Kevin Courtney

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.”

Monday was my day of reckoning with the DMV.

Relations between the Courtneys and a neighbor hit a rough patch in August. As is so often the case, the crux of the dispute was music.

A smoke dome has hung over the Napa Valley for much of this summer.

Dig into old newspaper archives and there’s no telling what you will find.

I was probably one of Vallerga’s worst customers.

I’m a newspaper guy. I start my day early.

I won’t lie to you. I was feeling punchy after working two long days covering the unbelievably sad events at the Vets Home a week ago.

Normally I don’t have sleep issues. I’m not saying I sleep like a baby, but I do sleep.

I entered the Army as a second lieutenant in October 1968, the year that America’s involvement in the Vietnam War reached almost a half-million troops. I rejoiced when I was assigned to train on Nike Hercules missiles, even then an obsolete air defense system. There were no Nikes in Vietnam.…

Let’s talk cats.

Last week’s column on my response to being panhandled while eating lunch at a Register picnic table created something of a stir.

One of the best things about the Register’s newish Soscol location is our redwood grove. It’s small — just three trees and a picnic table bordered by sidewalk— but surprisingly lovely.

Cheryl and I were playing Santa Claus. We were giving away stuff so we can begin a badly needed makeover of our living room.

What a nightmare! The local radio station invited me to sit down with a talk show host and blather for a solid hour about myself and 2018’s likely big stories.

We are city residents. We live on a city lot, not in a forest, yet our tree issues are endless. The last few years they’ve kept Cheryl awake at night.

You would think that the Courtneys would have had their fill of home improvement projects after living above their garage for more than a year while the back of their house was rebuilt.

I had an exceptional Christmas. I managed not to go into my traditional holiday funk.

This was the most feline Christmas of my life. From start to finish, house cats stole the show.

What’s a proper Christmas meal?

The Register ran an online gallery of photos last month showing how downtown Napa looked in the years just before I got here in 1973.

Our evening at the Uptown started out well enough. There was no hint of the misstep that was to come.

Was I rushing? Of course I was rushing. Isn’t that when bad things always happen?

My view of people who obsess on keeping their cars looking immaculate is close to that of the characters in Sheryl Crow’s song, “All I Wanna Do.”