Articles by Chris Sabin

I first visited Calistoga on Christmas Day. Still reeling from being fired just days before, Kate, Jim and I drove from the horse ranch to Calistoga to have dinner at a Chinese restaurant. When you…

A buddy of mine told me this story the other day: He went Christmas tree shopping for him and his family, found a tree he liked and just as he stretched out his hand to…

A place where only the weather was honest: hot, bright days and cold, frosty nights; the grey-brown-green of the hillsides, the horses neighing and running in the paddocks, birds by day, stars by night, but…

I’ve written now a couple of times about a local park on a hillside, and my mistaken identification of turkey vultures as hawks. Well, ever since I realized that it was turkey vultures I was…

At the youth hostel, as the sun went down, we’d all hang out in the third floor kitchen with some wine or beer.  Jim would produce his boom box and we’d listen to the different…

So I wrote a piece a couple of months ago, “A Park Bench” which revolved around a park I go to, the natural beauty of the park, and a park bench with a plaque that…

When I lived in San Francisco in the ‘80s, we had a coffin in the living room of our Tenderloin apartment. With giant posters of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe on opposite walls (the twin…

There’s a park I go to—it’s about a ten-minute drive from my house. It’s on a hill or ridge overlooking the town, that I think is locally referred to (somewhat grandiosely) as a “mountain”. You…