Residents of this tight-knit, agricultural-heritage community of around 60,000 have been grumbling about the monumental decline of a prominent 1920s era railroad trestle for the past two decades. Many have wondered aloud when the entire structure would completely collapse into the tidal slough.

But there has been a steady voice of historians, architects, environmentalists and business people pushing for action on salvage, reconstruction and/or redevelopment of the decrepid wooden structure into a public promenade, all of this time.

And since the chainfenced eyesore has appeared to reach a new level of low a new Petaluma grassroots community coalition has emerged to fight the blight and work together with the city to create something wonderful in its place.

I’ve been following the arduous and complex ordeal of the trestle for many years. The last time I wrote about it was in March of this year (see article below). This was a turning point with Mayor Kevin McDonnell and council discussions in a spring goal setting meeting.

Since then, a coalition has come together to start making something happen at last. There will be a series of meetings announced for the public to come forward with input ideas for how the promenade should look and work.

The “Petaluma Trestle Promenade Now” Steering Committee aims to provide the sustained civic leadership required for the community and city to collaboratively dream, define, and complete this long awaited project.

Volunteer members will serve as project advocates, stewards, resource gatherers, and community liaisons. Mayor Kevin McDonnell is co-chairing this initiative.

Over one hundred community members gathered on the downtown wharf for the inaugural public announcement one evening at the end of May.

The goal of the project is to provide a wide, riverfront promenade, connecting the city’s bustling downtown shopping and dining district with nature, with special events, outdoor dining, and access to river-area amenities and attractions.

According to the Trestle Promenade Now website, it will:

• Spur private investment that elevates our downtown riverfront district.

• Encourage people to walk, visit, shop and recreate downtown.

• Stimulate investment that delivers measurable economic returns.

• Bring in tourism dollars and other revenue streams that fund city services.

• Honor and preserve the authentic sense of place that connects Petaluma’s river history to its present.

• Remove blight and turn a deteriorating liability into an asset.

• Create an urban oasis with multiple benefits.

• Address climate and environmental issues related to the tidal slough.

• Foster understanding of Petaluma’s river and rail history.

Mayor Kevin McDonnell urged the community to come together to create a shared vision. “The public needs to keep pushing,” he said as the sound of jack hammering could be heard, shoring up part of the wharf’s walkway that has been fenced off behind him. ‘‘We’re all interested in its success.”

Katherine Gregor, member of the steering committee (pictured above left with Carol McKegney, one of neighboring Petaluma River Park representatives present for the gathering) gave an inspiring speech, encouraging the public to think big with multiple examples of other communities around the country that have taken historic railroad trestle structures and created something extraordinary.

Click here for video.

And Click here to sign up for emails on the Trestle promenade initiative and/or to join your voice to this grassroots campaign.

“Chelsea Flower Show is the Glastonbury of people who wear linen,” said one celebrity to another about Chelsea Flower Show, this May.

It’s true! It’s all about petals, Pimms and people watching. Crowded, chaotic, colorful, wildly British, and fueled by horticultural myth and legend.

As a first timer this May, here’s a decoder follow-up for fellow newbies contemplating attending Chelsea Flower Show some day. And if you can’t imagine you’ll make a visit yourself in person, then I hope my words and pictures transport you there on the page!

Securing tickets to the RHS Chelsea Flower Show is notoriously difficult. The most sought-after days sell out within hours of release, often months in advance. The first three days are reserved exclusively for Royal Horticultural Society members, royalty, and celebrities.

I was incredibly fortunate and grateful to be invited by dear friends to join them while I was in the UK visiting family — not on the same day as King Charles and entourage, but soon after. The timing could not have been more perfect. It felt like a dream come true — something I had never quite imagined I would manage to make happen for myself given that I spend most of my year pottering around my own back yard, some 5,350 miles away in Northern California.

Approximately 157,000 people attend the show over its five-day run, with numbers capped by the capacity of the 11-acre showground. As a result, tickets are among the most sought-after on the British social calendar. Once inside its tree-lined cocoon, it’s like stepping into an entiterly different world in contrast to the busy streets of the King’s Road and Chelsea’s posh neighborhoods.

First things first: if you hope to secure a ticket to next year’s show, there are a few strategies worth knowing.

The best option is to join the RHS, which gives you access to the presale opening in October. If that doesn’t work out, keep a close eye on official ticketing partner AXS, where returned tickets are often released in the lead-up to the event.

If you think you may be in London next May, 2027 these are the key dates to know:

• Monday, May 17: Press Preview & Judging Day (closed to the public)

• Tuesday, May 18: Open exclusively to RHS members

• Wednesday, May 19 – Friday, May 21: Open to RHS members and the general public, with evening entry available from 5:30 p.m.

• Saturday, May 22: Final day, closing early at 5:30 p.m., and famous for the much-anticipated plant sell-off

For guaranteed — albeit more expensive — access, hospitality partners such as Seat Unique offer premium ticket packages that include perks like afternoon tea and exclusive lounge access. Specialist tour operators, including Garden Tours, also often have allocated tickets available.

Britain’s chicest horticultural spectacle calls for espadrilles and colorful sneakers instead of wellington boots. It is sprawling and slightly exhausting by the end of the day, with a lot more champagne bars and less bucket hats than a music festival. There is no dress code, but it certainly appears to be the more eccentric the better! And I do love to see a man in a crsip linen, summer suit.

I was happy to witness a mad, British fashion parade of zany floral prints, at every turn. And I saw everything from serious horticulturists with measuring tools to groups of visitors treating it like a summer social event. Both are correct ways to attend.

There are a range of bookable catering options at the RHS Chelsea Flower Show, from relaxed breakfasts to elegant four-course lunches showcasing the best of British produce. Throughout the day, visitors can enjoy everything from all-day tapas by leading London chefs to afternoon teas ranging from quirky to traditional. Across the showground, there is also a wide variety of hot and cold food and drink outlets, including some of London’s most exciting street food vendors.

Vegan, vegetarian, and non gluten-containing options are available both at the pre-bookable restaurants and the casual food outlets. Visitors are also welcome to bring a picnic — something I would absolutely recommend. By lunchtime, many of the food areas were extremely crowded, with several popular items already sold out. We noticed quite a few people happily eating sandwiches and snacks they had brought from home, and if I return, I would definitely do the same.

One thing I would also pack next time is a small portable fold-out stool. Seating throughout the grounds was surprisingly limited, and after hours of walking and standing, having somewhere to perch would have made a huge difference.

We didn’t arrive until around 10:15 a.m., as we were travelling in by different trains. In hindsight, I would absolutely aim to get there earlier next time, if possible. Gates open at 8 a.m for early birds in the area. The showgrounds fill quickly, and arriving sooner would have meant slightly smaller crowds, better opportunities to photograph the gardens, though we managed to successfully pace ourselves well and with patience, we saw pretty much everything, at least from the sidelines in the busier areas of the Main Avenue.

Overall Best in Show (Show Garden) this year: The Campaign to Protect Rural England Garden: ‘On the Edge’ — pictured below. It was designed by legendary designer Sarah Eberle as a naturalistic garden featuring a massive wooden carving of Mother Nature (Gaia), still water pools, and wildflowers.

Dress for the elements. The day we attended was overcast with intermittent drizzle, although later in the week London was hit by an intense multi-day heatwave — a reminder of just how unpredictable the weather can be in the UK in May. Layers are essential, along with a lightweight waterproof jacket. I would avoid umbrellas if possible, as they quickly become cumbersome in the dense crowds.

Comfortable flat shoes and sunscreen are also a must, as you will spend hours walking the grounds. Stay hydrated with a refillable water bottle, and if you suffer from asthma or allergies, be prepared for the infamous “Chelsea Cough.” While it may seem surprising at a flower show, the coughing and sneezing are often triggered less by the blooms themselves and more by the London Plane trees that surround the showgrounds. In spring, these trees shed microscopic stiff hairs from their bark and leaves, which drift through the air and can irritate the throat and nasal passages.

Fully charge your phone before arrival as photo opportunities abound at every turn. I almost ran out of juice and was envious of my friend’s portable charger she had stashed in her backpack. It didn’t fit my phone so I made a note to self to carry one in future. Especially as my train ticket was on my phone.

Download the flower show app before you arrive — it’s invaluable for accessing up-to-date maps, the plant directory, and exhibitor information throughout the day. It’s also wise to choose a designated meeting spot with your group in case you become separated. With crowds this large, it happens surprisingly easily, and mobile phone service can be unreliable across the grounds.

Design inspiration abounds. I especially enjoyed the porches, which provided a fantastic range of compact garden spaces for people with limited outdoor living room.

Good thing I was traveling back to the States the week after attending, as I would’ve been tempted to purchase all kinds of home and garden items from the many booths selling gorgeous curtains, planters, seeds, fountains, books if I still lived in the UK.

Country Life magazine staged one of the most enticing booths, drawing me in to peruse its bookshelf of classic tones for garden enthusiasts.

At the heart of the Chelsea Flower Show stands the Great Pavilion, the event’s vast centerpiece and, for many visitors, its greatest attraction. Covering nearly three acres (approximately 12,000 square metres), this enormous marquee is home to spectacular floral displays, specialist nurseries, educational exhibits, and the show’s iconic central monument.

We headed in on arrival to avoid later crowds. The school garden pictured above was a bright, visual reminder of the importance of connecting kids to nature.

Inside, visitors can explore exhibits from hundreds of growers and nurseries from around the world, all competing for coveted RHS medals. One of the most anticipated displays each year is the magnificent David Austin Roses exhibit, which occupies the largest single space within the pavilion and is renowned for its breathtaking abundance of blooms.

The Great Pavilion is also where many of the year’s most exciting plant introductions make their debut. New varieties are unveiled here, with the best competing for the prestigious RHS Chelsea Plant of the Year award. In recent years, the Houseplant Studios have become a popular addition, showcasing innovative ideas for indoor gardening and stylish plant-filled interiors.

If you’re short on time, make the Great Pavilion a priority. It offers an extraordinary concentration of horticultural expertise, inspiration, and sheer floral beauty all under one roof. For those wanting to delve deeper, the RHS publishes a full list of exhibitors, medal winners, and award recipients following the show.

Serious plant buyers or collectors come back later in the week when plants are sold off or restocked differently.

I expected the pale peach David Beckham rose to smell like Armani, but its subtle scent surprised me. It is truly as delicate as his finest footwork on the pitch!

I will always treasure the day spent at RHS Chelsea Flower Show and quality time spent in the company of my generous friends.

Given the chance, I would jump at a return visit some day.

Travel by tube or train

Tube
Sloane Square tube station (on the District and Circle Lines) is a 10-minute walk from the showground.

I ran into a huge crush of people on the platform at Sloane Square after the event. A nice woman from Harrogate befriended me and suggested we jump on any train we could squeeze into and offboard at a bigger station in order to both make our way to King’s Cross via another line. That worked.

For further information on tube travel, visit theTransport for London website.
Plan ahead, check before you travel.

Train
London Victoria is the closest train station to the show. For information on rail services, visit the National Rail website.

Shuttle bus

There are shuttle buses to the showground from Battersea Park.

The Battersea Park service drops off and picks up from Bull Ring Gate.

Accessibility buses will also drop off and pick up from Bull Ring Gate.

The cost of the service is included with the price of a parking ticket.

The shuttle bus runs between 7.15am-8.30pm Tuesday –Friday and 6pm on Saturday.

River services

You can arrive by river with Uber Boat by Thames Clippers to Cadogan Pier or Battersea Power Station. The RB6 route serves both piers but weekdays only during morning and afternoon peak times. Battersea Power Station can be reached seven days a week with the RB1, RB2 or RB6.

The pier is approximately a 15-minute walk from Royal Hospital Chelsea.

British American journalist Frances Rivetti is the author of five books set in Northern California: two non fiction and three novels.

Some days whiz by faster than others. Some — those we’d rather be spending elsewhere, beaming ourselves somewhere else entirely — seem endless. But it’s when time bends, folds back on itself, and pulls you bodily into the past that you truly feel its power.

That’s what happens to me every year when I travel back to England.

My dad still lives in the house where he and my late mother raised their four children. This September marks 63 years since my parents married and moved in. It was Dad’s hometown before that — his parents’, too. A market town in the Fens, quiet and unhurried, not all that accessible without a car, though the double-decker bus has served me well these past weeks. I take my seat on the top deck every time, looking out across the flat fenlands and their enormous skies. The weather has been moody — spectacular cloud formations, the occasional drenching my umbrella just about handles — and somehow that moodiness feels right. Time here has its own weather.

Time plays games with you in a place like this. It conspires to whirl you around and set you down in another decade entirely.

One evening during this current stay, I met up with eight friends from high school — an all-girl grammar school where we were, by our own proud admission, a mischievous bunch. Most of us left at 16 to attend technical colleges across the region. Some went further afield. Helen went to Australia. I went to California. The other six stayed on in the Fens, building careers, partnerships, raising children, and now, half of them, helping out with their local grandchildren. On paper, our lives could not look more different.

But what struck me over four hours of laughter and catching up — with women I hadn’t seen more than once or twice in 44 years — was that time is the greatest equalizer. After all those divergent decades, we all still want the same things: to be happy, healthy, and connected to the people we love. Careers, homes, achievements — the things that feel so urgent when we’re young — recede. What remains is something more essential. The trick, I’ve come to believe, is to stay aware of time. To let it take you back to your earlier self now and then, and to step back into the present carrying a little more of that original person with you.

At the end of the evening, I was going to call a taxi for the ten-mile drive back to Dad’s house. “Don’t be daft,” said Elaine, who drives a disability car following a motorcycle accident some years ago. “I’ll take you.”

Elaine turned 60 this year. I’m joining that club this summer. The two of us hadn’t seen each other since we were 16. We giggled and guffawed the whole way, trading notes on life in Lincolnshire versus life in California. She told me about the market stall selling farm-fresh produce she’d run for years before her accident. She said she was proud of me for being a famous author. I’m not famous by any means — but I am an author. The girls at dinner had remembered how I used to churn out 20-page stories to their two or three pages in English class, and apparently that stayed with them longer than it stayed with me.

I worried about Elaine driving off alone into the dark fen night. “Don’t get lost out there,” I said. She laughed. The backroads that meander out toward the Wash have become a bit of a mystery to me over the years. She assured me she’d be fine.

The next morning, when our group chat filled up with messages about what a wonderful evening it had been, I checked to make sure she’d made it home.

“I only got a little bit lost,” she said.

Time stands still at Dad’s house in some ways. In others, it hums. Gardening. Feeding the birds. Maintaining the gates and the paintwork. An almost 87-year-old widower keeping an immaculate, orderly home — it’s quietly astonishing. His transistor radio on at breakfast. His preference, each evening, for reruns of television shows from twenty years ago. A dove cooing outside the window where I sit writing, at the very desk my mother used to use.

There is a different relationship with time in a place like this. Information doesn’t arrive in an avalanche. News doesn’t chase you from room to room. I hauled my laptop across the Atlantic and have opened it only a handful of times. When the wifi has been scarce, I’ve barely reached for my phone. And it has been an eye opener — a quiet I’d almost forgotten existed.

Time here is walked rather than driven. The route to the grocery store via the longer path along the river, past the bank of trees filled with birdsong on a May morning, is meditative. Planning bus connections as I did before I learned to drive and longed for the outside world. Listening to strangers talk British politics on public transport. Working around my dad’s exacting routines, which used to test my patience when I was younger and which I now recognize as his way of holding the days in shape.

You’d think California was laid back — that’s its reputation, its selling point. But it’s an illusion. There’s a supercharged energy to life there that I don’t notice until I step away from it. In the market towns near Dad’s, I watch people moving through their errands at a measured pace. Unhurried. Present. It looks, from the outside, like something that used to be ordinary and now feels almost radical. The refusal to fast forward, to be content with completing the day’s tasks.

Time at the start of a journey seems boundless. Time at the end of it contracts.

I’m near the end of this one. And I find myself wondering — as I imagine many of us do, in these complicated, demanding years — whether we’ll look back on this period and recognize it as one of the good ones regardless. I think I will. I’ve packed in more quality time with Dad, my siblings, aunt and uncle, nieces, and old friends than I’d dared to hope for. More days out and evenings than I expected. Plenty to write about at length when I get home.

But for now, time is of the essence. And I am, for once, paying attention to it.

It’s not typical for me to start a trip back to the UK without first heading an hour north on the train from London’s King’s Cross to unpack my case, place my feet on familiar home ground and integrate into the eight-hour time difference in the comfort of my childhood home.

But this year’s trip was different. Lesley and Gail, dearest friends and fellow British ex-pats anchored in Petaluma, California just happened to be in the UK visiting family at the same time as me this spring. Enough of a cross-over to make a fun five nights of it immediately upon my landing, and somewhere special. The bucolic Roman/Georgian city of Bath fit the bill for all three of us and, after our meet-up by the Paddington Bear statue in Paddington Station, we headed to the west country by rail.

There’s something about traveling with girlfriends who have traveled together for short getaways for years, if not decades. We all agree on what we’d like to see and do and the level of go-go-go in balance with a little slow and no-go evenings, salad-and- something-easy supper back at the vacation rental, followed by a couple of hours of feet up in a cozy English styled living room.

We walked the city and its perimeter, toured a period house museum, the Roman Baths, walked a river path to a medieval tithe barn by the river at Bradford Upon Avon, lunched in an historic tea house and stepped down into the oldest bakery in Bath, took afternoon tea at the Pump Room and soaked in the mineral waters of the city’s modern, municipal spa. It was marvelous.

It was fortuitous timing to catch the stunning Zandra Rhodes A Life in Print exhibit at The Holburn Museum.

I spent a couple of hours at the Records Office beneath Bath Guildhall, researching more about Bath in the early 1900s during the childhood and formative years my great grandmother, Florence, who was born there. I’m hoping to write at some stage, about Florence and the world she lived in from the turn of the 20^th Century almost to the turn of the 21^st.

The receptionist in the Guildhall invited me to go take a look at the grand ballroom, upstairs, as it wasn’t in use that morning. What a history it holds. I closed my eyes and could hear the skirts of the Regency and Georgian ballgowns of Austen’s era swishing amidst polite conversation, gossip and music.

We girls parted company back in Paddington as Lesley prepared to return to Northern California, Gail awaited the company of her husband, Michael and I traversed London for three nights near South Bank as base to cram in as much activity as possible with my two southern-based sisters and nieces.

There’s nothing like walking to dinner at the oldest restaurant in London, enjoying a traditional and outstanding British fare (thank you Lindsey) and later walking back across Westminster Bridge after nightfall. Sunday, we took in the Tate Modern before an elegant and delicious Shakespearean themed early birthday afternoon tea at The Swan, next door to The Globe. Bank Holiday Monday made for an extra day together to travel up to the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park for a visit to the V&A East and stunning Storehouse in Stratford before cheering along and catching super nieces score medals at a regional swimming gala in the Olympic pool.

My musician brother happened to be playing a live gig in a venue in Nottingham on Tuesday evening and thanks to the convenience of the British Rail service I shot up to the midlands for pre-show supper and catch-up and a seat in the bar for the show. It’s been many years since I’ve seen him perform live in person and it was super fun to see him in action with his band on top form.

I’m not too fond of hauling a large case and hand luggage with laptop and all the usual stuff I tend to need when I’m away from home in California for a while. But I refuse to be defeated when it comes to zipping around a country that actually has public transportation as a priority. It’s fascinating to me to be a part of thousands of people whizzing around London, up and down and cross country and marvel at how it all interconnects. There are plenty of problems with the trains on a regular basis, but I haven’t had any issues as yet this trip.

I took advantage of left luggage at St. Pancras for a couple of hours to visit with another friend from Petaluma, Katherine, who was in London readying for a trip to Bath with her husband. Small world and wonderful to be on a different continent in the same spot at the same time. We wandered up to Coal Drop Yard for coffee and back again for me to catch my train.

I’m writing this at Dad’s dining table. I picked crimson peonies from his garden this morning and placed them in a vase I positioned in the middle of the table. I meant to keep notes while racing around the country, but sometimes it’s better to let go of it all, immerse and enjoy.

Things that did strike me as fun and quirky along the way, cats on narrow boats, magpies, a lone fox, late at night, standing in front of a medieval building on my walk back from dinner in London. A trio of Nottingham retirees on their way for a pint at the oldest Inn in England (definitely an ‘oldest’ theme) who invited me to slide back down the hill on my giant case and join them for a beer! The conspiracy theorist older woman who sat opposite me on the train from Nottingham to Peterborough and couldn’t tell me where she was going because “they” were watching. She did tell me all about the robin she had befriended by her cottage window, which would sit on her hand each morning.

I’m here to visit with Dad and my mother-in-law who lives not far from him, aunt, uncle, family and the friends I’m able to see while in town. I’ve a big birthday that’s up-coming, the kind that gives one greater pause for thought than any of the past. Thankfully, I’m finding that travel has a way of pulling us beyond the rhythm of our everyday concerns and reminds me how many different ways there are to live, think, and see the world.

Whether crossing continents or simply returning to familiar places with new eyes, each journey reveals alternate realities shaped by landscape, history, culture, and memory. It teaches me that no single perspective is complete, and that even ordinary moments can feel extraordinary when viewed from somewhere unfamiliar. In moving through the world, I often discover not only new places, but new versions of myself.

We are at the mercy of Mother Nature. More so than ever, these days. Last weekend’s heavy rainstorms throughout the Bay Area and along the coastline especially swept in and hammered the region that had been lulled into false pretenses of early summer-like temperatures a month earlier.

My Nov 25 release of Floating in the Middle is celebrating its coming of age this month, in that the story is set in April, on the Sonoma Coast.

And my fascination with stormy weather is not lacking within its pages. It was spring when I first arrived in the States, some 36 years ago. My first winter in the Bay Area was unseasonably warm. The drought of the early 90s lingered.

By the time I experienced a full-on rainy season, I was completely taken aback at how transformed the landscape was. How perilous the conditions out and about and how vulnerable the regional wooden structures appeared. I was born and raised in the UK, with a sense of security I suppose from shelter of brick, stone and mortar. Coal fires and heavy drapes. Homes in Sonoma County that had charm and appeal in the warmer months, seemed inadequate once the rains came, lacking the fortress-like sensibilities I was accustomed to.

This evocative aspect of life on the edge of the western world has played out in all of my work, from my non-fiction into my novels, the natural forces of the rainy season interwoven throughout my prose.

I thought about setting Floating in the Middle in the summer months, a detour from my winter writing. But I settled on April as a compromise. Springtime storms are all the more exciting. And there had to be a storm. That’s when things become truly unpredictable.

The fictional weather forecast for this story, a long weekend reunion of seven friends in a remote coastal beach house had called for mild days and cool evenings. When an unexpected storm front hits, the story takes a dramatic turn.

If you’d like to listen along, I’ve included a voice-over reading from this part of the story— see above.

Hall of the Above, Petaluma, Celebrating 100 Years with a Centennial Open House, Saturday, April 25th, 2026

Hall of the Above is located in the historic Sonoma County National Bank, at the corner of Washington St and Petaluma Blvd N. This iconic building, serving as the gateway to downtown Petaluma, opened on April 25th, 1926.

I’ll be there, Saturday 25th April, 2026, to celebrate its centennial, along with several local authors and historians with our books at hand. Stop by if you are in the area for festivities and a slice of a very large birthday cake.

It’s hard to picture 1926 with all that we have flashing before our eyes in this modern moment in time, but it’s fun to take a minute to contemplate a hundred years past and what Petalumans would’ve been talking about:

Petaluma was booming as "The World's Egg Basket," hosting a massive "Egg Day" celebration in Kenilworth Park with 8,000 attendees, featuring a parade and egg-eating contest. This was impressive, as the entire city’s population was only around 7,500 at that point, though it was growing by the hundreds each year. The city was a hub of chicken farming, with an estimated 2,000 poultry farms. The river was still a major hub of transportation and the Trestle fully operational.

Sixty five palm trees were removed from Main Street, now Petaluma Boulevard in the fall of the year the bank building opened. Though they must’ve been a beautiful sight, they interferred with overhead lines. The city’s historic Post Office building was also constructed in 1926, blending neoclassical and Gothic Revival styles. And G. P. Mcnear donated land for the D St Fire Station.

Women’s fashion was all about bobbed hair, cloche hats and staright-cut, drop-waist, flapper dresses at knee length, for going out on the town. Men wore high-waisted linen or cotton suits with suspenders, felt fedoras, fast evolving comfort for the California climate in comparison to the Victorian era.

Home buyers could expect to pay around $3,000 to $6,000 for a modest family home in Petaluma in 1926.

Positioned in the midst of the Jazz age, innovation, upheaval and cutural milestones abound, nationally. Route 66 was established. The National Broadcasting Company was formed, launching with 24 stations. Ernest Hemingway published his debut novel, The Sun Also Rises, The Book of the Month Club sent out its first selections.

Ford Motor Company adopted a five-day, 40-hour work week, setting a new industrial standard. Admiral Richard Byrd and Floyd Bennett claimed to have flown over the North Pole for the first time. Don Juan, the first full-length talking picture (with synchronized music/sound effects), premiered, and the United States celebrated the sesquicentennial, 150th anniversary, of the Declaration of Independence.

As we look to the past, we may also look to the future. What will Petalumans be talking about in 3026? Let’s be hopeful that communities everywhere will continue to envision improved quality of life for all!

• Saturday, April 25, 2026

• 12:00 PM 4:00 PM

• Hall of the Above 199 Petaluma Boulevard NorthPetaluma, CA, 94952

Celebrate Indie Author Month with Me

April is recognized as Indie Author Month #IndieApril, dedicated to celebrating and supporting self-published and small-press authors such as myself, who passionately create, publish, and market our own work. It’s a time to amplify indie voices, share indie books on social media, and encourage one another to discover new authors.

Thank you for all of the graciously bestowed reviews for my books. If you’ve read Floating in the Middle and enjoyed it, I would truly appreciate any short review if you would be so kind. You don’t have to wax lyrical. Every good, basic review counts to bolster a book in the vast ocean of publicaitons out there for readers to choose from.

• Leave Reviews: Short, honest reviews are the “lifeblood” of indie authors and significantly improve our visibility. Amazon, Goodreads, Barnes and Noble.

• Spread the Word: Share favorite indie authors on social media platforms (Instagram, Facebook etc) using hashtags like #IndieAuthorMonth, #IndieApril, and #SupportIndieAuthors.

• Buy Indie: Purchase books directly from indie authors if possible or through independent bookstores.

• Explore: Challenge ourselves to read a genre outside our typical comfort zone from an independent author.

If you are in the Petaluma area this weekend, April 17/18/19, don’t miss our annual Butter and Egg Days Parade at noon on Saturday 18th.

You can find my books and books by fellow local authors in the gift store at the Petaluma Historic Library and Museum, on Fourth Street and at Copperfield’s Books on Kentucky. Copies of Floating in the Middle are available at Jess Brown Store at 144 Petaluma Blvd North.

Print and ebooks are available online wherever you source your books.

Long distance trail walking is becoming increasingly popular each year as we continue to seek, if not, clamor for a more meaningful escape from the pressures of today’s world. Whether it is the Camino de Santiago, the Appalachian Trail, Tour de Mont Blanc or the West Highland Way, epic, multi-day hikes offer unforgettable experiences alone or with friends and family in the great outdoors.

There’s good news for Northern California hikers, bikers, equestrians, runners, people in wheelchairs and little ones in strollers on the tamer sections. A master plan for a 320 mile route along the northern section of the Great Redwood Trail promises an extraordinary rail-to-trail legacy corridor through some of the wildest and most scenic landscapes of Northern California.

The Great Redwood Trail Agency behind this enormous undertaking describes the trail as traversing “old growth redwood forests, running alongside woodlands and vineyards and winding through the magnificent Eel Canyon.”

(photo - map from https://thegreatredwoodtrail.org/)

The master plan for the Great Redwood Trail was featured in the Santa Rosa Press Democrat and reprinted in the Petaluma Argus Courier, this April. Reporter Austin Murphy described how the Great Redwood Trail, when finished, will stretch through five California counties, connecting San Francisco and Humboldt Bays — 43 rural rail segments within Mendocino, Trinity and Humbolt managed by the Great Redwood Trail Agency, connecting to the exisiting Sonoma and Marin County trail segment which is managed by Sonoma Marin Area Rail Transit (SMART).

I’ve been hearing about this exciting new trail over the past year or so. And the article in my local press prompted me to do some new research of my own, since I had written about some of the more remote parts of Northern California, within the area known as the Emerald Triangle, in Humbolt, Mendocino and Trinity in my 2019 novel Big Green Country.

The terrain is vivid in my mind. My research for Big Green Country had taken me up into the redwoods on several occasions. I’d subsequently read from multiple sources, from government accounts of people living off-grid to first hand reports from young women journalists who had worked undercover in the cannabis industry in its boom period.

The idea of hiking through the more isolated stretches of the proposed, completed trail strikes me as extremely adventurous given the background history of this secluded and heavily forested part of the world. And, after digging deeper into the subject, I’ve deduced that I’d need to be in far more serious hiking shape to navigate three to four weeks of 10 to 15 mile days to take on an entire thru-hike from San Francisco to the trail’s Blue Lake northern terminus.

It would take carrying five to seven days worth of food (and bear proof canisters) and managing what is described on the trail’s website as “Trail Magic” or advanced planning in mail drops in tiny, remote outposts to navigate the more remote and rugged “expert” sections, specifically the Eel River Canyon.

Most intermediate hikers should be able to handle multiple day trips in the more developed sections of Mendocino County, whereas even the least experienced trail goers amongst us should be fine stepping out on the mostly paved, or smooth, gravel surfaces of sections through Novato, Petaluma, Penngrove, Santa Rosa, Ukiah and Eureka.

It could, by most accounts, take a couple of decades to complete all of the various connecting trail segments in some of the more remote sections (such as the Eel River Canyon), which will ultimately establish one of the nation’s longest rail-to-trail conversions in U.S. history. Plans have a good deal of support. But I’m not alone in wondering how the trail master plan will overcome some of the more serious issues and controversies.

The most immediate and unsettling concern surrounding the Great Redwood Trail is not its approximately $50 million plus cost, its legal complexity, or even its environmental challenges—it’s quite simply the subject of safety. Stretching across hundreds of miles of remote terrain, large portions of the proposed trail would pass through isolated areas with little to no cell service, limited road access, escape routes and minimal existing infrastructure. Local officials and residents raise a fundamental question: if something goes wrong out there, who responds—and how?

In many stretches, emergency access is difficult or even impractical. First responders could feasibly face long delays reaching injured hikers or cyclists, and in some cases may not be able to locate them in a timely fashion, at all. Law enforcement agencies, already stretched thin in rural counties, have expressed concern about their ability to patrol such an expansive and rugged corridor. The sheer scale of the trail makes consistent monitoring unrealistic without significant new funding and coordination.

Alongside these logistical issues are fears of increased wildfire risk, illegal encampments and likewise, stumbling upon these illegal encampments, criminal threats and activity in areas that are currently quiet, mysterious and sparsely populated.

For many rural residents, the trail is not just a recreational amenity that is touted to potentially bring in millions of dollars a year for adjoining communities, but a potential disruption to their daily lives and historic privacy, especially if safeguards are unclear or unenforceable.

At the same time, the project faces a major legal hurdle that complicates its future. Plans to convert long stretches of former rail line into trail have run into resistance at the federal level, where obscure but powerful regulators have declined to fully abandon certain rail segments, such as the former Cloverdale to Willits line due to the possibility of future freight use.

This creates a scenario in which parts of the trail may need to coexist with rail infrastructure, adding another layer of complexity—and potentially new safety risks, depending on how those shared corridors are designed.

The geography of the route presents formidable challenges. Sections that run through the Eel River Canyon, for example, are prone to landslides, erosion, and structural instability. Decades-old tunnels, bridges, and trestles would require extensive rehabilitation or replacement before they could safely support public use.

Climate-wise, the Great Redwood Trail has appeal in its reasonably mild conditons, year round, except during rainy season, generally November through March. Hikers will need to prepare for variable microclimates that shift dramatically however, depending on coastal proximity, region and time of day. What starts out as a fogged-in 40 degree morning can easily reach into the 90s in the afternoon during the warmer regions, in summer and early fall.

The Press Deomocrat report touched on the fact the trail crosses lands with deep significance to Native tribes, raising important questions about consultation, stewardship, and the protection of cultural resources. While some tribal groups have apparently expressed conditional support, others reportedly remain cautious or opposed, emphasizing the need for ongoing meaningful involvement rather than symbolic inclusion.

I’ve been thinking about the kind of wildlife I would expect to see or make myself aware of along the way. Black-tailed deer for sure. Ticks and rattlesnakes make sticking to the trail a necessity, especially during the hot, dry season.

Huge Roosevelt Elks, nicknamed “Kings” of the North Coast roam the meadows of Humboldt. Hikers will do well to steer clear of them during the fall rut.

Black bears roam the dense forest lands, especially so in the Eel River Canyon. They may be shy but it’s essential to practice proper food storage out in the wild. Mountain lions also favor the rugged terrain of Mendocino and Trinity segments, along with river otters, salmon and steel head trout and harbor seals.

Lucky trail goers may spot osprey and bald eagles, banana slugs-a-plenty and even, if lucky, the California Condor, recently introduced with its awesome 9-foot wing span.

Camping in more remote stretches can be pleasantly interspersed (if carefully planned) with restorative sleepovers in historic hotels and bed and breakfasts, motels and vacation rentals in towns and small cities across the five counties. From Petaluma to Healdsburg to Hopland, Arcata, Fortuna and Rio Dell, if you hike or bike the Great Redwood Trail in the future, these vibrant northern California communities will be pleased to see you along the way!

In its vision, the Great Redwood Trail promises a transformative outdoor corridor connecting communities, the natural world and culture, showcasing some of California’s most dramatic landscapes. But until the questions around safety—arguably the most immediate and tangible concern, are addressed, the complete trail is still very much a work in progress.

Existing sections of the northern part of the trail in addition to the southern SMART pathway that are already open include: the Ukiah Rail Trail; Eureka Waterfront Trail and Hikshari’ Trail, Humboldt Bay Trail; Eureka to Arcata Rail-with-Trail and the Annie and Mary Trail at Blue Lake.

I’ve read up on other rail to trail systems in a growing U.S. movement of long distance, multi-county projects, such as: The San Francisco Bay Trail (238 miles); John Muir Trail (211 miles) through the rugged High Sierra; The Great Shasta Rail Trail (15.9 miles); Katy Trail (240 miles) in Missouri and the Iron Horse Regional Rail Trail (290 miles in Washington State.

I may not see myself solo hiking through the isolated Emerald Triangle any time soon, but that’s just me, plenty of people hike remote terrains all over the world. Maybe it’s a group endeavor, over several sections, that gets me out there on the more ambitious stretches of the Great Redwood Trail someday, though if it does take 20 years to complete, I’ll be turning 80. That sounds like a goal now, come to think of it. Hiking gear may come a long way in the next two decades!

Are you a hiker who can’t wait to step out on this epic new trail? What do you think? And if so, what do you do stay safe when hiking remote trails, solo or with a group? Which part of this trail will you embark on when you have a chance?

Talking of Kings . . .

King Charles III is scheduled to visit the United States from April 27th to 30th, 2026 as part of a formal state visit, with planned appearances in Washington, D.C., including an address to Congress. The trip coincides with commemorations tied to the 250th anniversary of American independence and is intended to reinforce the longstanding alliance between the United Kingdom and the United States.

The visit has been in preparation for some time and was designed to reflect the ceremonial and diplomatic role of the British monarch in maintaining international relationships.

Questioning the timing is unavoidable, however. As a British American, I can’t help but see this visit as, at best, awkward optics. At a moment when tensions with Iran are dominating headlines and threats and uncertainty hang over all nations, a ceremonial tour feels horribly disconnected from reality. Symbolism matters in diplomacy—but so does sensitivity to context. Showing up with pageantry and a lavish banquet while the world is on edge may project stability to some, yet to most of us it reads as tone-deaf.

The so-called “special relationship” between the UK and the USA has long relied not just on policy alignment but on visible demonstrations of solidarity. And given the recent terse history between the President and the Prime Minister of late, a state visit with the (actual) King may offer a stage for reassurance, suggesting continuity and shared purpose even as geopolitical tensions continue to rise.

Still, optics are not trivial—they shape public perception and political meaning. For many observers such as myself, the contrast between ceremonial diplomacy and the gravity of an active conflict is difficult to reconcile.

I’m not an ardent, ex-pat royalist but I am okay with a slimmed-down lineage serving the UK as dedicated diplomats and keepers of the heritage. And yet the pomp and ceremony of King Charles and his royal entourage being touted around the eastern United States at this precise moment in time strikes me as weird and extravagant, tone-deaf, if not downright dangerous.

Easter Sunday Paddle on the Petaluma River

Meanwhile, it was such a treat to take to the river on Easter Sunday with the fam, or most of the fam (too far a trip for youngest son Dom, from Brooklyn to join) thanks to the ease and availability of kayak hires from the convenient Petaluma Float House.

Staycationing in Sonoma County isn’t hard to do!

A 90-minute rental of three double kayaks provided ample time to tootle down stream to the Marina and back up to the start of the Lynch Creek Trail to take in a view of a decorative arch created by artist David Best.

Canada Geese, ducks and fishermen and women kept us company along the way.

My story last week about the condition and current conundrum of the historic riverfront trestle (pictured above) proved timely in our being on-the-spot to see for ourselves the precarious scene beneath the abandoned structure’s surface.

The Float House itself will return across the Turning Basin in time, so at least staff, volunteers and customers won’t have to deal with the stench and the eyesore of the Trestle’s neglect much longer.

If you are in the area or plan to be, you can book online in minutes to reserve a variety of kayaks according to your requirements. I highly recommend seeing the river from this calming perspective.

There are several fun events, activities and summer camps scheduled throughout the summer months especially, so check out the Float House calendar and make plans. If you’re not inclined to row or pedal yourself along the Petaluma River one breezy morning or afternoon, a Float House certificate would make a terrific gift. Group outings are proving increasingly popular.

We kayaked back up stream with the incoming tide as several swanky yachts cruised back towards the Bay after a weekend’s mooring in downtown Petaluma. Everyone waved in the convivial spirit of the waterway!

Books by Frances Rivetti. Click here to order a copy of my latest novel, Floating in the Middle directly from my distributer.

Late March 2026 Petaluma, California

Stand on the west bank of the Petaluma River on an early spring morning and you can’t miss it — a long, low silhouette of redwood and steel along the water’s edge like an outstretched arm that no longer knows what it is reaching for. The Petaluma Trestle. Built in 1922. Closed in the early 1990s. Argued over, studied, mourned and neglected ever since.

It is rotting into the tidal sludge. Ship worms have eaten visibly at the pilings. Residents who spoke before Petaluma City Council’s Spring Goals and Priorities Workshop on Monday, March 23rd, 2026 described the Norwegian rat population living underneath as “rats the size of cats.” The decking is fenced off for safety. And yet this structure — this stubborn, slowly disintegrating symbol of the American west— refuses to disappear quietly. It has too much history in its bones for that.

The question is no longer whether something must be done. In a discussion during the special meeting, each and every council member agreed it cannot stay as it is. The question — and it is a complex one, newly complicated by a startling discovery about who actually owns it — is what comes next, and who is willing to step up and own it in every sense of the word.

“It’s a blight, quite frankly and something needs to be done,”

— Council Member Brian Barnacle, March 2026

A River That Built a City

To understand why the Trestle matters, you have to understand the river that runs beneath it. Fifty some miles north of San Francisco, Petaluma’s entire identity was shaped by the tidal slough we call the Petaluma River — one of the few rivers in California that flows northward. From the construction of its emerging downtown wharf in the 1850s, the river was the Gold Rush era city’s commercial lifeblood. A turning basin was carved close to mills and warehouses so that schooners and paddlewheel steamers could navigate all the way in behind the ornate iron front Victorian buildings of downtown, loading up on grain, eggs and produce bound for the booming post-Gold Rush city of San Francisco.

At the heart of this commerce stood the Great Petaluma Mill, built in 1854 by Tom Baylis to store wild game. It is the city’s oldest standing building. Under the ownership of titans like Isaac Wickersham and G.P. McNear, it evolved into a massive feed and grain complex that helped crown Petaluma the “Egg Basket of the World.” It stands today at the corner of Petaluma Boulevard and B Street, its thick stone walls now home to restaurants, retail and offices — transformed in the 1970s by local preservationist Skip Sommer and the leaders who rallied to save it from demolition for a highway project. That, too, was a close call. That, too, required a community to refuse to let go.

The Trestle over the river, in front of the mill was constructed in 1922 as a spur line connecting the west side of Petaluma to the Petaluma and Santa Rosa Railroad’s standard-gauge overhead electric interurban line on the east bank. It moved massive volumes of the farm region’s eggs, produce and other goods across the river to the waterway. The railroad itself linked Petaluma, Sebastopol, Forestville and Santa Rosa, having consolidated earlier horse-car lines built in the 1880s, and it owned its own steamboats to complete the journey to San Francisco. The Trestle was the last vital link in that chain.

The Northwestern Pacific Railroad absorbed the line in 1932. All passenger service ended that year. The Golden Gate Bridge opened in 1937 and river commerce began its long decline. Southern Pacific diesels replaced much of the county’s electric rail by 1966, though the Santa Rosa-to-Petaluma corridor was retained by Northwestern Pacific — until the rails went silent entirely in the early 1990s.

So What Happened?

This is the question that hangs in the air like fog of the Petaluma Gap wind tunnel. How, after decades of plans and reports and campaigns and initial grants, do we find ourselves here in the spring of 2026 staring at a toxic calamity — a structure that the city’s own Assistant Public Works Director describes as a liability, that a Downtown Association board member calls “nothing less than a safety issue, an eyesore and an embarrassment,” and that a city council member has flatly termed a toxic dump?

The honest answer is that it is the result of a particular kind of institutional paralysis: one where the urgency was always acknowledged but the accountability was never assumed. It’s important to note, The Petaluma City Council unanimously approved a River Access and Enhancement Plan as far back as 1996, identifying the Trestle as a riverfront pedestrian connector. A $500,000 Coastal Conservancy grant funded a detailed Trestle Rehabilitation Design Report in 2013. The estimated cost of rehabilitation then — to accommodate both pedestrian and an initial campaign to reintroduce light trolley use — was five million dollars. A bargain by today’s soaring estimates for pedestrian rehabilitation alone. And yet no funding strategy was ever identified, no one assumed the baton, and the window closed.

Report after report was commissioned. Plans were drawn up. Grants were missed. Funding strategies were perpetually deferred. And crucially, as we have now learned, nobody was entirely sure who was actually responsible.

“The structure served as the backbone that enabled our region’s industry to prosper and connect with the entire world. It has the potential to again become an economic catalyst — but this will require vision and action.”

— Bill Rinehart, Petaluma Historic and Cultural Preservation Committee

Until now, it was widely assumed in recent years — and widely reported — that SMART (Sonoma-Marin Area Rail Transit) owned the Trestle, having absorbed the Northwestern Pacific Railroad’s remaining lines and holdings in the region. However, last autumn, after the City Attorney’s office hired a local land trust company to investigate a deeper dive into the title history, a different picture emerged: ownership of the Trestle may have reverted to the owners of the adjacent Petaluma Mill, ninety days after the railroad last used it in the early 1990s — under terms traceable to easement documents from 1938.

The State Lands Commission found no existing lease or subsequent title transfer for the structure, which is technically part of the Mill parcel but anchored on State Land. Land under a river is by definition, State owned and since the pilings are in the water, that part of the structure is State Land. The city holds several river-adjacent leases from the State, but not for the Trestle itself. It was only after the decking began to rot and nobody came forward to claim it, the City erected a chain-link fence for safety — knowing, even then, that the Trestle was not its own to fix.

The Mill is currently owned by MKD Partners, a Bay Area-based real estate investment group headed by Pat and Darla Flanagan. City Attorney Eric Danly noted in the council meeting that the present day Mill owners “likely have their own position on what they bought.” Assistant Director of Public Works Gina Benedetti-Petnic said the city was reticent to hold community visioning meetings until ownership is fully determined and negotiated.

Complicated, yes. But not impossible. Look at what the Petaluma River Park Foundation is accomplishing downriver.

“It’s a shame it wasn’t restored over twenty years ago. But it wasn’t. It cannot be ignored any longer. This is a fresh chance to revitalize our downtown.”

— Katherine Gregor, resident, at March Council Workshop

The Petaluma Woman’s Club — around 150 members strong — sent a Time to Trestle call-to-action letter to council members and staff in February 2024, reminding them that the city’s General Plan, the Central Petaluma Specific Plan, and the River Access and Enhancement Plan all emphasize reorienting toward the river, and that restoring the Trestle would improve public access, recreation, education, and the character of the city. “It is evident that this project will be one that will bring everyone in our community together,” wrote then-President Colleen Mahoney.

Rosemary Hart, speaking for the Woman’s Club addressed the council directly at the March meeting: “I am speaking for more than a thousand people in asking you to prioritize the Trestle in 2026 and 2027. Our community has yet to see visible, on-the-ground action.” She called for community visioning as there has yet to be public input on any potential new shovel ready plans that engineering specialists FOTH was hired by the City of Petaluma to provide. She also called for an economic impact study — a key that might unlock the funding equation.

Though others would argue safety must come first.

“It is nothing less than a safety issue, an eyesore and an embarrassment. It is a highly visible feature in our downtown and it needs to be addressed.”

— Rick Burg, Board of Directors, Petaluma Downtown Association

What the Council Said

The meeting was notable for the unanimity of its tone, if not yet its plan. Every council member agreed the situation is untenable. Council Member Frank Quint said plainly: “It can’t stay as it is. We’re doing our community a disservice.” Barnacle described the ownership question as a huge new wrinkle and yet the council was “neglecting our duties every time we walk by it.” John Shribbs suggested it might be a five-to-six-year goal to get it removed and cleared up, with a second phase to envision what it could become.

Janice Cader Thompson described herself as a realist and called the Trestle a toxic dump: “To rehabilitate what’s existing is nearly impossible, unless you have money to throw away.”

Karen Nau called for code reinforcement, raising the question others have asked as to whether the Great Mill runs risk of falling into the river? She asked for a detailed accounting of how much has been spent to date and signage on site so that the public are informed as to why they are looking at such an eyesore.

Benedetti-Petnic confirmed the city has spent approximately $300,000 on environmental studies and agency discussions — including Fish & Game, regarding structural shading for fish populations — and that State Historical Preservation Office requirements for a tear-down and rebuild cannot be filed with the Army Corps of Engineers until further groundwork is laid. No grants can be applied for until ownership is clarified.

She also raised a troubling adjacent issue connected to Nau’s concerns: land settling near the original wharf site to the east of the Mill. The wharf was built in 1854, half a century before the Trestle, and served as the city’s first waterfront transfer point for agricultural goods moving from the Mill to the steamboats bound for San Francisco. The settling ground suggests this stretch of riverfront may be more hazardous than it even appears.

Mayor Kevin McDonnell urged public engagement and framed the Trestle as an economic development project. “We need to start from the position of who are the partners, and who can get us over the finish line?” He also floated the idea of inviting the State Lands Commission into the conversation, given the liability now sitting on State-owned land.

The People Who Refuse to Give Up On The Original Structure

(Elaine and Chris Stevick in their one room private Trestle Museum in their west Petaluma home)

Scattered among my files as a long time Petaluman and independent journalist is a meticulous, sometimes heartbreaking timeline of the many attempts over more than two decades to restore the Trestle, compiled by historic preservationist Christopher Stevick. I have visited the one-room museum in the Victorian home in west Petaluma he shares with his wife, Elaine, which is dedicated entirely to the Trestle. Stevick also maintains savethetrestle.org, where the record of efforts runs from 1992 through 2025 in careful chronological order.

Stevick told me by phone after this recent March council meeting that he remains committed to restoration, not replacement, if there even is a scenario where a new structure is somehow funded — that there are ways to move forward that he has outlined that he feels have not been fully explored. These shovel-ready rehabilitation plans have been sitting on a shelf since 2013. However, according to city staff, the 2013 design was recently re-evaluated by engineers at FOTH and deemed to be constrained to an uncomfortably short lifespan — twenty to thirty years — and was considered difficult to permit given the creosote-treated materials that would be retained. Stevick disputes those findings on his website and argues, arguably with some justification, that the City has had a long-standing habit of presenting communities with a fait accompli rather than genuine public input.

A Jewel Waiting to Be Reimagined

Here is what I keep coming back to: images of its potential (as featured on the Woman’s Club website) as well as historic images of the Trestle in its prime, arching across the water with the Great Petaluma Mill rising behind it, which have appeared on historic postcards, in advertising, in tourist brochures, for more than a century. It is not merely a piece of infrastructure. It is the visual signature of this waterfront.

Other river cities have done this. They have looked at their neglected industrial waterfronts — the old rail lines, the ruined wharves, the contaminated remnants of industrial history — and turned them into civic jewels. It requires a holistic approach: economic impact assessment, community input, a clear funding strategy, and most of all, the willingness of someone — the city, the State, the Mill’s owners, a partnership of all three — to assume accountability.

The ownership question will resolve one way or another. The Mill owners most likely did not buy their property expecting to inherit a multi-million-dollar demolition liability. Perhaps there is a negotiation to be had that serves everyone. What matters now is that this not be allowed to drift back into the comfortable fog of deferred decisions. The council has asked staff to treat it as an economic development project. Though it is public knowledge that the council does not have the funds to handle this alone.

Some estimate in excess of $12 million would be needed to remove and replace or restructure the Trestle today.

The Woman’s Club is ready to support grant-writing and host community input at their historic B Street facility. The Downtown Association is sounding the alarm. And somewhere in the middle of all this, Christopher Stevick is still, insistently, making the case for the structure itself.

Once the community-at-large is invited into this conversation, we may be surprised by the level of support to create something great.

Whether the Trestle is restored or rebuilt, or removed altogether (with safety railings and benches installed) — what this part of the river becomes must be worthy of what it was. A crossing. A connection. A symbol of the kind of community that does not let its history rot into the river.

Click here to watch the recording of Petaluma City Council’s Special Meeting recording. Council responds to comments at around 2:01.33.

If you’d like to see something done about the Trestle write a letter to the editor of the Petaluma Argus Courier, or the newly launching Petaluma Voice and/or send a letter of support for the Trestle project to cityclerk@cityofpetaluma.org and ask that it be forwarded to City Manager Peggy Flynn and council members.

British American journalist Frances Rivetti is the author of five books set in Northern California: two non fiction and three novels. She has written about the Petaluma Trestle in print and online over the past two decades. This article reflects her writing as an independent voice in her community.

Nothing pursuades me to jump in my car and drive 30 miles south to Tiburon in commute traffic like scoring a ticket to hear North Bay literary legend Anne Lamott and her equally articulate husband, Neal Allen, talk about their new book at a public library.

I am breaking several rules in Good Writing 36 Ways to Improve Your Sentences by my waxing lyrical straight off the starting line. There are rules and then there are reasons to break them on occasion. And I think this pair know more than any, how to do both.

The Richmond Bridge was under repair last Wednesday evening. I sat in snail pace traffic through Marin, fearing I would be locked out of the library for being so rude as to be late.

The first person I saw when I stepped out of my car in the parking lot at Tiburon Belvedere Library with a minute to spare, was Anne herself. “Don’t worry, you’re not late,” she said, reading my mind, or most likely my face.

“Traffic was bad,” I replied. To which she answered that she and Neal had been stuck, for what seemed like forever, driving to the library from Fairfax in west Marin. She’d run back out to apply lipstick in her rear view mirror, probably something she only does when she’s speaking in front of a large crowd.

Marin is posh but makeup is light in these parts. A quick application of neutral lipstick signalled readiness!

Good Writing has since hit the New York Best Seller List in one week. How’s that for respect?

Anne and Neal delighted the audience with their double act of mutual admiration and affectionate mocking. They’re brilliant writers both and bring a balance to Neal’s “rules” in this clever collaboration that appeals to writers getting started and experienced journalists and authors alike.

I have dashed to my work in progress multiple times while reading, inspired to transfer some of their magic into my own writing.

The following evening it was my turn to read and talk to a smaller gathering but a good one at the warm and eclectic, used book empire that is Sonoma Curated in Rohnert Park.

Owner Danise Mueller (& husband Ed) were gracious to invite me to be their first local author to read at their newly launched book club events. It was my pleasure to be met by a group of readers from Rohnert Park who had yet to discover my books.

We had a lively and engrossing conversation about my latest novel Floating in in Middle, my other four books, my life as a writer and fiction and life in general.

If you love used books (from substantial collections) and book cases, book ends, reading chairs, vintage coffee tables and art, do stop in at Sonoma Curated on Commerce Boulevard. It’s a little hard to spot on first vist, on the right before turning right at the lights to the country club area in Rohnert Park. Danise and Ed will be adding extra signage soon. If you miss it on first go, do a U turn and be sure to check it out. I hope to return to read again soon.

Saturday morning arrived with continued blue skies, early spring heat hitting mid morning. I took my dog, Rosie for a walk to the Petaluma River Park for it’s first annual Spring Market, in time to see the stunning opening ceremony hosted by Coast Miwok tribal citizens of Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria and Danza Azteca Calpulli XochilYauhtli.

If you’re in the area and you haven’t visited Petaluma River Park, I encourage you to do so soon. It’s in the early stages of its transformation from long neglected peninsula land in the heart of the city — set to become the jewel in the city’s crown.

Native first people lived along the bank of the Petaluma River in seasonal communities for thousands of years before the Europeans arrived, hunting and fishing and capuring wildfowl.

I closed my eyes and listened to the drum music and ceremonial chants and dance steps, imagining this beautiful culture without the backdrop of modernity. It’s encouraging to be witness to the great community vision and work that is being so carefully invested in this important parcel of open space to return it to its former, natural glory with river park trails and modifications for everyone to enjoy.

The following morning I was up bright and early again for a special book gathering at my friend Jess Brown’s gorgeous store in downtown Petaluma. A Sunday morning literary lounge-like gathering with coffee and delicious scones from the Tea Room brought in fiction lovers for an enriching conversation about my novel Floating in the Middle, its talking points on the natural world, out on the Sonoma Coast and the indie publishing process.

Just as I mentioned early reader, Carole, here she appeared with her daughter Katy, neighbors of old and dear friends. Thank you to everyone who came to join the conversation. Books are more important than ever and I want to thank Jess especially for being such a champion of books and local authors in her store. Click her to shop online and for info on the store.

I was absolutely delighted to receive a package this week from New Mexico, from my friend Nicky Ovitt, whom I miss and wish she was still here in Sonoma County but know that she is thriving back in the part of the country’s she’s from. Nicky designed the covers and interior art for my first two, non-fiction books, Fog Valley Crush and Fog Valley Winter. Those two books hold a special place in my heart. I didn’t know what I was doing when I first launched into indie publishing and I went big with Nicky being nearby at the time and agreeing to collab on the art.

Nicky’s unique bandanas are made of high quality cotton and are so comfy and stylish to wear, I have several in my collection. I’m thrilled to add her new Tyler design, part of her Southwest collection. Do check out Nicky’s site for all her amazing creations, which you can order online.

Monday evening I attened the Petaluma City Council’s special goals and priorities meeting as I have been writing about the historic Trestle, downtown, for the past couple of decades. The independent journalist & local history lover in me can’t leave this one alone for too long as I, for one, would dearly like to see this sad sight taken care of before too many more years pass by. I’ve almost finished up my update article and will share it in a separate post as it is deserving of its own stand alone story.

Last, not least, the glorious spring weather has launched my garden into bloom. Blossoms on the clementine and lemon trees and roses are already scenting my backyard.

So much to be thankful for. Such great energy this past week. I feel that we are entering an energetic season in which, if we continue to step up and out and look for the good, call for the good within us and around us, we can collectively hope that the coming weeks and months will bring a start to the positive change we’re so in need of.

And as a final footnote, I was in San Francisco this weekend. The No Kings rally on Market Street brought tears to my eyes. I’ll write about that when I have had a chance to process it.

On the ferry ride back across the Bay, much to the absolute delight of the passengers, the captain slowed the boat as there were whales on both sides, having an afternoon frolic in the waters. Their presence is said to signify strenth and community balance. What a sight!

Click here to order a copy of Floating in the Middle directly from my printer/distributer, Ingram Spark in the USA. Otherwise, it’s available to order in print and ebook format around the word, wherever you source your books.

Napa Valley Artist/Culture writer Gina Teichert’s poignant entry to Americana Reimagined. “Atomic Madonna”.

Petaluma Arts Center Exhibition Dates March 12 - April 18, 2026. On the 250th anniversary of the founding of the United States, Americana Reimagined invited artists from across the greater Bay Area to explore, reinterpret, and reimagine the visual language of “Americana”. This juried exhibition looks beyond nostalgia to examine how familiar symbols, stories, and styles evolve over time—bridging the past and present through creativity and craft. Go see this thought-provoking exhibit.

The Leadership Emergency: Why America Needs Women at the Top Now

We’ve all had enough of the news lately, and it’s hard not to feel like we’re stuck in a loop of the same old “mess” only amplified on a daily basis to unbearable new levels. If you’re thinking, “It’s time to let the women take the wheel,” you’re definitely not alone.

Sometimes the universe anwers questions or suggests solutions once we’ve offered up our thoughts and wishes. I had written this post a few hours before attending a St. Patrick’s Day party in a private basement pub in my town. It felt more like a tropical island that Ireland that evening as this week’s heatwave lingered in the 70s after sunset. I was sitting at a table, eating my share of an ample supply of corned beef and cabbage (with hot horseradish, can’t miss that) when I struck up a conversation (in between mouthfuls) with the dynamic woman wearing green earrings, across the table from me.

Jackie Elward Candidate for State Assembly photo: jackie4assembly.com

Turns out she just so happens to be running for State Assembly here in California. Jackie Elward’s face has appeared in our local press on multiple occasions as she is a Rohnert Park council member and currently my neighboring city’s vice mayor. But seeing someone in the newspaper is not the same as hanging out over Irish soda cake, corned beef and cabbage and a tasty, Irish stew.

Jackie is an educator, labor organizer, and immigrant with deep roots in the North Bay. She graduated from Chico State University with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Sociology and earned a Bachelor of Science degree in Criminal Justice from Central State University. She’s not afraid to speak truth to power or to stand up for what’s right. Once we’d established this, I asked her what it is she stands for in her political run as assemblywoman:

She’s all about California climate policies, our healthcare, our trade relationships, our schools and universities, police reform, our immigrant and LGBTQ+ neighbors, our right to organize and fight for wages and benefits, and our free speech and due process rights, which are all at risk.

In the State Assembly, protecting open space, habitats, and family farms will be a top priority for this passionate politician, wife and mother of three bilingual (French/English speaking), older children, and she’s commited to asking the tough questions before any new development encroaches on ag and recreational lands we’ve set aside for future generations.

She talked about the affordable housing crisis, the need for mental health care and homelessness solutions, which she’s not afraid to get hands-on with, in person. Wildfire prevention and insurance issues are also her priorities.

So, why is the U.S. still stuck in the 1950s while Scandinavian countries and countries like Iceland and Rwanda are zooming past us? It’s not because American women like Jackie aren’t capable—it’s because the “system” was literally built as a boys’ club. One man abruptly stood up from our table with his half eaten plate and his beer and he walked away as soon as we started to talk about the war in the middle east. Women talking war. It was too much for him. Thankfully the other men at the table joined our conversation.

Jackie did not hesitate to tell her story of being raised in what was the Colony of French Congo and the vital things she has learned first hand from the violent derailing of its democratic process. She does not apologize for any lack of perceived political polish, preferring to get to the point and find solutions quickly.

It’snot surprising to learn that she is considered the most progressive candidate and is endorsed by the California Teachers Association, National Union of Health Care Workers, Congressman Mike Thompson, Congresswoman Lynn Woolsey, State Treasurer Fiona Ma and others.

If we actually want to see more women like Jackie in charge, we need to stop waiting for it to “just happen” and get serious about the following things:

1. Fix the “Care Gap” (For Real This Time)
It’s wild that the U.S. is the only wealthy nation without paid family leave. We’re basically asking women to choose between a leadership track and having a family. In places like Sweden, they don’t make that choice because the government actually supports parents. If we want women at the top, we have to stop being punished for having a life outside the office.

2. Stop the “Likability” Nonsense
We’ve all seen it: a male leader is “assertive,” but a female leader is “bossy” or “aggressive.” We need to call out this double standard when we see it in the media and in our own communities. We must stop asking if a woman is “likable” and start asking if she’s competent. Spoiler: usually, she’s more than overqualified. In Jackie’s case she has had her life threatened due to her progressive politics and has had to have hard truth talks with her family as to the cost of public service.

3. Fix the “Broken Rung”
Everyone talks about the glass ceiling, but, according to research, the real problem is the “broken rung”—that very first promotion to manager. This is where most women get stuck. Companies need to start intentionally promoting women early on and giving them the tools and time they need to juggle work and family life. Free universal child care in my community, for instance, would attract young families into the area, provide working mothers especially with what they need to stay in the workplace, enter politics, whatever . . . boost dwindling elementary school enrollment and keep our schools open.

While the U.S. drags its feet, countries like Iceland and Rwanda are proving that when women lead, policies actually focus on stability, families, and long-term results rather than just winning the next shouting match or war.

We’ve waited long enough for the “right time.” The right time was years ago. To get out of this chaos, we have to stop treating female leadership like a distant goal and start treating it like the emergency it is. It’s time to fix the broken systems, shut down the “likability” double standards, and get women into those highest seats of power immediately. Our future quite literally depends on it.

To learn more about Jackie’s campaign click here.

🍋 Easy Meyer Lemon Limoncello

On a zesty note, the lemon tree in my backyard continues to produce a bounty of fruit. It’s amazing. I love to bake with lemons but after thoroughly devouring my half of a lemon drizzle loaf last week I fancied making something to sip and savor in smaller doses! I’ve made lemoncello in the past but not for a while. I decided that by selecting a local Vodka (Griffo Distillery here in Petaluma) it would make for a lovely local lemoncello in time for Easter!

Ingredients

• 8–10 Meyer lemons

• 750 ml vodka

• 1 to 1½ cups sugar (adjust to taste)

• 3 to 4 cups water

Step 1: Prep the lemons

• Wash and dry the lemons

• Use a vegetable peeler to remove just the yellow peel (avoid the white pith—it makes it bitter).

Step 2: Infuse

• Put the peels in a large glass jar or bowl.

• Pour in the vodka, making sure all peels are submerged.

• Seal and store in a cool, dark place for 7–14 days.

  • Shake gently every couple of days.

  • The liquid will turn bright yellow and smell intensely lemony.

Step 3: Make simple syrup

• Heat water + sugar in a saucepan until the sugar fully dissolves.

• Let it cool completely.

Step 4: Strain & mix

• Strain the lemon peels out of the vodka (use a fine strainer or cheesecloth).

• Mix the infused vodka with the cooled syrup.

  • Start with less syrup if you prefer it stronger; add more to taste.

Step 5: Bottle & rest

• Pour into bottles.

• Let it rest for at least a few days (a week is even better) to mellow.

Celebration, Connection, and Cinema in a Changing world

I missed watching the red carpet for Sunday’s 2026 Academy Awards, but that was the right trade. Instead, I was lounging in Golden Gate Park, in San Francisco, celebrating my middle son Luc’s 31st birthday under a stretch of unseasonably warm March sunshine. Thirty friends, a barbecue, and that particular Northern California light filtering through eucalyptus, Monterey pine, and cypress—it felt almost cinematic in its own quiet way. This is the third March in a row he’s gathered outdoors like this, as if spring itself had RSVP’d in advance. A far cry from some of the rainy, maurauding boy birthday parties of his childhood!

Later that afternoon, my husband, Timo and I made our way back to Petaluma, to our friend Brian’s house, where his pull-down screen turned the delayed viewing of the Oscars into something like a private screening. A few of us leaned into the glamour with a bit of sparkle, but mostly it was about the company—sharing laughs, side commentary, and the kind of easy irreverence that makes awards shows more fun. In a time that often feels increasingly heavy, the evening offered a welcome diversion.

This year’s ceremony, held at the Dolby Theatre and hosted by Conan O’Brien, struck a noticeably modern tone. There was a refreshing shift away from the Oscars’ long-standing nostalgia for Old Hollywood, replaced by something lighter, more current—more in step with the world as it is now.

It was a strong year for film, and the competition felt genuinely open. In my mind, Hamnet, One Battle After Another, Sinners, and Train Dreams all stood shoulder to shoulder. In the end, One Battle After Another, directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, took Best Picture, along with Best Director and Best Supporting Actor for Sean Penn. It felt like a decisive win in a crowded field.

Sinners was a formidable presence as well, earning Best Original Screenplay for Ryan Coogler, Best Cinematography for Autumn Durald Arkapaw, and Best Original Score for Ludwig Göransson. There was something especially gratifying in seeing Bay Area roots represented so strongly on that stage.

Performance-wise, Michael B. Jordan’s Best Actor win for his dual role in Sinners felt well deserved—an ambitious performance that paid off. Still, Leonardo DiCaprio in One Battle After Another gave him real competition especially in that robe! I had been rooting for Jessie Buckley for her portrayal of Agnes in Hamnet, a performance so emotionally precise it seemed impossible to overlook, though she faced a formidable field. And while Bugonia left empty-handed, Emma Stone and Jesse Plemons delivered performances that linger.

Visually, Frankenstein stood out to me for its costuming—Victorian silhouettes infused with an insect-like intricacy in the fabrics. I wasn’t surprised for its win for best costume design. But beyond the films themselves, the night had its own aesthetic narrative. The defining fashion trend wasn’t all gowns, but brooches: diamond-dusted, floral, sculptural pins replacing the traditional boutonniere. Michael B. Jordan, Kieran Culkin, and Pedro Pascal each embraced the look, turning classic tuxedos into something more expressive. Alongside this, many wore red pins in support of the Artists4Ceasefire campaign, a reminder that even on a night of celebration, the wider world remained present.

The In Memoriam segment was particularly moving, especially the tributes to Diane Keaton and Robert Redford, though it was not without controversy for its omissions. It’s hard not to feel for those tasked with shaping such a delicate tribute—deciding who is included, and who is not, is an impossible kind of editing.

Talking of editing. Someone special in my life edited some awesome fashion footage that night. I’ll share on my socials when given the green light!

There were also quieter undercurrents to the evening—heightened security concerns, the weight of global tensions—but they never overtook the ceremony itself. Near the close of his opening monologue, O’Brien acknowledged that tension directly, reminding viewers that in uncertain times, gatherings like this still matter. Films, after all, are collective acts of creation—thousands of voices, across continents and languages, coming together to make something meaningful.

And maybe that’s what lingered most by the end of the night: not just who won, but the shared experience of watching it all unfold—after a day in the sun, among friends, held somewhere between celebration and reflection. With lots of gorgeous dresses!

If Hamnet has you dreaming of Shakespeare’s England, read my sister Kerry’s recent visit to Stratford-upon-Avon here:

The British Travel List

What to see in Shakespeare’s Stratford-upon-Avon

As Jessie Buckley took home Best Actress for Hamnet at the Oscars this weekend, I headed to Stratford-upon-Avon, to see the real-life locations that inspired the book and movie. I was there to write a travel piece for Escape.com.au, but as my 10-year-old daughter is doing a Shakespeare taster-play at school, it was perfect timing to introduce my kids t…

Read more

3 months ago · Kerry Parnell

Floating in the Middle, A Novel, by Frances Rivetti

Upcoming Readings in the Area

I recorded a little sound bite to share. The Sonoma Coast and its incredible, biological ecosystem is a major character in this story which takes place in April. We’re getting close to this now as March races on. Please join me at one of two readings in the area this weekend.

Friday March 20th, 7pm Sonoma Curated 5050 Commerce Blvd, Rohnert Park,

Sunday March 22nd, 10 am Jess Brown Store, 144 Petaluma Boulevard North, Downtown Petaluma — storytelling, coffee and mini scones! What could be nicer?

Audio Book Narrator Kendra Murray volunteers to read from pioneer woman Jean Rio's account of her mind-boggling list of all that she purchased in St. Louis after traveling by paddleboat from New Orleans, and before that, by ship from Liverpool, England in order to transport her family and belongings by wagon to Salt Lake City, Utah in 1851. This reading was part of a lecture by professor Melissa Jacob, during Womens History Crawl at Sonoma State Park Barracks, March 2026.

When the world around us feels oppressive, what does it take to break free, to become a pioneer for change? How far are we willing to go to turn our backs on what we cannot abide in search of justice and a better life? I find inspiration in reading about early trailblazing women—those who leave behind the safety and security of their circumstances to make life better not just for themselves, but for others and for those who come after them. Sometimes their efforts do not turn out as they expect, but their stories still hold powerful lessons for us today.

This particular story came alive for me during a lecture at the Sonoma History Women’s Crawl at Sonoma Barracks, this March. In large part it captured my attention because the woman at its center was British, yet eventually found home and happiness in Northern California, as I can relate. What happened in between for this compelling character is a most remarkable journey and life story.

Jean Rio was a newly widowed mother of seven in the early 1850s. Her youngest child, a daughter, had also died. She lived in London in a literary neighborhood where Charles Dickens was a neighbor. Wealthy, educated, and musically gifted, she was in high demand in London and Paris as both a singer and pianist. While governesses cared for her children at home during her travels, her accounts describe her as a devoted mother in her early forties. At the same time, she had become deeply disillusioned with the conditions of London and Britain as a whole in the decades following the American Revolution—a society marked by smallpox, measles, cholera, workhouses, rigid class divisions, and a church she believed showed little mercy for suffering.

Her sensitivity to social upheaval was shaped by family history. Her mother had survived the French Revolution only because, as an infant, a servant smuggled her out of France hidden in a wine cask after her family was killed during the uprising.

Jean was born in London, the only daughter of Susanna and her husband, Scottish nobleman John Griffiths. Both parents were highly educated and encouraged her learning at a time when girls were rarely supported in pursuing education.

I devoured a copy of Faith and Betrayal: A Pioneer Woman’s Passage into the American West (2005) written by Jean Rio’s great-great-granddaughter Sally Denton in two sittings. Denton, a third-generation Nevadan born in Elko, has an extensive background in print and broadcast journalism and is the author of multiple award-winning investigative and historical books. I imagined Jean Rio looking over my shoulder as I read, her story vividly reconstructed by a descendant who is herself something of a pioneering woman in her research and tenacity to keep history alive.

Denton writes: “She was educated in the English classics and had the good fortune to live at a time when four of the greatest British novelists were women. The fictional spheres of Jane Austen, George Eliot, and Emily Brontë and Charlotte Brontë were representative of Jean Rio’s rarefied world.”

With this background, it seems almost unbelievable that the widowed Jean Rio—refined, accomplished, and well connected, steeped in an England of Dickens and the Brontës—would gamble everything on the American frontier. Yet the promises of charismatic Mormon missionaries she encountered in London were powerful. Their vision of Zion offered an escape from the degradation she saw in Victorian London and the possibility of building a utopian life for her family in the New World.

What she did not realize was that as a widowed woman she would ultimately surrender her wealth and independence. The church she hoped would provide spiritual riches would later claim the worldly goods she had clung to through eight extraordinary and harrowing months of travel from London to Utah.

In the first week of January 1851, Jean Rio and her family traveled by train from London to Liverpool. Liverpool had become one of the primary departure ports for migrants leaving the British Isles and mainland Europe during the 19th century. Regular packet ship services beginning in 1818 strengthened transatlantic trade links as Britain imported timber and cotton from North America for its expanding industries.

Between 1830 and 1930, more than nine million emigrants departed from Liverpool bound for the United States, Canada, and Australia. Around 90,000 of these migrants were assisted or sponsored by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, traveling as converts who would eventually journey to Utah by wagon, handcart, or later by train.

Jean Rio’s circumstances were unusual. She had the financial means to fund her own group of seventeen converts. They sailed across the Atlantic aboard the 152-foot square-rigged ship George W. Bourne, built in Kennebunk, Maine. She covered all costs for the entire party’s continued travel—first by steamboat up the Mississippi River from New Orleans, and then by wagon across the frontier. Her entourage transported four wagonloads of household goods, including her piano, clothing, and even a copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare.

Once the ship left port and entered the open North Atlantic Ocean, conditions became brutal. Winter storms brought freezing winds, rough seas, and icy spray that soaked the deck and rigging during the 56-day voyage. Seasickness was widespread, and diseases such as cholera and typhus spread easily in cramped conditions. During the journey, her four-year-old son Josiah died of consumption and was buried at sea.

If I had been in her position, I might have chickened out and accepted an early host’s invitation to remain in her port of entry, New Orleans—an opulent city she described as the “Paris of the Bayous.” She admired its architecture and fashion but was horrified by the normalization of slavery. It was the era of Mark Twain, and I wonder what advice he might have given her with regards to the perils ahead had their paths crossed.

Instead, she pressed onward. By paddleboat she and her entourage traveled to St. Louis, where she purchased the goods and oxen needed for the overland journey. From there they traveled by wagon to Council Bluffs, joining a larger company of emigrants bound for Salt Lake City.

The journey was perilous: buffalo stampedes, violent storms, snow, deep mud, dangerous river crossings, and scarce fresh food. Babies were reportedly thrown from their mothers’ arms during slides and stampedes. Jean Rio began working as a midwife along the trail—a striking contrast to her previous life performing on stage in London and Paris. Her party traveled with four wagons, sixteen oxen, and her prized piano, encased in a crate and covered with tar for protection.

In Utah Territory her new home, though modest, stood near the elaborate mansion of Brigham Young. Its rooms contained the English furniture, fine rugs, bone china, and sterling flatware she had transported at enormous cost. At the center of her parlor stood her intricately carved Collard & Collard piano.

Jean Rio managed her allocated land and property personally, keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes and spiders, sang in the church choir, played music for family and friends, and educated her children. Yet life in Utah was far from stable. The California Gold Rush and mining booms across the West brought turbulence and violence. Another major issue she had not anticipated to be true was the rife poligamy within her community.

“She noted the great disparity between the city’s inhabitants,” writes her great-great-grandaughter. “A few, like her, lived in relatively comfortable adobe and brick structures. Most of the others occupied crude hovels, many of which were dugouts, carved into the hillside, (windowless and doorless) their roofs covered with willow branches, dirt and canvas.”

In 1854, as the church prepared for what it believed might be a major conflict with the U.S. Army, new rules required settlers to transfer their property to church stewardship. Jean Rio was forced to convey all her assets—including cash, goods, and her piano—to Brigham Young as trustee of the church. Her piano reportedly ended up in Amelia Place, the home of Young’s favored English wife, Ann Eliza Webb Dee Young Denning. This must have truly stung. Today the instrument can be seen in the Mormon Temple Museum in Salt Lake City.

Soon afterward she was instructed to move about 35 miles north to Ogden under the auspices to help expand Mormon settlements. It’s reasonable to believe she would’ve posed a significant problem by remaining in Salt Lake City if she continued to refuse marriage, possibly even to Young as another one of his wives. Her diary then falls ominously silent for seventeen years. Later, she fell in love with a non-Mormon, in Ogden, and remarried, only to lose him when he passed away after only six months. She lived in relative poverty after that, working her farm through back-breaking labor while continuing to raise her family, community activities—stage productions, congregational singing, dressmaking, and exhausting midwifery. Frontier dresses frequently covered in the blood of childbirth a stark contrast to the fineries of her London wardrobe.

Her story shifts again after the completion of the First Transcontinental Railroad, which fortuitously transformed Ogden into a major rail hub. She was asked to accompany her son’s employer, a prominent railroad man, Chauncy Walker West to San Francisco for meetings and to watch over his health. After many silent years, her diary resumes.

It was after West died in San Francisco, that Jean announced she would remain there with the sons who had secretly fled Utah and the church years earlier by horseback in the middle of the night. Leaving Ogden with all her possessions had surely been an indication of what she had in mind.

In California her family prospered. Her son Charles became a successful lawyer in San Francisco. Another son, John, farmed rice on the Sacramento Delta and served in the state legislature. Oldest son Henry Walter, eventually built a home in Antioch, where Jean initially divided her time.

In her sixties she threw herself into an entirely new social and civic life, California-style. Determined not to burden her children, she focused on midwifery as a profession. She became active in suffrage, equal pay advocacy, birth control discussions, child-labor reform, and the campaign for the eight-hour workday through the local temperance movement.

She helped establish Antioch’s first high school and advocated for a library, fire engine, and public park. She became a devoted member of the socially progressive First Congregational Church of Antioch.

Late in life she even purchased a handcrafted Mason & Hamlin reed organ shipped by rail from Boston—possibly financed through renewed contact with English estate lawyers.

In 1875 Jean Rio returned to Utah for one final visit with family and friends. She was close to 70 when she wrote that although she regretted leaving England for Utah, the journey had changed her family’s destiny. Ultimately she found peace—and happiness—in California.

Denton is not afraid as an author to delve into the dark side of American history. She writes about polygamy within Mormon culture in that era: Young viewed it as central to building an advanced civilization, she claims, with his believing that society’s problems stemmed partly from restricting men’s sexual drives. She writes that the doctrine faulted monogamy for wasting sperm. In a religion in which populating the afterlife was paramount, such “waste” was likely considered a sin.

The multiple wife scenario that Jean Rio was so determind to avoid, certainly made it possible for large households to run like clockwork with a wife laundress, a wife hostess, a wife seamstress, and cook etc, all without paying wages for household help. This takes the concept of unpaid domestic labor to the next level, even though the second and subsequent wives and their children had no legal claim.

Only one of Jean Rio’s children practiced polygamy: her second son William George Baker, who remained in the church in Utah and fathered twenty-two children with two wives. Baker eventually went into hiding and was later imprisoned for polygamy in 1890.

Despite disagreements over his theological and doctrinal choices, Jean Rio had ultimately set aside her objections and embraced her extended family as best she could.

Many people might have withdrawn after such losses, but Jean Rio began and flourished in an entirely new chapter in her sixties in California. She became active in education, civic life, women’s rights, and social reform. Her story shows that purpose and influence are not limited by age or circumstance.

Ultimately, Jean Rio’s spirit teaches that a pioneer is not just someone who travels west or crosses oceans. A true pioneer is someone who keeps moving forward—morally, intellectually, and socially—despite the toughest obstacles and even when the path turns out very differently than expected.

First Women’s History Week Was Started in Sonoma County in 1978

It was lovely to see Connie Williams, Petaluma Regional Library History Room Librarian at the 2nd annual Women’s History Crawl in Sonoma.

Connie shared information on Women’s History Week having begun in 1978 in Santa Rosa, California, initiated by the Education Task Force of the Sonoma County Commission on the Status of Women to highlight the lack of women in K-12 school curricula. Held to coincide with International Women's Day, the event featured school programs, a "Real Woman" essay contest, and a downtown Santa Rosa parade.

The event's success in California spurred a national movement, leading President Jimmy Carter to declare the first National Women's History Week in 1980.

1987: After lobbying from the National Women's History Alliance (then the National Women’s History Project), Congress passed Public Law 100-9, designating March as Women’s History Month.

Connie also highlighted the work of author, sculptor and art historian Mary McChesney who lived and worked in the Petaluma area and whose sculpture work can be seen in the library in Petaluma.

I talked to many presenters from State Parks in the Bay Area representing the pioneer and trailblazing women of their region. It was an incredibly uplifting event given the time we are living in. These amazing, fearless women of history would not want us to be silenced or defeated in our desire for a better future. I’ll be writing about several of them in the coming weeks.

Calendar Reminder— Join Me at Jess Brown Store, Petaluma, Sunday Morning, March 22, 2026

If you are in the Bay Area, please join me for a relaxed Sunday morning of story, conversation, and connection in the cozy and welcoming space that is Jess Brown Store, in Downtown Petaluma. Surrounded by vintage and found objects and the designer’s beautiful bespoke clothing collection, I’ll be reading from my new novel, Floating in the Middle, and sharing reflections on friendship, home, community, coastal conservancy, and today’s climate anxiety. Together, we’ll explore how storytelling can spark change—and how each of us can use our voices for good.

Sunday, March 22, 2026 | 10:00–11:30 AM
Jess Brown Store
144 Petaluma Blvd N, Petaluma, CA 94952

Click here to order a copy of Floating in the Middle directly from my printer/distributer, Ingram Spark in the USA. Otherwise, it’s available to order in print and ebook format around the word, wherever you source your books.

(Coastal Photos: Frances Rivetti)

Core Survival Formula

Grip. Conserve. Adapt. Regrow. Wait.

The tide will turn.
It always does.

Along the rugged shoreline of the Sonoma Coast, where the Pacific crashes against sandstone cliffs and curls into quiet tide pools, a starfish begins its slow, patient life. Clinging to a rock in the intertidal zone, it grips the stone with hundreds of tiny tube feet, each one working with gentle hydraulic precision.

Twice a day, the ocean claims it, submerging it in cold, salt water; twice a day, it retreats, leaving the starfish exposed to the wind and wheeling gulls overhead. The rhythm of the tides shapes everything — when to feed, when to cling tighter, when to stretch its arms wide to absorb the sun’s faint warmth through the proverbial fog.

In the still pools left behind by the receding waves, the starfish becomes both hunter and neighbor. Mussels cluster nearby in stubborn colonies, barnacles seal themselves shut, and anemones sway like underwater flowers when the sea returns.

Patient and unhurried, the starfish pries open its prey with steady persistence, turning survival into a quiet act of endurance. Beyond the tide pools, in the deeper sway of the coastal waters, its few remaining relatives play a quiet but vital role in protecting what is left of the great underwater forests of kelp.

By keeping populations of mussels and especially sea urchins in check, the sunflower starfish (which can be purple but not always) help prevent overgrazing that can strip kelp holdfasts from the rocks. In this way, they support the towering kelp that shelters fish, crabs, and drifting young life — a hidden partnership between slow-moving predator and waving forest.

Storms tear at the coast in winter, churning the waters into a frenzy, yet the starfish holds fast, even capable of regrowing a lost limb if fate is unkind. Seasons pass in fog and brilliance, in plankton blooms and migrating whales offshore, and the sunflower starfish remains, although critically endangered, if not almost extinct — a small, resilient presence in the vast breathing edge of California’s wild shore.

According to the California Academy of Science and other scientific sources in the SF Bay Area: a 2013-2017 sea star wasting syndrome epidemic, compounded by warm waters, wiped out over 90% of the sunflower starfish population, making them a major focus of conservation efforts.

While once common, they have largely disappeared from the California coast, although some, particularly younger ones, are recently being seen again out here on the Sonoma County coast.

I took these photos during a tide-pooling afternoon at the beach at Sonoma Coastline’s Doran State Park on February 28th, 2026. I’m not sure if either of these starfish are sunflower sea stars but I hope so.

I’d taken my recent novel, Floating in the Middle on a little day trip/book tour to show it some of the sights in its pages. In its story, I wrote about the ecological impact of sunflower starfish as key predators of purple urchins, their disappearance having led to an explosion in urchin populations, which in turn have devastated California's kelp forests. An estimated 95% of the bull kelp of the Sonoma Coast up to Mendocino has been stripped.

Imagine if 95% of our coastal redwoods were to disappear? The loss of kelp in the ocean is equivalent. Good news is that scientists are actively rearing kelp and sunflower seastars in labs (at Sonoma State University and UC. Davis’ Bodega Marine Lab ) for reintroduction. And scientists are working with teams including native American divers and innovative foraging companies to remove the purple urchin in large numbers, for food. The character, Jamie, in my novel has been diving with a kelp restoration crew for several years before his planned to dive for uni for what was to be a last-night seafood feast at the end of a long weekend coastal reunion.

The more I learn about the sunflower seastar, the more I see that its life offers a surprisingly practical guide for surviving turbulent human times.

Economic downturns, social unrest, personal upheaval — they move in cycles.

Resisting the existence of tides wastes energy.
Preparing for them builds resilience.

Instead of asking myself “How do I stop what’s happening around me?” I’m remembering to ask: “How do I best endure this phase?”

Reducing media intake. Protecting sleep. Narrowing focus. You or I can’t manage the entire coastline, or fix the world for that matter. But we can focus on family, friends, community. It feels like the past 10 years have tested us humans to the extreme, doesn’t it? We’ve certainly had enough time to toughen up as a species in preparation for what comes next.

Just as the tidepools persist after earthquakes, massive storms and ecological change, human history teaches us our collective resilience is the one thing to get us through.

And the picture-perfect weather at the weekend certainly helped make it all a little easier while boosting spirits here in Sonoma County. I’m sharing images I captured with you so that you too can soak in the blue skies and tranquility of the Sonoma Coast wherever you are in the world.

Why I Loved the New Wuthering Heights Movie

(Photos: Vogue)

Last week I caught a screening of the new Wuthering Heights movie by British director Emerald Fennell. I joined friends, Lesley, Gail and Jane at our local Cinema West in downtown Petaluma, which, aside from the four of us, was packed with mostly 20-40-year-old groups of girlfriends, all equally keen to see what all the fuss was about!

Me and my gang took to our reclining seats as the rather more mature representatives of decades of an English grammar school literary curriculum that included Emily Brontë’s 1847 classic novel as one of its mainstays. Dark, passionate and violent, it’s not a story that is easily forgotten once read, though I have to admit I had lost sight of a few of the sub-characters, which turned out to be okay as the director cut them anyway!

While the film was billed as a fantastical fever dream, a surreal, gothic, misty rift on a 1950s melodrama that unapologetically blends historical references with glitzy modernity, I stepped out at the end of the credits considering the core of the classic story having successfully carried the audacity of this new production.

I was thoroughly riveted by the tension, fantastic set, sweeping, natural Yorkshire landscape, special effects, chemistry between the leads and especially the maniacal yet spectacular costuming and hair.

It was the morning-after soaking it all in that I read up on British costume designer Jacqueline Durran’s references explaining the startling, historical mash-up and madly beautiful gowns. I wish I had prepared myself beforehand as I was a bit perplexed at times with wild swings from Elizabethan bodices, to Heidi-esque enesmbles, to gothic velvet, a blood red cape and fantasy-futuristic cellophane, metallic and vintage Chanel. The novel itself takes place roughly between 1770 and 1803, featuring fashions from the 1780s through the early Regency period. Clothing in this era was shifting toward simpler, less constrained styles, with women wearing early Regency-style dresses (like empire waists). The setting in the isolated, rural Yorkshire moors meant Cathy’s clothing would have been well worn, practical, for the most part, before her marriage.

The designer trades period realism for high fashion in this film. She designed with a non-traditional, stylized approach, drawing inspiration from a 500-year span of fashion including aforementioned Elizabethan, Georgian, and Victorian eras. These looks heavily feature flamboyant 1950s fashion, including a 1951 wedding dress and designs by Alexander McQueen and Thierry Mugler and technicolor Hollywood films such as Gone with the Wind.

The "quick flashes" of lavish costumes, particularly in the high shine and gift wrapped Christmas and transition scenes, were designed to reflect Cathy’s transformation from a wild moor-child to a sophisticated member of the gentry. I for one, would like to see each and every one of those outfits in an exhibit someday.

Flashes of costumes for the Linton family were inspired by Victorian dolls. Isabella Linton’s look is characterized by "frizzy, wild" hair adorned with elaborate headdresses, ribbons and kooky glasses, designed to make her look like a naive, slightly unsettling doll, which she proves to be rather more than as her character takes hold of its daring part of the narrative.

I’ve stayed away from the movie theater for the most part since the pandemic, only on occasion putting up with people insistent upon eating burgers and slurping sodas and checking their phones. But I’ve been back twice this year, the first time for Hamnet and now Wuthering Heights. My journalist sister, Kerry, in the UK, said the same thing. Two period pieces pulled us each back to the big screen on both sides of the pond.

This certainly is a provacative movie to see with friends as you’re going to want to talk about it after. Take my advice, do a little research into the direction and costume design and save yourself some head scratching during. Instead, sit back and enjoy the spectacle that is selling latest print editions of this absolute classic novel like global hotcakes! Whatever gets actual books back in vogue and in hands has to be a great thing!

(Photo: Markus Winkler)

Writing in a time of War

I’ve been asking myself why I feel more compelled than ever to return to my desk this week. Writing at times like this becomes:

• A way to bear witness

• A form of resistance

• A method of emotional survival

Shorter forms can feel more urgent and manageable when the future is uncertain. If you feel like writing would help you to process what’s happening in the world, and you don’t normally do so, I strongly encourage you to consider playing around with memoir, poetry, citizen journalism, letters and diaries. Likewise, let’s encourage those close to us to pick up a pen or take to their keyboard. Writing doesn’t have to be shared, but it’s a powerful tool we must remember to sharpen, either way.

Coming Up

Thank you to all the bookgroups who have hosted me this past couple of months. It’s been a delight to meet new readers and old and it’s so rewarding to be put through my paces with rigorous questions and discussions about the characters and their motives as well as the natural elements in Floating in the Middle. I have several more bookgroups to attend this month and next and two readings/discussions that are open to the public. If you are in the Bay Area and would like to join in on the fun with my latest novel, join me on Friday evening, March 20th at Sonoma Curated in Rohnert Park at 7pm and/or Sunday morning, March 22nd at the lovely Jess Brown Store in downtown Petaluma, from 10 to 11.30. I will include more details about these events in next week’s column.

When the news feels relentless—blizzards burying the East Coast, cartel violence prompting shelter-in-place warnings in Puerto Vallarta and many other cities in neighboring Mexico, political mayhem here in the States, high-profile arrests in the UK, and tragic avalanches shaking communities not only here in Northern California but in several mountainous zones around the world—it can seem as if the whole world is tilting at once.

The headlines may be loud, but I’m here at my desk this afternoon to say, our homes can still be gentle. Making lemonade from lemons isn’t denial; it’s devotion to the small, steady rituals that keep us human. It’s whisking eggs and sugar into a silky lemon tart, zest bright against the winter gray, or slicing fresh lemons for a pitcher of something sweet and sharp to share.

It’s placing a jar of daffodils in the center of the table—tiny suns that insist on blooming anyway. I keep my spirits bright by tending to the basics: cooking simple meals, setting the table, calling my sons, making a date with a friend, lingering over coffee. I take walks even when its raining. I read by lamplight in the quiet hours of the evening, listening to music that reminds me who I am. In uncertain times, these ordinary acts are radical anchors. They don’t erase the storms beyond my doors, but they steady me on the home front, where love, beauty, a semblance or order and presence are invited to prevail.

Another batch of memories was delivered to my inbox a couple of days ago. We’ve been gradually digitalizing the video cassettes we’d tucked away from the early days of parenting our three sons.

If you haven’t done this and you’re sitting on a box of fading treasures, I highly recommend you do so before the quality of the video disintegrates into the past along with a million special moments. It makes me so emotional to turn back time on film. One thing that struck me with the latest batch was how calm I was for the most part as a young mother. My own parents and my in-laws were geographically far removed from the day to day grandparenting I see my friends inacting with their grandkids nowadays and I realize what a bold move it was to raise a family on an entirely different continent from them and other extended family.

Who was that unflappable young woman, I ask myself? How did I keep it all together with three sons, freelance work, an Italian husband for whom the concept of soup out of a can was nothing short of a culinary sin? (He does cook, I should add, but still . . . )

She was me and I am her. Video is extraordinary in that way. And how to maintain such poise? The goal isn’t to be indifferent. It’s to be steady. To be the kind of person who, while the world does cartwheels, calmly says, “Okay. But dinner is still at six.” Unflappable people aren’t numb—they’re anchored. They know the tart needs time to set. They know flowers still turn toward light. They know that joy, especially now, is not frivolous. It’s fuel.

So I stay informed. I care about the big things. But I also guard my peace like it’s the last slice of lemon tart. Because in a world this bananas, being gently, deliberately unflappable might just be the sanest choice we’ve got.

Sonoma County Meyer Lemon Spring Tart

I made one, a family favorite, on Sunday, inspired by the Meyer lemons that thrive in the mild coastal climate of Sonoma County at this time of year and especially, the fruit from the prolific dwarf Meyer Lemon tree that is laden in my backyard.

Unlike regular lemons, Meyer lemons (a lemon–mandarin hybrid brought to California in the early 1900s) are sweeter, floral, and less acidic—perfect for spring desserts.

🍋 Ingredients

Olive Oil Tart Crust

• 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

• ¼ cup organic sugar

• ½ tsp sea salt

• Zest of 1 Meyer lemon

• ½ cup extra virgin olive oil

• 2–3 tbsp cold water

Meyer Lemon Curd Filling

• ¾ cup fresh Meyer lemon juice (about 4–5 lemons)

• Zest of 2 Meyer lemons

• ¾ cup sugar

• 3 large, far fresh eggs

• 4 tbsp unsalted butter, cubed

• Pinch sea salt

Optional Garnish

• Lightly sweetened whipped cream

🌿 Instructions

1. Make the Crust

1. Preheat oven to 350°F (175°C).

2. Mix flour, sugar, salt, and lemon zest.

3. Stir in olive oil and 2 tbsp water until dough comes together.

4. Press into a 9-inch tart pan.

5. Prick with a fork and bake 18–22 minutes until lightly golden. Cool completely.

2. Make the Meyer Lemon Curd

1. In a saucepan over medium-low heat, whisk lemon juice, zest, sugar, eggs, and salt.

2. Stir constantly until mixture thickens (about 8–10 minutes).

3. Remove from heat and whisk in butter until smooth.

4. Strain for extra silkiness (optional but recommended).

3. Assemble

• Pour warm curd into cooled crust.

• Chill at least 2 hours until set.

A Turning Point for the Crown

In the wake of last week’s column I wrote on the growing uncertainty surrounding the future of the British monarchy, events have escalated dramatically. The arrest of Prince Andrew and reports that Sarah Ferguson has been lying low, first at a Swiss spa and more recently, Dubai — with speculation mounting that she may be called in for questioning on the investigation into her former husband’s alleged UK trade tip-offs — have only intensified worldwide scrutiny of the British royal household. In my view as an ex-pat, if I was in King Charles III polished leather shoes, I would have or would soon convene a private meeting with Queen Camilla, Prince William, and Catherine, Princess of Wales to carefully plan the timing of a diplomatic transition of responsibility.

Such a move could surely mark the beginning of a more modern, transparent era for a slimmed-down, working monarchy while taking historic steps to appease an increasingly disillusioned British and commonwealth populace. I’ve argued in the past that the King would never do this, but given the level of threat the monarchy is facing as to its viability in these tumultuous times, his voluntary resignation in such circumstances would certainly acknowledge the time is right for a sea-change in national and international leadership. The last abdication in Britain was in 1936 when Edward VIII gave up his crown and handed it to his brother, George VI, the late Queen’s father. The British royal family has survived scandal in the past, and I’m sure the King will not bow to pressure but will do what he thinks is best for history, heritage and humanity, ultimately, as well as the future of his country and the commonwealth, as well as his own family.

U.S. Wine and Beer Exports Pummeted by 26% in 2025

Census Bureau reports this week reveal a $472 million drop in U.S. wine and beer imports in 2025 in comparison to international sales in 2024. Although wine, beer and related products totaled $1.2 billion in sales last year, exports of wine alone dropped by 33.5%.

Although it’s fair to say that tarrifs played a big part in this, encouraging robust “buy local” campaigns in countries such as Canada, here in California, major wine companies continue to shutter wineries, tasting rooms and lay off staff.

I was saddened to read in the San Francisco Chronicle this week that Jackson Family Wines here in Sonoma County, the sixth largest U.S wine company and a major employer in the region has permanently shuttered its Carneros Hill Winery. The facility (previously owned by Buena Vista Winery), apparently served as overflow production capacity and was underutilized.

This news comes hot on the heels of Gallo, the largest U.S. wine producer, confirming closure of a massive Napa Valley production facility. Several other high profile wineries have shuttered facilities and laid off staff.

I’ve written about wine, tasting rooms, farm-to-table culture in Northern California for more than two decades. The agricultural history of Sonoma County has been a key element in my writing, how different crops rose, dominated, declined and transformed the rural economy over time. One of its earliest major cash crops from the mid 1800s was hops. In fact, by around 1913, Healdsburg, Sonoma County produced around half of the state’s hop production. Apples, pears, cherries, walnuts and orchard fruits were planted widely in that time period.

Vegetable, chicken and dairy farming, plus hay, rye, oats supplied the Gold Rush city of San Francisco.

By the early 1900s, prunes became the countys signature crop. Economic decline after WWII lead farmers to switch crops and many of the apple orchards in the west county were ripped out and replaced by more profitable vineyards.

Wine grapes became the county’s most valuable agricultural product with Cannabis cultivation threatening to make wider inroads over the past decade than it actually did. Today, organic products, such as cheese and yogurt making faclities and olive farms coexist alongside livestock ranches and vineyards.

Since California wine tourism was down significantly last year from previous years, in large part due to the numbers of international visitors deterred from entering the United States in 2025, it was troubling to visit tasting rooms in Sonoma County where staff were lamenting the dwindling of summer and harvest season guests.

Then there’s the steep price of many of our California wines compared to cheaper imports. And the fact that younger people are opting for beer, cannabis, cider and liquor-based cocktails over wine at home and in restaurants. Government health warnings made a big impression on a lot of wine drinkers I know. If they haven’t cut back significantly on wine consumption, they are at least aware of the long term issues of over drinking.

Organic, regenerative and lower-alcohol wines are gaining popularity and winemakers are working hard to refine zero alcohol options. For these to work in the marketplace, the prices must be enticing.

Research institutions like UC Davis are studying climate-adaptive crops that could benefit our north bay conditions. Since ranching has such deep roots here, areas around Petaluma and west county are becoming national leaders in carbon-sequestering pasture systems, agroforestry and regenerative livestock. I think we’ll see fewer acres of grapes, more native plant nurseries artisan cheese, grass-fed beef, pasture-raised poultry and fermented foods where some winemaking facilities once stood.

Consequences of all of this is that there would likely be improved watershed resilience and potential return to oak woodland, yet with fewer hospitality and season vineyard labor jobs in Sonoma County and secondary industry effects on barrel making, bottling supplies and trucking, shrinking the entire viticulture ecosystem.

I’m already seeing a repositioning toward rgenerative agriculture and culinary tourism when I’m out and about in the region. It may feel like the end of another era, but California is hardy and a long-term transition toward a mixed rural economy is part of its evolution.

Something we can all do if we want to help keep the California wine industry afloat and keep an eye on our intake is to buy a single, more meaningful bottle at a time instead of several out-of-state casual bottles. In short, buy fewer bottles but from small/local producers. Purchasing directly from wineries in tasting rooms and through wine clubs is another way to boost the coffers of our favorite growers and producers.

I look for restaurants that feature Sonoma County producers when eating out and though I have shifted to non-alcoholic drinks during the week, I am doing my bit by enjoying my favorite local wines with weekend meals. How about you?

Upcoming Events

Sonoma Curated is a new spot in Rohnert Park, CA showcasing used books, book ends, book case curios, art, sofas, coffee tables, reading chairs and all kinds of items pertaining to reading that owners Danise and Ed Mueller have curated in their home clearance business throughout the bay area.

Rohnert Park doesn’t have a bookstore, so this intriguing space on Commerce Blvd offers people in the area a place to visit and browse, with art classes and activities at various times of the week.

I’m pleased to be the first local author to read at Sonoma Curated, on Friday evening March 20th and appreciate Danise and Ed’s welcome and outreach to authors in the area.

Later that weekend I’ll be reading and in conversation at the Jess Brown Store on Petaluma Blvd, in downtown Petaluma from 10 am to 11.30 am, Sunday, March 22nd.

I hope to see you at one or both of these southern Sonoma County events.

Click here to order a copy of Floating in the Middle directly from my printer/distributer, Ingram Spark in the USA. Otherwise, it’s available to order in print and ebook format around the word, wherever you source your books.

The moon was full and luminous over west Petaluma, Sonoma County upon my arrival at the station by the Visitors Center early Friday morning, in order to catch the first SMART train light rail of the day down to Larkspur in Marin County to the south. Specific trains make a connection with the Golden Gate Ferry Service, the only way for North Bay dwellers like me to travel into San Francisco other than by car or bus (or small craft or bike for the truly intrepid I suppose).

It may be out of character for me to be seen under cover of dark at the station, downtown, but I must say it is most romantic a notion to peer out of the windows at an unlit landscape as the smart train glides south out of the small, riverfront city and into Marin County, the scenery gradually opening up in wide, cinematic layers of dawn.

Stretches of tidal marsh and rippling grasses. Egrets standing motionless in the shallows. The tracks curving gently along the wetlands.

Oak trees dotting the slopes, their branches twisted and sculptural in the emerging daylight.

By the time I stepped off the quiet, green and white electric train at Larkspur, the rounded silhouette of Mount Tamalpais was rising above the landscape to my right, wrapped in a veil of swirling fog drifting inland from the Pacific.

I took my seat on the ferry shortly after 7 a.m. , feeling like I had accomplished something marvelous as a sleepy surburbanite by making my way into San Francisco by eight, just in time to roll my carry-on through the Ferry Building, across the Embarcadero and into the Hyatt to make the breakfast hour seating at the 2026 San Francisco Writers Conference.

The ferry had been slowed down for a few minutes en-route due to a potential whale sighting in the Bay. I didn’t see it but we all stood up to have a good look.

It had been a couple of years since I’d attended the conference in SF and I was eager to soak in a long weekend amidst a lively and vibrant community of the book! Over 500 writers, speakers, publishing industry pros and volunteers banding together with opportunities for learning and growth.

I would pick from some 80 breakout sessions over the course of the conference, with fun networking events throughout. People travel from all over the country and internationally to attend this wonderful event, and for consults and master classes, so I am enormously appreciative of SFWC taking place so conveniently on my doorstep so to speak.

Friday’s Writing For Change Summit was top of my list for my my first day. The Conference actually kicked off Thurs afternoon but for those of us who prefer a three day option it was easy to jump in at the start of day two.

Writing for Change sessions kicked off with understanding the concept, followed by Keys to Crafting Books that Inspire Change. I hope that I have written books that encourage readers to think differently after reading into many aspects of my stories and I plan to continue to write with this vital element as one of my main motivations.

It was exciting to be amongst so many writers sharing a common goal of helping to make the world a better, safer place by integrating stories of inclusion, climate awareness and hope.

One of the highlights for me outside of the Writing for Change thread, was to sit in on an outstanding afternoon non-fiction session “Jane Austen’s 250th Birthday. A Conversation with Two Austen Experts Who Explore Her Legacy”. Karen Joy Fowler, author of The Jane Austen Book Group and Devony Looser, author and editor of multiple books on Austen and Regents Prof of English at Arizona State University were moderated in this lively and informative discussion by journalist and author Erica Mailman.

Another compelling take home was the key note from acclaimed journalist and author Jack El-Hai whose book, The Nazi and the Psychiatrist was adapted to the newly released Sony Pictures Classics film, Nuremberg.

The author showed how California’s Dr. Douglas M. Kelley’s research, the products of months of the Lieutenant Colonel of the U.S. Army Military Intelligence Corps’ interviews and psychological evaluations of members of the Nazi German high command on trial for war crimes and crimes against humanity, offer a key to understanding the potential rise of facism in the United States.

The German leaders had encouraged citizens to react with their emotions, weaponized the rights of democracy in anti-democratic action and exploited racial and national myths, harnessing the power of the police.

El-Hai is a soft spoken, grounded writer, based in LA, who spoke without ego. He focuses most of his work on the histroy of medicine, science and other historic topics. What was interesting to note is that the book, when released, in 2013, was somewhat of a sleeper until the more recent political climate forced a closer look at the perils of history repeating itself.

Sunday afternoon’s return journey to the North Bay was made by car, thanks to a post-conference, belated Valentine’s late-lunch date in the city with my husband, Timo, who scooped me up with my overloaded brain and drove us home just as the first of this week’s major rain storms kicked in.

It was great to visit with people I have met at previous year’s SFW Conferences, including Petaluman Teri, a children’s book author and soon to be memoirist, pictured with me below.

(I must admit to being envious of fellow Sonoma County author and friend, Teri Roche Drobnick’s “I read Banned Books” Lingua Franca sweater!)

All the World’s a Stage. What to Wear to a Writers Conference!

Last Sunday’s The New York Times Styles section lingered on women who are complex, global, precise—but not perfect. Put together, but not self-serious. I thought about that and had a laugh as I unzipped my carry-on upon my return from the San Francisco Writers Conference.

I try to be mindful to look like myself and not like I’ve mood-boarded a trip. I’d given myself ten minutes in the closet while packing on Thursday, tops. That’s it. No spiraling. No costume changes. I’d pulled pieces that travel well, that don’t wrinkle too badly. Sneakers, because I intended to move quickly between sessions. No scarf. Nothing fluttering, nothing fussy. Just enough structure to suggest I respect the occasion, enough ease to suggest I respect my comfort too.

I can’t help assessing people by their outfit choices. Not just women. Men too. I know it sounds superficial but I really do enjoy the art of clothing. It’s a reflex, like checking the first sentence of a novel for signs of what’s between the pages, what’s ahead. The woman with the largest, oversized, designer black eyeglasses perched on the tip of her nose and perpetually editing her manuscript on an electronic notebook, even at meals. The man in the poncho, about to explain something other worldly to his intrigued audience at his breakfast table. Another in a beautifully tailored tweed suit and brogues, nice socks, crisp as a first edition. Mustn’t forget the industry icon in his red fedora. The writerly tech bros in their soft, expensive minimalism.

Emotional support totes stuffed with conference schedules, business cards, promotional bookmarks, pens and scripts for pitching.

A crumpled literary agent, hair slightly disheveled, who couldn’t care less, because she holds all the cards and knows it.

No capes this year, so disappointing. Plenty faded corduroy blazers, though, elbows slightly worn, comfort over prestige. I especially enjoy and appreciate the proudly lanyarded younger attendees in their teens and early twenties, rocking in to lunch in their first trouser suits. All white ensembles, or all black. Paired with t-shirts and chunky sneakers. A surprising number of white trouser suits on the youthful set. Get that. Style and form lives on.

Lots of leather satchels and attache cases. I haven’t seen as many leather book bags in decades. This is nice. Whispers of myterious manuscripts and gravitas.

There’s the hopeful young romance novelist in her powder-blue suit and coordinating manicure and pumps, pacing the corridor, whispering her lines while she waits to pitch an acquiring agent, smoothing her lapel as if it might smooth her nerves. The poet in a peach vintage-style prom dress who takes the stage during the poetry jam with the confidence of youth, reading as though she’s already been discovered. Hopefully she has, or will be. A super stylish writer from the East Coast, with a broad grin, good haircut and great taste in velvet jackets, tells me she’s working on something about Jane Austen and shows me videos of herself in character.

A book coach with silver rings and bracelets that catch the light and clink distracting me from what she’s saying. Another woman looking for representation in a nautical ensemble so polished she looks as though she’s stepped out of a designer storefront and into our fluorescent-lit lobby.

Each of them complex. Wonderfully unique.

For me, the triumph is fitting everything into a carry-on—with room for ten of my latest novels tucked along the edges. Not too many outfits, but enough. Always an emphasis on the sneaker selection. Nothing jarring. Nothing that makes too dramatic a jump from one day to the next. Black velvet jeans, blouses, sweaters, layers for air conditioned rooms and draughty corridors. I want to look like I belong in every session I walk into, but also like I could wander out to find a decent coffee without anyone taking too much notice. I did leave a sweater and a jacket on the back of a chair when I realized I was in the wrong session and had made my hasty exit. There was a slightly awkward interaction when I hurried back to retrieve said items in between sessions, lest they be destined for lost and found. A woman who didn’t appear to understand my mission, was sitting with her back on the chair, intent on tapping away at her phone. I gave up on my British sensibility in the patience department after about five minutes of hand gesturing and polite facial appeals and eventually yanked the sweater and jacket from behind her as gently as I could. She wasn’t in the least bit bothered and continued with her texting while I dashed off to absorb the next not-to-be-missed panel on how to boost a literary career!

Comfortable. Intentional. Slightly incognito. That’s my ticket.

Zipped and unzipped back home in under five minutes. Sneakers off. Feet up!

Tradition, Transparency, and the Future of the Crown

I was born and raised in England, and though I’ve lived in Northern Californian for more than half my life, Britain still hums quietly in my kitchen dresser. There, slightly faded but stubbornly intact, sits my Queen Elizabeth II Silver Jubilee mug — a relic of primary school pageantry and bunting. My first “book” was a handwritten, hand-illustrated pamphlet made for the Queen’s anniversary. It’s still in my filing cabinet, its pages thick with colored pencil devotion and the unquestioning loyalty of childhood.

I wouldn’t say I was raised an ardent royalist. The monarchy was simply there, woven into the fabric of English life — like church at Christmas, harvest festivals, weddings, christenings and funerals. It was part of being English. From my hometown on the Lincolnshire–Cambridgeshire border, the drive to the beach at Hunstanton meant passing the royal Sandringham Estate. (Side note, my nomadic and distant maternal grandmother kept a small shop in Sandringham village for a few years, selling honey and local crafts) The royal estate was less spectacle than pristine and forested scenery, part of the regional landscape of my growing up.

My mother took us to London to see the Tower of London and its glittering Crown Jewels; we posed outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. My father, a country man through and through, never cared much for the capital. For him, England was hedgerows and flat, Fenland fields, the occasional castle ruins, not pageantry.

In May 2023, my sister, Kerry and I and journalist friend, Maria and her daughter stood for eight hours in the rain on Horse Guards Parade to witness the coronation of King Charles III. Kerry writes about the royals for the Australian press and she and Maria’s substack newsletter The Royal List; I have contributed in pieces about Prince Harry and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex from here in California, where they have made a life in Montecito. I’ve even bought some of Meghan’s products, curious, as she’s taken a cue from the longstanding success of Highgrove. If the King can sell organic biscuits and preserves, why shouldn’t she?

I’ve felt, at times, vindicated for defending Harry and Meghan’s choice of a marginally quieter — if far sunnier — life. The royal spotlight, once trained so harshly on them, has shifted. The scandal surrounding Andrew, formerly Prince, cannot be brushed aside, nor should it be. Whatever deference once protected him has eroded, and rightly so. Exile to a “modest” farmhouse on the Sandringham estate is hardly hardship; the Norfolk coastline is among the most coveted in Britain. This is not penance. Real accountability would mean transparency and meaningful reparation to the survivors harmed in the sordid orbit of Epstein and company.

I believe Charles and Camilla work for good causes and have applied themselves to modernizing the monarchy. And I suspect that William, Prince of Wales and Catherine, Princess of Wales understand even more keenly what is required for the monarchy to survive: humility, service, and an unflinching break from the old instinct to close ranks.

I am, in the end, an expatriate who believes in evolution more than abolition. I have carried that Jubilee mug across an ocean and across decades. I have stood in the rain for the historical and cultural acknowledgement of a new King. But loyalty, like inheritance, must adapt to endure. If a modern, slimmed-down monarchy is to mean anything to the next generation — whether in London, Norfolk or California — it must prove that tradition does not excuse wrongdoing, and that the future can be cleaner than the past.

Calendar Reminder— Join Me at Jess Brown Store, Petaluma, Sunday Morning, March 22, 2026

I announced this in last week’s newsletter, but if you didn’t see it and you are in the Bay Area, please join me for a relaxed Sunday morning of story, conversation, and connection in the cozy and welcoming space that is Jess Brown Store, in Downtown Petaluma. Surrounded by vintage and found objects and the designer’s beautiful bespoke clothing collection, I’ll be reading from my new novel, Floating in the Middle, and sharing reflections on friendship, home, community, coastal conservancy, and today’s climate anxiety. Together, we’ll explore how storytelling can spark change—and how each of us can use our voices for good.

Sunday, March 22, 2026 | 10:00–11:30 AM
Jess Brown Store
144 Petaluma Blvd N, Petaluma, CA 94952

Click here to order a copy of Floating in the Middle directly from my printer/distributer, Ingram Spark in the USA. Otherwise, it’s available to order in print and ebook format around the word, wherever you source your books.

Registration is open for the 2027 San Francisco Writers Conference, Feb 11-14. Click here for more info and early bird pricing.

Photo by bi Nguyễn

Feb 17 fast approaches — the launch of the Year of the Fire Horse, one of the 60 year cycles in the Chinese zodiac combing one of the 12 animals (horse) with one of the five elements (fire). Bold, fast, wild, and impossible to ignore.

And if you, like me, were born in 1966 (hello, fellow Fire Horse!), this one hits especially close to the heart.

I’ve been reading up on it. Fire Horse energy is all about momentum. It’s courage with a pulse. Independence that doesn’t ask permission. This year is said to invite big ideas, brave pivots, and the kind of confidence that comes from trusting our own instincts. I’ve been following that path most of my life as a freelancer, an independent journalist and indie author, but there’s plenty of space to take things to the next level.

This is a year that favors authenticity over approval, action over hesitation, and joy over playing small. It’s said to be great for reinvention, creative risks, travel (literal or internal), and saying “yes” to the things that light us up — even if they don’t make sense to everyone else. Who’s on board?

Astrologers all over the internet advise us to expect things to happen at an even more rapid pace from Feb 17 onwards, this year. That’s saying something. We’re not yet half way through February and it feels like November. This is a year, however, which is set to continue testing our patience, forcing us to change, adapt, innovate and grow as we question old rules and traditions and call for bold, authentic and visionary new leadership.

Sounds like we’re to buckle up as we’re in for an even wilder ride ahead in the coming months. I’m so in awe of the many people out there doing extraordinary work and acts of bravery amidst the chaos.

The grim news cycle hijacks our attempts at happiness at every turn, yet pockets of joy prevail. If we allow it. And we must. The Fire Horse is arriving at the most opportune moment, inviting us to rise with courage, embrace new ideas and opportunities and discover strengths we didn’t know we had.

Later this week I am headed to the San Francisco Writers Conference which takes place each February at the Hyatt Regency in the Embarcadero. The location is great for me as it means I can jump on the SMART Train in downtown Petaluma, in the North Bay, bright and early and be at breakfast in the city with hundreds of writers, editors and publishing industry pros from around the country without having to take a flight.

Although I have attended in the past, it’s been a couple of years, so it’ll be fun to immerse myself in booklandia for a few days and hopefully come away inspired to get back to work on the next story!

Tips and tools for indie publishing are ever-evolving in this fast-paced techno environment and so it’s good to be on the cutting edge of what’s being introduced. I expect there will be lots of discussion about AI and its implications for authors. We’ve all followed the controversy of AI training on the words and works of authors around the world (mine included), siphoning the many months, years, even decades of dedicated work that it can take to write a book into mere minutes or hours of imitation storytelling.

I’m most looking forward to attending Friday’s Writing for Change Summit. This dynamic part of the conference is open to anyone in the area (for a registration fee) if not otherwise attending the entire conference.

It feels good to be three novels and two non-fiction books in and otherwise undeterred by the cogs of the traditional publishing industry, this time around. I’ve had some sobering in-person interactions with agents and publishers in the past, having been told that because I opted for indie publishing initially, I should not expect to be taken on by the mainstream for future works until I hit a major sales mark.

Well, thanks to you, my loyal and supportive readers, each new novel has been covering its costs in its initial release months and I am working hard to keep the momentum building as Floating in the Middle, my latest novel, continues to wing its way around the world. Every purchase, every gift copy and every book group selection is hugely appreciated. Please keep sharing the book and writing reviews. It’s working. Book my book my readership grows.

And you know what? More and more authors are reclaiming their titles and indie publishing themselves. If it’s hard for publishers to turn a profit these days, it’s not difficult to imagine that the royalties the average author can expect to see by the time income trickles down to them are slimmer than ever.

It makes sense for authors such as myself to indie publish, though it is a lot of work and requires tapping into a range of inner resources other than the desire to make up imaginary worlds! There’s no big machine to market my book so it must stand on its own merits and grow, organically. The good news is authors are now choosing to publish in different formats and with various partnerships and platforms and hybrid deals according to the specific book.

I had an interesting conversation with a friend recently about my need to self regulate my desire to write in the months after releasing a new novel. Picture me here switching hats from author to publisher.

“I have to stick with it, hold off on the next one, pay this new release the respect it deserves in representing it in the world,” I explained, when asked if I am at already work on a new story.

“But do you?” she replied, urging me to keep writing.

So maybe a hybrid year for me — work hard to keep Floating in the Middle reaching new readers and carve out some time to revisit the work in progress I started during the editing process, earlier last year.

From Flop to Forever: The Continued Rise of Wuthering Heights

When Wuthering Heights first came out in 1847, it didn’t exactly set the literary world on fire. Emily Brontë published it under the name Ellis Bell, partly because women writers weren’t taken seriously, and partly, I imagine (and relate) because she was deeply uninterested in the whole idea of literary fame. The book itself was strange, wild, and emotionally feral—full of obsession, cruelty, and people making truly terrible choices. Victorian readers didn’t quite know what to do with it. Reviews were mixed to harsh, sales were lukewarm, and tragically, 30-year-old Emily died the following year, never knowing that her novel would one day be considered a masterpiece.

Back then, authors didn’t hustle the way they do now. There were no interviews, no readings, no carefully curated public image. Promotion mostly meant publishers sending copies to reviewers and hoping for polite notices in newspapers or literary journals. If a book caught on, it was through word of mouth or the slow approval of critics. Wuthering Heights didn’t benefit from any of that momentum at first. And yet, over time, readers began to recognize its intensity as genius rather than excess. What once felt too dark and unruly eventually became its greatest strength.

My journalism college pal Bev and me outside the Brontë Parsonage in Haworth April 1990- photos kindly sent over by my sister Kerry Parnell. Follow Kerry’s The British Travel List Substack newsletter for enticing British Lit Travel ideas.

The British Travel List

Kerry Parnell's guide to the best places to visit in Britain

By Kerry Parnell

I first read Wuthering Heights in high school in the UK, when it felt dark and mysterious in that distant, syllabus-assigned way. Years later, in my early twenties, before moving to the States, I went to Haworth in Yorkshire with my sister, Kerry and a group of young journalist friends, and that’s when the book quietly rearranged itself in my mind. We visited the Brontë Parsonage, cold and restrained, and then walked out onto the moors—the vast, wind-brushed landscape that inspired Emily Brontë. We trekked all the way to the ruined farmhouse said to have influenced the novel, and suddenly the story made emotional sense. It wasn’t exaggerated. It was elemental.

The first major film adaptation was released in 1939, starring Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff and Merle Oberon as Catherine Earnshaw—a version that helped cement the novel’s romantic, tragic reputation for generations of viewers.

The second major film adaptation came out in 1970, starring Timothy Dalton as Heathcliff and Anna Calder-Marshall as Catherine—a grittier, more emotionally raw take than the 1939 classic.

After the 1970 version, Wuthering Heights kept getting reimagined—sometimes faithfully, sometimes very loosely:

• 1992 – Starring Ralph Fiennes as Heathcliff and Juliette Binoche as Catherine. Dark, intense, and one of the more literary adaptations.

• 1998 – A TV miniseries with Robert Cavanah and Orla Brady, slower and more expansive in scope.

• 2009 – A two-part ITV adaptation starring Tom Hardy as Heathcliff and Charlotte Riley as Catherine—very popular and emotionally grounded.

• 2011 – Directed by Andrea Arnold, starring James Howson and Kaya Scodelario, notable for its stark realism and casting a Black Heathcliff, shifting the lens toward race and brutality.

Each version reflects its era, which feels fitting for a novel that keeps changing shape depending on who’s looking at it—and when.

Critics are split on director, Emerald Fennell’s upcoming February 13 2026 Wuthering Heights "attention-craving" and "frenzied" approach. The movie, starring Australian actors Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi is nevertheless described as a "dazzling feast for the eyes" with lush cinematography by Linus Sandgren and stunning costumes.

This latest film is regarded as a very loose, modern interpretation focused on the "emotional toxicity" of the original. Traditionalists may be disappointed, but fans of the director’s hit movie, Saltburn might well enjoy what is described as a “resplendidly lurid” interpretation. Talk about creative risks. The Fire Horse all over this one!

The truly great thing, in my opinion as a writer, is that Emily Brontë’s 1847 novel is having another major moment in time with readers all over the word either diving into its pages for the first time or dusting off their high school English Lit copy for a rainy day re-read.

Save the Date — Join Me at Jess Brown Store, Petaluma, Sunday Morning, March 22, 2026

Join me, Petaluma-based independent journalist and fiction author Frances Rivetti for a relaxed Sunday morning of story, conversation, and connection in the cozy and welcoming space that is Jess Brown Store, in Downtown Petaluma. Surrounded by vintage and found objects and the designer’s beautiful bespoke clothing collection, I’ll be reading from my new novel, Floating in the Middle, and sharing reflections on friendship, home, community, coastal conservancy, and today’s climate anxiety. Together, we’ll explore how storytelling can spark change—and how each of us can use our voices for good.

Sunday, March 22, 2026 | 10:00–11:30 AM
Jess Brown Store
144 Petaluma Blvd N, Petaluma, CA 94952

Click here to order a copy of Floating in the Middle directly from my printer/distributer, Ingram Spark in the USA. Otherwise, it’s available to order in print and ebook format around the word, wherever you source your books.

Greetings from Sonoma County. February is upon us. The Snow Moon at the weekend was stunning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen cloud formations quite like that which blanketed the night sky on Saturday, here in Northern California.

I’ve been taking lots of walks in our various river parks and wetlands in Petaluma this week, working hard to remain grounded in a never-ending, unsettling and chaotic news cycle. I hope you’re doing the same, weather permitting, though I know we are spoiled here, currently with a mild winter pattern.

When Lady Gaga sat down this week to sing a song from Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, it didn’t feel like nostalgia to me—it felt like a familiar hand on my shoulder. It certainly brought a flood of tears to my eyes. Fred Rogers wrote with a quiet bravery, believing that gentleness was not weakness but discipline, that care was something you practiced even when the world felt loud and unkind. Gaga’s luminous voice reveals its original strength: the radical idea that neighbors matter.

I can imagine what Fred Rogers would make of America right now. He wouldn’t rush to scold or sensationalize. He’d remind us to slow down, to notice our feelings, to remember that fear is loud but care is steadier.

Across the country, people are gathering—not to shout, but to sing. Small groups, large groups, popping up in parks, churches, street corners, lifting their voices in peaceful calls for unity. Fred taught us that when things are scary, you look for the helpers. Sometimes, it turns out, the helpers are harmonizing.

Book Groups have been great this week. I’ve attended three in the past seven days — as well as getting together with my own globe trotting bookgroup girls.

We’ve been gathering again several times a year after a few years’ hiatus in our three decade long reader’s gang. I am so thankfull for all of the book groups that have picked Floating in the Middle this year so far as their read and it’s been absolutely fantastic to join groups in person and discuss the book and the characters and setting in depth.

Floating in the Middle is proving a wonderful literary discussion book and given that its various themes are so meaty, I’m really proud and thankful to represent my work. Looking forward to several more on the books in the coming weeks.

Diving Deeper: How Bull Kelp Restoration Inspired My Latest Novel

Ocean health is a key theme of my new novel Floating in the Middle. One of my main characters, Jamie, is a (fictional) volunteer diver in the kelp restoration program that is currently a huge focus along a 350 smile stretch of the Sonoma and Mendocino coastlines.

It was enlightening for me as a writer who has touched on this subject to attend a screening of Sequoiasofthesea #Helpthekelp a documentary project of Blue Frontier, by film makers Ana Blanco and Natasha Benjamin in Point Reyes Station this weekend.

Since up to 95% of bull kelp forests have been decimated due to climate change in the past decade along this stretch of the coast, scientists, marine conservatists, local fishing and diving communities, including divers from the regions indigenous communities have united in a deep dive into the cold waters of the Pacific ocean to reintroduce the vital yellow sunflower starfish that eat the purple urchin that have been able to take over the vital bull kelp habitat. It was exciting to learn about the labs that are growing microscopic bull kelp to reintroduce along the coast in parts where the urchin is under control.

Getting to hear real life marine habitat restoration heros speak on a panel after the documentary further amplified for me the enormous signifcance of bull kelp, redwoods of the ocean, on the ecological, cultural and economic impact on our planet. This devastating loss has played out in many locations around the world and it’s impressive and encouraging to learn that the teams from California are leading the way in their global impact research and restoration.

It was important to me as a contemporary novelist to weave an element of the current bull kelp restoration movement into a modern-day story that is set on the Sonoma Coast. Things do get quite dramatic on and in the ocean in my story. I hope my novel encourages more people to learn about this crisis and the vital initiative underway above and beneath the swell of the Pacific. The real life divers are rock stars in my opinion!

(Mural by Floating in the Middle cover illustrator, artist Laurie Mahan Sawyer, of New Compass Designs, on the wall outside of the entrance to the Dance Palace community center at Point Reyes Station)

To learn more see sequoiasofthesea.org. #pacificocean #marinecology #Sonomacoast #Mendocinocoast #bullkelp #Purpleurchin #yellowsunflowerstarfish #climatefiction

A Poem For Mary’s Birthday

My friend Mary celebrated her birthday with a poetry and dance party. Given the sobering week prior in our collective American life, it was with all good intentions that I sat at my desk to write a positive poem to take with me to contribute to a book that Mary hopes to compile. I wanted to write about inclusivity, about the concept of being welcome here.

This wasn’t an easy ask. Writing a poem. And my intention to write a cheery one at that. As is my pattern, my head and my heart clearly had conflicting messaging to impart. What starts out as warm and cozy in my writing, can’t help but zoom in on the real picture behind the soft lens as soon as it gets going.

Most of Mary’s guests wrote witty and heart warming odes to our host, who is pretty amazing and deserving of a compilation of poetry on everything from her extreme sense of humor and quirky fashion sense to her equally adventurous and ardent range of outdoor pursuits. Plenty more talents to boot but she’d be ticked off if I go on as she told me afterwards she hadn’t meant it to be all about her! I’m glad it was. As we’d have been a lot less of a jolly bunch if everyone’s poems had emerged like mine. I chose not to read it out loud that evening and dampen the much needed fesivities. But I’m sharing it with you now as I think it’s worth a read and a reminder of how much work there still is to do when it comes to inclusivity:

Sonoma County, in Layers

By Frances Rivetti

Before the names,
before fences learned to say no,
this was Coast Miwok ground—
oak and salmon, tule reed and fog.
A language spoken to hills,
a way of taking only what would return.
No banners, no armies—
just seasons keeping their promises.

Then sickness arrived first,
soft-footed, invisible,
and labor followed with crosses and ledgers.
Missions taught prayer with shackles,
ranchos measured land with loss.
Whole villages thinned into memory,
names surviving only in creeks and wind.

The sea did not escape history.
From the Farallons, blood ran into salt—
seals, sea lions, otters
turned into currency.
Pelts packed for China,
blubber boiled into light for lamps
that never saw the dark they came from.
Feathers, eggs, emptied rookeries—
even the birds were not spared the market.

Up the Russian River they came,
axes ringing like prophecy.
Redwoods fell—
ancient witnesses split into boards
to build a sudden city hungry for itself.
San Francisco rose fast,
and the forests learned what boom meant.

Then the wagons. And more boats.
Italian, Swiss, Portuguese, German, Jewish
English, Irish, Welsh, Danish, Chinese—
hands calloused in different tongues,
fields stitched with European habits.
Farms grew. So did borders.
Welcome was conditional.
Racism rode shotgun with progress.
Later, Mexican labor fed the valley,
yet was paid in erasure before belonging.

Predominantly white, still.
Still asking if all are welcome,
as if the question hasn’t echoed
for centuries already.
As if this county were not built
by people arriving, surviving, staying anyway.

We call ourselves a nation of immigrants,
a county of them too—
yet we circle the same fears,
the same exclusions,
mistaking walls for stability,
forgetting the land remembers everything.

So, when will we evolve?
When will we stop confusing history
with destiny?
When will welcome mean more
than a slogan carved into wine barrels and signs?

The fog keeps coming in, patient as ever.
The land is still here—
waiting for us to listen again.

My Sister Kerry’s British Travel List Features Britain’s Best Literary Festivals for 2026

Kerry is a British-based journalist who has carved a path that takes her on the best literary jaunts around the British Isles. She writes about historic homes of Britain’s best loved authors (and where to book the best afternoon tea amongst other top tips) for her Travel List and for the Australian and British press.

Last weekend Kerry braved the ceaseless rain to drive from her home in a cottage in the south of England up into the Yorkshire Moors and back through the Dales, visiting Haworth, home of Emily Brontë and family where Emily wrote Wuthering Heights and also the newly opened house that was the birthplace of the famous literary sisters, located in a village called Thornton, just outside of Bradford.

We’d spent a weekend in Haworth with a bunch of friends back when I was in my early twenties and Kerry was still in her teens. Talking to my intrepid sister as she drove home to her own family brought back lots of memories. I have a photo of us up on the moor where Emily roamed, somewhere that I’ve just spent an inordinate amount of time looking for and have yet to locate. Our youngest sister Lindsey also loves a good jaunt to a National Trust property and/or writer’s abode (and a tea room). If I was in the UK more often I would tag along on as many of these smashing assignments as Kerry would put up with!

England appears more popular than ever on travel itineraries this year. So many friends have told me that they’re headed that way during 2026 and I’ve enjoyed suggesting routes and places to see along the way.

If you are an Anglophile and can’t get enough of the British Isles, or if you’re headed that way for the first or second time, do subscribe to Kerry’s Substack featured below. She gets to see all kinds of hotels and special event schedules and this week she has written a list of the best literary festivals in Britain this year. If you’re an avid reader and/or writer and haven’t booked flights just yet, then you may be enticed to plan around one of these wonderful festivals.

Oh and the reason Kerry was back up in Haworth was to write about the setting for the upcoming Wuthering Heights movie Valentine’s Day release staring Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi. The film is directed by Emerald Fennell and promises to shake up this most classic of smouldering love stories. Said to be passionate, scorching and divisive, it’s a must-see for me!

The British Travel List

Britain’s best literary festivals for 2026

It gives me so much pleasure to know readers of The British Travel List are such a literary lot – one of my most-read newsletters every year is this round-up of the best book festivals in Britain. That and afternoon tea posts! Now, all I have to do is get a book deal to write both an afternoon tea travel guide and literary travel guide to Britain and my…

Read more

4 months ago · Kerry Parnell

Click here to order a copy of Floating in the Middle directly from my printer/distributer, Ingram Spark in the USA. Otherwise, it’s available to order in print and ebook format around the word, wherever you source your books.

(Scroll down for my recipe for delicious, doom-busting Pineapple Upside Down Cake)

On Sunday evenings, when the comforting opening bars of Season Six of All Creatures Great and Small drift through my family room, I feel something in me settle. It’s the same quiet click into place that comes from muscle memory—like tying an apron, pouring a cup of tea from my old fashioned Brown Betty teapot or setting a table without thinking. Channeling my inner Mrs Hall isn’t an act of nostalgia so much as a return to a way of being that still lives in my bones.

I’m a devout PBS supporter, and unapologetically ardent about Masterpiece Theatre, especially the British dramas. Here in the States, we’re typically at least a few months behind most shows’ original airing in the UK, so avoiding spoilers is an art. Even after thirty-six years in California, Sunday nights still belong to the UK in my heart. Give me stone cottages, muddy boots by the door, and lives shaped by seasons rather than screens. My deepest affection is for the era before, during, and just after the Second World War—stories where endurance is quiet, humor dry, and community stitched together by necessity and care.

I was born in the fens of England in 1966, twenty-one years after the war ended, but the war was never far away. It lived in stories, habits, my Nana’s pantry and ration-era sensibilities that lingered long after peace. My grandfather had been a procurement officer in the British Army, stationed in Sorrento, Italy, tasked with sourcing food for Allied troops. After the war, he had returned home to his life as a greengrocer in the small, provincial market town where he’d been born and raised. That continuity—of place, of purpose—runs deep in my family. I’m the fourth, possibly fifth, generation to have been raised in that same small community. So when I watch All Creatures Great and Small, the rural English setting doesn’t feel quaint or constructed. It feels familiar. The extended farming community, the rhythms of rural life, the sense that everyone belongs to everyone else—it all resonates.

Mrs Hall, in particular, feels like kin. She reminds me of a younger version of my Nana on Sunday mornings: apron tied, radio murmuring in the background, moving with quiet authority around the kitchen. The table laid with those dinner plates decorated with pheasants, knives and forks with yellowing, bone handles worn smooth by decades of use. Sunday shops closed by noon. No internet, no mobile phones, no urgency beyond getting dinner on the table at the proper hour. A calm would descend, not because life was easy, but because Sunday demanded it.

This past Sunday, I needed that calm more than ever. The news has been dark, relentless, and soul-wearying. The awfulness of our times presses in from every direction, and it’s far too easy to retreat into a laptop, our cell phones, or to chip away at the endless list of things that must be done now, today, this minute. Instead, I made a deliberate choice. I turned it all off. I went into the kitchen and stayed there.

I focused on each small task as if it mattered—because it did. Peeling carrots, parsnips, and potatoes. Cracking eggs for Yorkshire pudding. Making pineapple upside-down cake and custard from scratch. I picked rosemary from the garden, peeled garlic, squeezed fresh lemons from a tree in my backyard to stuff into a roast chicken. There was no rushing, no multitasking beyond what hands have always known how to do. Just the quiet competence of care.

I set the table with a cheery linen tablecloth and napkins and dusted off the nice china that only comes out a handful of times a year. Candles were lit. By dinnertime, two of my three adult sons were home, and there were four of us around the table. An old-fashioned, traditional British roast Sunday dinner—Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, vegetables, gravy. We ate together. We talked. We lingered.

In that space, I felt Mrs Hall with me—not as a character on a screen, but as a presence. The embodiment of steadiness. Of doing what needs doing with grace. Of understanding that feeding people is never just about food. It’s about anchoring them. Reminding them who they are and where they come from. The world outside could wait.

And as any sensible Mrs Hall would appreciate, there was a tray of leftovers in the fridge for the next night’s dinner—a small but satisfying triumph.

Channeling my inner Mrs Hall didn’t solve the world’s problems. But it restored something essential. For a few hours, the kitchen became a refuge, time slowed, and the simple dignity of Sunday asserted itself. In choosing that, I chose connection over chaos, presence over panic. And it was the best thing I could have done.

photo: All Creatures Great and Small, if you haven’t already discovered, is a gentle, deeply humane multi-season period drama set in the rolling countryside of the Yorkshire Dales prior, during and after the Second World War.

It follows James Herriot, a newly qualified veterinarian who arrives at the quirky practice of Skeldale House, where rural life is ruled as much by tradition and temperament as by medical knowledge. Under the unpredictable guidance of Siegfried Farnon, alongside his charming brother Tristan, James learns that caring for animals also means earning the trust of farmers, families, and an interconnected countryside community. At the heart of the home is Mrs. Hall, whose quiet competence and warmth hold everything together. As the series unfolds, personal relationships, professional calling, and the coming pressures of war intertwine, creating a portrait of resilience, kindness, and the enduring comfort found in ordinary lives well lived.

The television series is inspired by the much-loved James Herriot books, which are themselves rooted in real life but shaped through memory, storytelling, and gentle embellishment. James Herriot was the pen name of Alf Wight, a country veterinarian who worked in the Yorkshire Dales beginning in the late 1930s. His books—starting with If Only They Could Talk and later gathered under the title All Creatures Great and Small—are written as episodic memoirs, each chapter a self-contained story drawn from his experiences treating farm animals and pets in isolated rural communities.

The current Masterpiece series builds on this foundation but further fictionalizes the material for television. For instance, Mrs Hall is a composite character, inspired by the real Edna Hall (née Wood), the housekeeper at Skeldale House who was reportedly much quieter and far more private than the warmly expressive figure we see on screen, portrayed by the wonderful Anna Madeley, today. What remains constant, both in the books and on screen, is the spirit of the stories: a deep respect for rural life, compassion for animals and people alike, and an understanding that meaning is often found in patience, care, and connection rather than grand events.

This current adaptation also sits within a longer legacy of bringing James Herriot’s stories to the screen. The first television series, All Creatures Great and Small, aired on the BBC from 1978 to 1980, with additional episodes later in the 1980s. I was just twelve years old when the first series launched and remember it well for it became a classic of British television, beloved for its gentle pacing, understated humor, and faithful capture of James Herriot’s world. My mother worked for a vet before she became a student nurse and was passionate about animals, our family dogs and cats especially.

All Creatures Great and Small Season 6 is currently airing Sundays, Jan. 11-Feb. 22, 2026 at 9/8c, only on MASTERPIECE on PBS. You can stream all seven episodes of All Creatures Great and Small Season 6 when you watch with PBS Passport, an added member benefit. Watch All Creatures Great and Small Season 6 online and on the PBS app.

January Housekeeping —Making the Switch From Mailchimp to Substack

Thank you for reading! I have switched from Mailchimp to Substack for my author newsletter. I had taken up a weekly (or every other week) post on Substack when my long-time blog, Southern Sonoma Country Life wrapped, last fall. Host platform Typepad had discontinued and I needed somewhere to hang my writer’s hat. I found I was drawn to this space on Substack, where I am in good company with a host of writers from around the world, saying their bit, expressing whatever it is that is on our minds in this unprecedented time we’re living in.

It became clear to me that I’ve been diluting my updates on my books and other writing by attempting to maintain too many platforms, not least my author newsletter that I had been sending out sporadically via Mailchimp.

Substack allows me to communicate with you, my readers, in a more personal, informed way and on a more frequent basis (though no more than once a week typically). I’m sharing things I don’t write about elsewhere on social media in these weekly posts, as well as info and updates on my books.

Since I decided to merge my mailing lists to Substack I wanted to let you all know that my posts are free, you do not have to subscribe to paid posts or make a pledge as with some Substack newsletters. If you don’t want to receive the weekly emails for any reason, feel free to unsubscribe at any time. You can always resubscribe again if you change your mind!

My Substack newsletter is my own little corner of the internet and I’m glad you’re here.

Bookgroup Season Begins

In the months after a new novel is released, I make a point of attending book groups. There’s a mix of excitement and nerves in hearing strangers discuss characters I’ve lived with for years. Will they connect with them? Will they question my choices? Will they see the threads I didn’t realize were there?

What I love is the unpredictability. One reader will be enchanted by a minor character I barely noticed; another will point out a plot twist I assumed was obvious but somehow never landed. Their reactions are honest, often funny, sometimes sharp, and always illuminating. Each comment, question, or laugh reminds me that a story only truly comes alive when it meets a reader’s mind.

Gathering around a table with people who have carried my story in their imaginations is quietly humbling. It reminds me that writing is never entirely solitary. The hours at my desk are just the beginning—the real magic happens when words spark conversation, laughter, and reflection.

I leave each meeting renewed and grateful, reminded that the characters mattered, the story mattered, and that stories are, at their best, a way to connect us across time, space, and perspective.

I read an interesting quote from author John Sayles in the New York Times book section this weekend:

“Any book that introduces you to people you aren’t like and may never meet and delivers their human complexity has a moral function.”

It’s a reminder of why we read and how reading is more important than ever.

Fresh Pineapple Upside-Down Cake

Ingredients

Topping

• ¼ cup (55 g) unsalted butter

• ¾ cup (150 g) brown sugar

• 1 small fresh pineapple, peeled, cored, and sliced into rings or thick half-moons

• 8–10 maraschino cherries (or fresh cherries, pitted)

Cake

• 1½ cups (190 g) all-purpose flour

• 1½ tsp baking powder

• ¼ tsp salt

• ½ cup (115 g) unsalted butter, softened

• ¾ cup (150 g) granulated sugar

• 2 large eggs, room temperature

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• Drop of coconut extract (optional)

• ½ cup (120 ml) milk (or pineapple juice for extra flavor)

Instructions

1. Prep

   • Heat oven to 350°F / 175°C.

   • Grease a 9-inch round cake pan

2. Make the topping

   • Melt the ¼ cup butter and pour it into the pan.

   • Sprinkle brown sugar evenly over the butter.

   • Arrange pineapple slices on top and place a cherry in the center of each ring (or wherever looks cute).

3. Mix dry ingredients

   • Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.

4. Make the batter

   • Cream softened butter and granulated sugar until light and fluffy.

   • Beat in eggs one at a time, then add vanilla & coconut extracts.

   • Add dry ingredients in two additions, alternating with milk, mixing just until combined.

5. Assemble

   • Gently spread batter over the fruit layer, smoothing the top.

6. Bake

   • Bake 40–45 minutes, until golden and a toothpick comes out clean.

7. Flip

   • Let cake cool 10 minutes (important!).

   • Run a knife around the edge, place a plate on top, and flip confidently in one smooth motion.

   • serve with ice cream, whipped cream or hot custard.

Click here to order a copy of Floating in the Middle directly from my printer/distributer, Ingram Spark in the USA. Otherwise, it’s available to order in print and ebook format around the word, wherever you source your books.

Blue skies and crisp winter days have been a welcomed tonic here in Northern California in a January that has otherwsie been relentlessly brutal in political and humanitarian aspects. It’s fair to say it has been a month of cold, hard violence, and loss that has pressed down without pause, leaving little room to catch a collective breath as we’ve launched, full throttle into an extremely uncertain new year.

I know I’m not alone in sharing the waves of emotion that washed over me as I watched via social media, thousands of people pouring into the streets in two distant cities—Minneapolis and San Francisco—drawn there by very different losses, this month.

In the Midwest, scenes of immense grief and anger following the shooting of Renée Good, are so deeply unsettling because they speak to something universal: our shared humanity, the way pain in one specifical geographic place ripples outward around the country and around the world.

In San Francisco, closer to home, this past weekend’s gathering was for Bob Weir, cofounder of the Grateful Dead, and that outpouring reached me at the core as a Northern California transplant. I arrived in the Bay Area from the UK in the 1990s, in my mid twenties, knowing little of the band, only to find myself slowly immersed, almost by osmosis, in a culture that was less about music alone than about belonging. That community stayed with me, eventually shaping the culture of my recently released novel, Floating in the Middle, set on the Sonoma Coast, just north of where many of the early, iconic music events and communes of the 1960s took root.

When something deeply meaningful is lost or feels profoundly unjust, people of conscience are drawn into the streets. Public space becomes a place to gather, to witness, and to make sense of grief and outrage together. Whether shaped by protest or remembrance, these collective moments turn cities into mirrors of shared emotion, revealing what communities value and what they refuse to accept.

In Minneapolis, that impulse took form in marches and vigils after Renée Good was killed by a federal immigration officer. What began as shock became an insistent public presence—people chanting, blocking roadways, standing in freezing rain, and building makeshift memorials at the site of her death. The streets carried a demand for accountability, shaped by long-standing tensions around immigration enforcement, state power, and the right to exist without fear.

(I took this photo in the Brooklyn No Kings Protest last October, but it remains pertinent to this post)

In San Francisco, the streets filled with a different energy. Thousands gathered to honor Bob Weir, bringing flowers, stories, and songs into civic space. Tie-dye, a multitude of red roses, music, and memory transformed the city into a living archive. This was grief braided with gratitude, a communal acknowledgment of a cultural force that had bound people together across decades.

The emotions could not have been more different, yet the gesture was the same. In both Minneapolis and San Francisco, people stepped out of private feeling and into public space, insisting that what had happened mattered. In doing so, the streets became more than routes of passage—they became places where pain, memory, and meaning were held in common.

As people take to the streets in 2026, the pattern echoes 1966—not in identical demands, but in moral urgency. In both moments, public protest is emerging when institutions are failing to protect our basic human dignity and private suffering is being made visible. Then as now, bodies in the street become evidence, city after city, around the world.

I was born in 1966 and I’m turning 60 this year. It feels profoundly symbolic to me that 2026 is once again a period of protest. There’s something circular and poignant about witnessing the streets fill with outrage and hope, echoing the struggles and moral urgency of the year I was born.

The tools have changed, but the impulse has not. Where 1966 relied on marches, news print and television cameras, 2026 is organized through digital networks, yet legitimacy is still forged offline, in our shared physical presence. Feet on the ground.

Grassroots leadership is what we need more of, coalition-building across causes. We gather not because change is assured in times of political dispair, but because silence is impossible to endure.

Travel in Turbluent Times

Lately, I’ve been feeling increasingly anxious about planning travel during 2026, especially as political uncertainty grows more concerning by the day. Holding an American passport once felt like an unquestioned privilege, but recently, I found myself wondering how many of the people posing as Canadians during my week in Punta Mita, Mexico, were actually Americans trying not to draw attention to themselves.

I firmly believe we can’t let politics stop us from living our lives, but it’s clear that we need to be more thoughtful in our planning and extra mindful of the implications of travel today. Taking good insurance, remaining flexible, and staying informed are essential. I considered traveling on my UK passport, but since I would have to return on my American one, I ultimately chose to embrace my dual nationality and own the consequences and traveled to Mexico on my American passport.

My husband and I had a wonderfully relaxing, post holiday week at a warm Pacific coastal resort, feeling genuinely welcomed by the Mexican people. Experiences like this put travel into perspective—reminding us how often we take our freedom for granted. Witnessing the atrocities occurring around the world and even in our own countries makes it all the more important to be fully aware, conscientious, and appreciative of the privilege of travel in these times and our responsilities as guests in other regions/countries.

I’m a prolific dreamer, which spin into fiction-worthy nightmares when I’m unable to process the most unsettling news. My method of holding much of the anxiety of this world at bay is to take a daily walk in the hills or along a tree-lined path by a stream in my neighborhood, inhaling the fresh air, listening to birdsong and reminding myself that the current madness of it all shall indeed pass, someday.

Recent Reviews for Floating in the Middle — a Novel, By Frances Rivetti

From fellow Bay Area Author, Martha Engber:

“This book sings about nature like no other!

Set on the gorgeous, but rough California coast north of San Francisco, seven friends unite for a weekend in a remote beach house. Rather than just fun and games, however, Tam, the protagonist, has come to find out if, after long separation from her husband, Jamie, he’s willing to try again. Because she is.

Tension continues to build via the feisty dynamics of people who’ve known one another for a long time, and from nature itself. The beach house is losing ground to a cliff that’s getting ever closer due to the relentless wind, storms and ocean waves that crash below. And again when the friends forage for, and then cook, food from the a forest full of color and birdsong, I felt like I was inhaling the rich scents and tasting the fresh garlic, oil and mushrooms.

Lurking within this beautiful, rugged landscape is an odd, mysterious local man who dresses in black and calls himself The Raven. On the one hand, he offers yogic advice about appreciating nature, yet also drops dark warnings about what might happen if humans don’t pay closer attention to the ecosystems of our natural world.

If you’ve ever spent a weekend with friends that turned into an embrace of the truth, no matter how uncomfortable, you’ll be able to relate. And if you’ve never been to the dramatic Sonoma coast, this book will make you feel like you have!”

And . . . from a reader who reached out via my author website:

“I recently finished Floating in the Middle, and what struck me most was how precisely it captures that unnerving moment when adulthood stops feeling theoretical and begins to press in from all sides, relationships, responsibility, time, and the quiet reckoning of who we’ve become versus who we once imagined ourselves to be.

The setting itself feels almost sentient. A house poised on the edge of a cliff is more than an atmospheric choice; it becomes a physical manifestation of the emotional and moral precariousness your characters inhabit. The environmental tension, eco-diving, foraging, carbon consciousness never reads as backdrop alone. Instead, it mirrors the internal anxieties of a generation deeply aware that the future is no longer abstract or distant, but unfolding in real time, with consequences that can’t be postponed.

I was particularly drawn to how the novel navigates friendship and intimacy without nostalgia softening the edges. These relationships are layered with history, desire, resentment, and affection in equal measure. The emotional triangles feel earned rather than sensational, and the noir elements emerge organically from human frailty rather than overt menace. There’s a quiet honesty in how the novel allows adulthood to be messy, unresolved, and still meaningful.”

Click here to order a copy of Floating in the Middle directly from my printer/distributer, Ingram Spark in the USA. Otherwise, it’s available to order in print and ebook format around the word, wherever you source your books.

Book group visits are set to begin this January and into the spring. Let me know if your bookgroup would like an in-person visit if you’re in the San Francisco North Bay area or via zoom if you’re not close by.

Most of us who celebrate Christmas, including myself, tend to mark Twelfth Night with ladders and storage boxes, ornaments returned to darkness. A season that for centuries, culinated in laughter and candlelight has been reduced to an errand. The last echo of Christmas is not a song or a feast, but the click of a plastic lid snapping shut.

Yet Twelfth Night was never meant to be so tidy. It marked the close of the twelve days of Christmas, the eve of Epiphany, when much of the world remembered wise men, wandering stars, and revelation arriving late. In medieval halls it was the wildest night of the season—cakes cut to find a hidden bean, a Lord of Misrule crowned, servants and masters trading places for a few unruly hours. Older still were its echoes of winter festivals such as Saturnalia, when light and laughter were acts of defiance against the dark.

Reading references to Twelfth Night festivities feels like a small loss in a wet winter’s evening from my vantage point, here in Northern California. January stretches damp and dreary (and in many parts, with extreme flooding), stripped of color and light, just when we need it most. I imagine, as I sit at my desk watching the rain run in streams down the hill leading up to my house, that Twelfth Night must’ve been such a beacon of warmth in days before central heating and electric light —a pause to feast one more time, to sing, to let the world turn slightly upside down before settling again into the practicalities of staying alive through winter.

I wish I had the energy to grasp the night as a festival, now. Maybe next year! Another reason to gather, to roast and bake one more shared and hearty supper, to remember that celebration once belonged not only to beginnings and the middle part of Christmas, but to endings too. Perhaps Twelfth Night still waits for us—not in the boxes, but in the choice to honor what our ancestors knew: that before the fledgling year hardens into routine, it deserves one last bright, defiant night.

Comfort, Artifice, and the Christmas Screen
Why soppy films endure—and why darker stories sometimes tell the deeper truth

People love soppy Christmas movies precisely because Christmas can be so hard. The sentimentality isn’t a misunderstanding of the season’s difficulties; it’s a response to them.

For many, December sharpened everything. Absence was louder. Money worries and politics were harder to ignore. Families gathered with histories that don’t dissolve just because there’s a tree in the corner. The promise that Christmas is meant to be joyful can feel like a judgment on those who are struggling. In that context, corny Christmas films function less as realism and more as reassurance. They offer a temporary, bounded world in which kindness wins, loneliness is noticed, and problems—however implausibly—resolve themselves before the credits roll. The predictability is the point. When real life feels unstable, certainty can be comforting.

These films also rehearse a kind of moral wish-fulfilment. They insist that people can change, that love arrives just in time, that meaning can be wrapped up neatly before the year turns. Even viewers who roll their eyes at the clichés often absorb the deeper promise: that the cold does not have the final word. Sentimentality, at Christmas, is a form of emotional shelter.

This holiday I found myself engaging with something very different. I watched Kate Winslet’s Goodbye June, with its stellar cast, but only in snippets. Knowing that Helen Mirren’s mother character was nearing the end of her life, I rationed it carefully. The story hit too close to home; I lost my own mum less than three years ago, and grief still has a way of ambushing you when you least expect it, especially during holidays. Oddly, what stopped me from becoming fully undone wasn’t distance, but artifice. Even with its dysfunctional family dynamics, the film felt so romanticized that it bore little resemblance to most people’s experiences of NHS hospitals, certainly my family’s. I was left not only sad, but strangely frustrated by the fantasy: the private room large enough for extra sofas and a Christmas tree, the mini-fridge from home, tinsel, the sense of spacious, curated intimacy. A nativity play! It’s a vision that many simply would never get in real life.

That tension—between comfort and truth—is why soppy Christmas movies don’t work for everyone. For some, the gloss feels alienating, even quietly cruel. Christmas noir, by contrast, can feel more honest. Rain-soaked streets, moral ambiguity, time compressed into a single night—it acknowledges that crises don’t pause for holidays, that grief and conflict turn up anyway, coats still on.

That’s something I discovered writing The House on Liberty Street. What began as a gentle, contemporary holiday tale became something darker when real life asserted itself and pulled the ensemble characters toward consequence. That readers now tell me they re-read it each Christmas—for the third year running—suggests that many people are looking for stories that don’t deny the weight of the season, but sit with it.

In the end, both the soppy movie and the Christmas noir are doing the same work. They are attempts to survive a charged moment in the year. One offers warmth by smoothing the world into kindness; the other by telling the truth about shadows and still finding something human there. People choose the version they can bear. Sometimes that’s fake snow and guaranteed endings. Sometimes it’s rain, grief, and the quiet relief of being understood.

Why Writers Need Time Off

This past December was one for the books in so far as it marked record time for me away from my laptop. My writer’s instincts to scribble away at a story, article, social media post took a hiatus of its own accord this past month. I had a full house, for sure, but I used to be able to tap away at my keyboard in stolen moments, regardless of the season, given any window of opportunity. As I grow as a novelist and writer and in my maturity as a mother of adult sons, I’ve finally learned that there is magic and momentum in not writing.

Stepping away from the screen over the holidays is not a failure of discipline for a writer; it is an investment in future work.

The year trains us to measure worth as writers in output—word counts, deadlines, visible progress, publication, readings. But stories are not manufactured solely at desks. They are fed by overheard conversations, by family dynamics, by the texture of days that unfold without an agenda. The holidays, for all their chaos, are dense with material, even if we don’t see it at the time. When we insist on documenting or producing rather than observing, we often miss it.

Distance also restores enthusiasm. What felt stuck and stodgy on the page in December begins to reappear in January as rejuvenated. Rest sharpens judgment; exhaustion blunts it. And writing while juggling the holiday social calendar and a recent book release wasn’t proving an easy pairing.

Most importantly, stepping back reminded me why I write at all. Screens narrow the world to a rectangle. Holidays—messy, marvelous, emotional, unpredictable—expand it again. A couple of weeks spent fully present, rather than productively anxious, returns me to the page today with something more valuable than momentum: perspective.

One last read through of the holiday cards is a ritual I savor each year. Of all the traditions I hold dear, revisiting friends old and new in photos and handwritten cards may be old fashioned, but it is rich with sentiment and feeling that simply can’t be replicated online.

It’s reminding me of how much I enjoyed reading the brilliant debut novel, The Correspondent, by Virginia Evans. Letters and cards can be kept, folded, reread years later. Digital messages feel fleeting and buried; paper feels like a record of a relationship or moment. Letters and cards echo how we as humans communicated for centuries. Reading one taps into nostalgia and continuity—something grounding in a fast, ephemeral world.

I went to the post office the other day during another big rain storm. Buying books of domestic and international stamps always puts a spring in my step as I tuck them into my back pocket, or purse, imagining all the birthdays and special message moments to come during 2026. Sending a card just because is the best thing. I highly recommend it.

Who doesn’t love a description of a kitchen tea table, a dining room lit by candlelight, a picnic in a meadow, a breakfast spread in bed, oysters by the bay? Stories that invite us to pull up a chair for a glass of crisp, white wine, a steaming cup of coffee, a plate of handmade pasta are so much more inviting and memorable than the surprising number of tales that take little to zero notice of the common place practical and elevated ritual need for people to partake of nourishment and refreshment.

Food has always been more than sustenance in both fiction and nonfiction; it is a language of memory, belonging, and care. In evocative stories, meals slow the world down for us, as readers. A table becomes a stage where relationships are revealed, conflicts soften, and love is shown without needing to be named. In nonfiction, food anchors us to real moments—recipes handed down, hands working dough, the familiar comfort of a shared dish that says you are home.

At Christmas and during the holidays, this power sharpens. The table becomes a gathering place not just for people, but for stories: who made this dish before, who is missing this year, who has returned. The act of eating together carries a quiet promise of continuity. Even when words fail, passing plates and pouring drinks offer connection.

There is nothing quite like gathering at the candlelit table in winter, when darkness comes early and the world feels smaller. Food fills the space between us, warming bodies and binding lives. In both fiction and life, these moments remind us that nourishment is not only what we consume, but what we share. I start my grocery shopping and baking a week or two before Christmas, in preparation for a full house.

I’ve had a few mishaps that have become laughable moments of late, in my haste to be overly efficient. To be honest, the beautiful, festive spice cake I posted on instagram was the before shot that preceeded half of its cream cheese, sour cream, powdered sugar topping slipping onto my lap en-route to my friend’s December birthday gathering. I made do with what was left of a wet-wipe package in the side door pocket of my car and dampened kitchen towel handed over by said host to make repairs to my green velvet trouser suit in order to pull myself together and enjoy the evening. I won’t even go into the reason why I almost incinerated the sausage rolls that afternoon.

Little is rarely perfect in the holiday food realm and if it is, it has most likely been prepared by a professional! I prefer to describe my culinary offerings as heartfelt, nostalgic and rustic, a way to continue passing my British heritage and my husband’s Italian heritage on to our now grown sons.

Many of today’s best writers show how food in modern literature remains a powerful vessel for what matters most—home, history, and the fragile, necessary act of gathering together.

In my writing, I use use food with the same emotional and symbolic weight as the classics—often to explore memory, identity, family, and belonging.

Classic writers throughout time have used food not just vividly, but meaningfully—as a way to reveal character, class, love, and longing. A few stand out to me from my English lit classes in high school:

Charles Dickens may be the most famous. His tables groan with detail, especially at Christmas. Think of A Christmas Carol: the Cratchits’ modest goose matters because it represents generosity, warmth, and moral goodness. Food in Dickens is social—it shows who has, who lacks, and who shares.

Jane Austen (Happy 250th Birthday Dec 16) used food more subtly, but just as effectively. Meals, dinners, and who is invited (or excluded) tell us everything about manners, status, and intimacy. In her novels, food is less about abundance and more about belonging—who sits at the table and under what conditions.

Thomas Hardy often used shared meals to emphasize community and tradition, especially in rural settings. Food marks seasons, labor, and collective identity—what is eaten reflects how people live and endure.

In J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit a character suggests that valuing “food and cheer and song above hoarded gold” would lead to a “merrier world”.

Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, she shows the girls finding joy in simple bread and milk after giving away their breakfast on Christmas morning.

Virginia Woolf, in A Room of One’s Own, states that good thinking, loving, and sleeping require having “dined well”.

Oscar Wilde, in A Woman of No Importance, humorously suggests that “After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations.”

Together, these writers show why food endures in literature: it is intimate, universal, and deeply human. Around a table—especially at holiday time—characters become most themselves, just as we do.

In my 2022 novel The House on Liberty Street, Home of Second Chances, protagonist Adamaria cooks up a traditional Northern California, Italian American Christmas Eve lunch, followed by a simple, fresh crab sandwich supper, in which she regalled her daughter, Gracie and Gracie’s daughters with food stories of old.

“It was getting on in the afternoon, they could see, judging by the lengthy shadows that cast across the top of the hallway at the top of the stairs . . . A rich scent of stovetop onion, garlic, celery and carrots sauteed in olive oil had snaked its way at a sluggish pace over the course of the long early hours of the winter’s day, finally making its way upwards, despite an absence of heat. A diffusion of odor particles had infused its crumbling insulation with the warming notes of Adamaria’s bubbling, stove top ragu.”

My recent release, Floating in the Middle is a foodie’s delight, focused on foraging and seasonal food of the Pacific along the Northern California Sonoma Coast.

“Evening cast its purple shadow over out meal preparation. We’re laboring in the low light of the kitchen’s underperforming overhead fixture. And yet there’s a magic quality to the glow of the vintage glass pendant and a steady focus in our slicing and chopping.

I’ve assembled a large, wooden board, knife, fennel, cattails, egg, olive oil, garlic, breadcrumbs and parmesan. Eva works beside me diligently. She’s sliced a garlic, rosemary loaf into a basket and is starting in on arranging a warm, wilted dandelion salad in an earth-hued ceramic bowl. The rich, toasty aroma of the brick oven bread is firing up my tastebuds. I reach out for the heel of the crust end of the loaf.

“Go on, dip it in a little balsamic and olive oil, “ Eva suggests.”

All is Calm

Saturday was the second production I’ve attended in person of a profound and powerful show that employs soldiers’ historic letters, diaries, and period songs rather than a traditional script to tell the true story of The Christmas Truce of 1914.

It apparently premiered in 2007 before becoming widely performed internationally and I first saw a version of it at the Weill Hall at the Green Center on the Sonoma State Campus a couple of Christmas’s ago.

The Spreckels Theatre Company production of All Is Calm: The Christmas Truce of 1914 in Rohnert Park was presented this year and last and featured direction by Sheri Lee Miller with vocal music direction by Lucas Sherman and performed by an extraordinary, all-male a cappella ensemble. This local staging was part of the company’s seasonal programming rather than a touring professional production, although every bit as good, adapting the acclaimed piece written by Peter Rothstein with vocal arrangements by Erick Lichte and Timothy C. Takach for the community theatre setting. It has proved so popular it will be back again for two performances next December.

The essence of the Christmas Truce of 1914 lay in a fleeting moment of shared humanity amid the brutality of the First World War, when enemy soldiers set aside their weapons and recognized one another not as targets but as men enduring the same hardship. Along stretches of the Western Front, British and German troops cautiously emerged from their trenches and exchanged simple yet deeply meaningful gifts drawn from their meagre rations: tins of beef, hard biscuits, bread, chocolate, cigarettes, and even beer.

These shared provisions, normally hoarded for survival, became symbols of mutual respect and empathy, as soldiers tasted unfamiliar foods and spoke, however awkwardly, across language barriers. In the act of sharing rations—precious sustenance in a landscape defined by hunger and cold—the truce revealed a powerful truth: even in war, compassion could briefly outweigh conflict, reminding all involved of their common needs and shared fragility.

After the theatre, I bundled up and headed down to nearby Petaluma River (which is actually a tidal slough) for the annual lighted boat parade, sponsored by the Petaluma Yacht Club. It was cold out there but also atmospherically foggy and this year’s illuminated procession of all things that float was a wonderful treat — a pause in the midst of a busy December weekend.

A large number of families had gathered down by river at our nearest point to home, the H Street pocket park now known as Bathtub Park, warmed by portable fire pits, s’mores and flasks of hot toddies and cocoa. Once more, sustenance to fatten and enrich our storytelling for the long, winter months ahead.

Last week, I had a profound and vivid dream of my mum, Elaine. I’ve only dreamed of her a handful of times since she passed in April 2023. This was the third, and the second time she appeared in her nurse’s uniform.

Mum was a career nurse from the age of eighteen until she retired at seventy. When she finally stepped away from her last job as practice nurse at the community health centre, she missed it terribly. She had actually come to nursing because her true dream—training to be a veterinarian—was out of reach. She was raised by a single mother who, to put it kindly, was neither supportive nor encouraging, not financially and certainly not emotionally. Nursing became both an escape from a desperately unhappy childhood and a vocation she embraced fully. She fell in love with the profession in the early days of the National Health Service in the 1960s. For years, she lived in the nurses’ accommodation, proud of her work and her independence, until she met my dad at twenty-one and married him soon after.

Though she was a city girl, she moved with him to his small fenland market town. There they raised one son and three daughters—I’m the oldest daughter, the second-born child. As we grew, she returned to nursing, working first in family planning clinics around Lincolnshire, and later, once my youngest sister was in school, becoming the head practice nurse at our hometown’s medical practice. She was utterly devoted to her work. All of us have such fond memories of her in her uniform—confident, capable, and proud as could be.

I’ve lived in the United States since 1990 and have only returned to the UK twice at Christmas, both times when my older boys were small. It was always too much to uproot a busy family in December to face crowded airports, winter weather, illness, and jet lag. Still, I often find myself longing for the lights glowing against the December darkness of a frozen fenland town. My dad is still in the home he and Mum made together when they married. He manages both the house and himself far better than any of us could have imagined, but of course he misses her—especially now, as Christmas approaches. It was her favourite time of year. She loved everything about it: the shopping, the decorating, the parties, the family gatherings, the late nights, the games. Oh, the games. She would insist we play endless rounds of board games and charades. And every year, as Christmas drew to a close, she would grow emotional and sad, especially as we reached our teens and twenties and began drifting into our own lives.

Eventually she and my dad alternated Christmases between visiting my youngest sister in Twickenham, travelling to Australia to see my middle sister, and coming to Northern California to stay with my family. In her later years, when her health failed, she was deeply grateful to my aunt, uncle, and cousin for hosting them for Christmas lunch. I still smile at the photos of them in their Christmas jumpers—a contrast to the elegant dresses she wore on Christmas Day in her prime.

And then, the dream.

I was standing in the kitchen of my parents’ house, in the December dark. A card plopped through the letterbox, echoing through the quiet entry hall.
“Who’s posting mail at this time of night?” I asked my dad.
“Your mum, I should think,” he said, matter-of-factly.

I ran out the front door barefoot, without a coat, into the cold night. I crossed the driveway and rounded the front hedge—which, strangely, had grown several feet taller since my visit in August—and there, idling in the darkness, was a burgundy Mini Clubman. Inside sat my mum. She looked younger, though not quite as young as in the photo of her carol-singing at Peterborough District Hospital in her late teens or early twenties.

“Mum!” I shouted, waving my arms to stop her.
She looked over, stepped out of the car, and wrapped me in a hug. “Oh, Fran,” she said—exactly as she used to.

She was wearing a nurse’s uniform and a cape, reminiscent of the old photo but not identical.
“Where are you going on a night like this?” I asked.
“To work,” she said simply.
“But where?”
“San… something.”
“San Francisco?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “San something.”

She released me from her warm, familiar hug, climbed back into the Mini Clubman, and drove off into the dark.

I’d had a cold that week and too much on my mind. My sister and her daughter were sick with the flu, and my dad had his own cluster of minor health troubles. Part of me believes she appeared because she was checking in—on me, and on the rest of the family I’d been worrying over. Ever the nurse, on-call whenever we needed her.

This young guy came to visit while I was at my desk, yesterday. He was right outside my writing room window, his antlers held high. I startled him when I picked up my phone to capture his image, but I managed to grab a picture as he took off up the hill.

Given my recent dream of my mum, my having been under the weather, my concerns for my family far away, and the emotional weight of Christmas approaching, the appearance of the stag felt like a gentle affirmation that I’m not alone. That I’m being watched over. That I’m stepping into new strength, even if I don’t feel it yet. A reminder to slow down, pay attention and reconnect with my intuition.

My friend Gail and I took the Smart Train to Marin last week for a soul-soothing Friday afternoon performance of Christmas with C.S. Lewis at the Marin Center. What a treat to be welcomed back in time to experience the magic of the season through the eyes of one of the world’s most beloved authors and the creator of The Chronicles of Narnia. This wonderful solo performance was set in the warmth of the literary legend’s stage-set Oxfordshire home circa 1962, as he shared engaging stories, reflections, and timeless insights on Christmas, blending wit, warmth, wisdom, and wonder.

Actor Gregory Williams Welsch captivated his audience as Lewis. I did crane my neck around into the rows behind where we were seated, for when he made a comment (in character) about Brits being known to be stuffy at times, one woman audience member guffawed loudly, and exclaimed: “Ya think?” I was about to give her the eagle eye, but decided to refrain, reminding myself that Brits also tend to be polite in public, for the most part!

“You can’t write for the left or for the right, this religion or that religion, or this belief or that belief. You have to write the way you see things,” Ray Bradbury.

So, in the spirit of Bradbury’s “Don’t think, just write” — the way I’ve enjoyed seeing things this week is refreshingly through the eyes of friends from different countries and cultures, starting with a gorgeous, collaborative, Danish holiday feast that featured this stunning, frozen winter ice bottle of Aquavit. Trick is to cut open an empty plastic soda or water bottle, place the freezable spirit bottle inside, fill the empty space with fresh, seasonal foliage, add water and stand it up in the freezer a day or two until solid. Cut away the plastic bottle off before serving in an ice container to keep it from melting.

Because I so appreciate the hospitality of friends and family, I’ve also been musing over the fact that me and many women friends in our late fifties and early sixties find our enthusiasm for hosting and entertaining naturally fading. After decades of carrying the emotional load of planning, organizing, cooking, cleaning, and keeping family traditions alive, it’s common to feel worn out by the sheer amount of invisible work involved. Sleep changes, sensory overwhelm, and a growing desire for quiet or simplicity can make larger gatherings feel more draining than joyful.

At the same time, rather than ask myself, what’s wrong with me, I’m coming to the understanding that this shift is a healthy sign of changing priorities rather than a loss of connection. Instead of being the orchestrator of every celebration, I’m craving smaller circles, deeper conversations, and gatherings where I can show up as myself rather than feeling the pressure to over perform. It’s less about stepping back from people I love and more about embracing a new season of life—one with more ease, authenticity, and space to simply be.

This brings me back around full circle to my mum. She was the queen of Christmas and reigned supreme until sometime around my age now. I never thought she’d give it up, but she embraced her Christmas travels in her sixties through mid seventies. Funny how it happens to the best of us.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed by the busy December rush toward Christmas, know that the glamorous holiday photo shoots in magazines and online were shot with a team of professionals, flourishing ribbons and frosting, rolling pastry, pinching cheeks and plumping cushions, months ahead of the reality of stuffy noses, piles of unwritten holiday cards. Shorter days of winter slow us down and make for getting a lot less done. Plans wobble, traditions get shelved or adjusted, someone cancels, more clutter. We miss those who are no longer with us or are unable to be here.

Best of all is the call for candlelight, soft blankets, music, books by the fireside, bundled up walks, an early night or two and time spent together in whatever workable form that takes.

It feels good to be honest after decades of multi-tasking to the extreme to admit that I don’t want to be in the club at that level anymore. And in the quiet spaces I create, I am able to hear the messages coming through my dreamscape letterbox telling me that it’s alright.

Free write at this time of year, I recommend it. It clarifies things. And if you don’t want anyone to read it just yet, curl your manifesto into a ball and chuck it into the fire.

The holidays are not perfect, despite the commercial allure. Audiobook for my 2022 holiday noir novel The House on Liberty Street is available a la carte without subscription from Chirp at $6.99. Makes for a nice alternative to tv and print. Move on in to this rambling Victorian home on Christmas Eve in this play-like audio rendition. Narrator Jennifer March reads beautifully.

Buy online or a bookstore near you. Ask the bookseller to order a copy from Ingram if they don’t have any in stock. Ask your local library to carry the ebook and/or print. Click here to buy direct.

Calling all Sonoma/Marin coast fiction story fans. Bookstores, tasting rooms and retailers who are not stand alone bookstores may also order copies of Floating in the Middle, by Frances Rivetti wholesale through ingramcontent.com. ISBN code 9780990492184.