-goosey. We intended to wake up each morning and make plans on the spot.

Remember when the city made downtown’s one-way streets two-way and some people freaked?

Two years ago, I ventured north to Lake Shasta to meet Cheryl’s two best friends from her Southern California childhood.

A person had better suck it up before attempting the long-haul drive from Napa to Los Angeles with minimal pit stops.

Cheryl drifted off last Saturday into the la-la world of wine tasting while I hung back and did such mundane tasks as refill the barbecue’s propane tank and whack encroaching raspberry canes.

Morning routines at the Courtney household are carefully calibrated affairs. Merely switching cars for the day can create chaos.

I was excited to finally meet my 3-month-old granddaughter for the first time. Then again, the drive from Napa to Long Beach is a long haul to view a kid who’s all flopsy and can’t even begin to say your name.

The new Netflix series, “Tidying Up With Marie Kondo,” has the power of revelation.

One definition of bliss is snuggling up at home on a rainy day and indulging in books or movies or whatever it is we don’t normally have time for.

My brother Joe in Indiana visited Napa just once. The year was 1973. When he died in October, he had gone 45 years without making a return trip.

This has been an unexceptional year. The Courtney family’s daily routines of 2017 continued through 2018. No changes in jobs, homes or cars. No health drama. This column managed to appear on each of 52 consecutive Sundays.

There’s an upstairs to our house — two bedrooms, a rec room and a bath — that I won’t go anywhere near.

My annual moment of athletic glory, the Davis Turkey Trot, got postponed three weeks due to bad air from the Butte County megafires.

My former Napa Valley Register cohort Doug Ernst is facing a medical calamity. He was diagnosed last summer with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, better known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. By October, when he sent out emails notifying the world of his situation, he needed a power wheelchair. Now he…

I’ve never held Long Beach in high regard. It’s ranked near the bottom of places that I would want to visit on a SoCal vacation.

Much is written about guys who shirk their responsibilities at home.

Garages are notorious junk magnets. Unless you’re vigilant, they fill with everything but the vehicles for which they’re intended.

You would not have wanted to walk in my shoes in recent days. I was in an uphill fight to be serviced by our local pharmacies.

With a four-acre vineyard planted with Cabernet Sauvignon, I am the Lord of the Vine. From budding to harvesting, the vineyard’s growth cycle plays out under my watchful gaze.

The night before my scheduled flight to my brother’s funeral, I expected terrible insomnia, and that’s what I got. I lay awake, brain on fire, as the hours crawled by.

My life has been an emotional jumble.

My 69-year-old younger brother died last Sunday.

October is the harbinger month. It gives us Halloween, then propels us toward Thanksgiving and the glories of December.

We are not urban warriors. We do not ride mass transit. No one is more car-centric than we are.

I was dubious about the printed and word-of-mouth reviews of the Fred Rogers documentary “Won’t You Be My Neighbor.”