Tuesday, November 05, 2013

The Soul of a Vineyard


A chubby Dalmatian and a scrappy black terrier tore down the road, barking furiously. Driving slowly past lush rose bushes standing sentinel at the ends of the rows of vines, we inched past the rambunctious welcoming committee towards the trailer at the end of the drive. I could hardly wait to spring out of the car and walk through the vineyards.

As a birthday present (it was a big one) my husband had arranged for us to learn about winemaking from the craftsmen themselves, right in the heart of Santa Barbara’s burgeoning wine country. A couple of vintners graciously offered to show us around during crush, their hectic harvest time. The early morning fog had burned away and the autumn skies over the Santa Rita hills were speckled with only a few lingering clouds.  The winemaker for Clos Pepe greeted us as we bounded out of the rental car.

“Welcome! You must be David and Carol. I’m Wes. Why don’t we head right out to the vineyard while we talk.”  A lanky man with square shoulders and a brisk stride, he tromped over the occasional tangled weed, and led us down a tidy row of carefully tended vines, their leafy tendrils reaching out to us in a verdant greeting. He explained that the east/west orientation of the coastal mountains formed valleys in Santa Barbara County that drew the cool ocean breezes over the land, carving out distinct microclimates ideal for producing classic wines like Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. The faint scent of salt water still hung in the air.

Tenderly, he cupped a cluster of chardonnay grapes in his coarse palm. “See the dusty bloom? This protects them from sunburn. Here, have a taste.” He proudly handed them to us. A bright burst of fresh fruit puckered my lips and made me smile. Such possibility brewing inside those busily growing grapes. 

As Wes went on to describe the growing process, we learned more about the consistent, precise care that’s needed to nurture the grapes throughout the season. There was a comforting orderliness to it that seemed to suit him and he nearly shined with confident focus. Clos Pepe produced a very low yield, which enabled him to micro manage each row of vines. In fact, he had just completed a partial picking due to frost. Imagine- having your work tied so intimately to the moods of nature. A delicious sense of rootedness began to stir inside of me. Strolling through the tranquil vineyard, I could almost picture dedicated winemakers from generations past bending over their precious crops; their livelihood and their passion embedded in the land. After toasting Wes for generously sharing his time, knowledge and glorious vineyard, we were ready to get back on the road.

Winding our way through miles of dusty farmland and dry scruffy mountains, we drove into the criss- crossed hills of the Santa Maria Valley. The whole county was swollen with miles of ripe grapes just aching to be harvested. We slowed to a stop in front of an enormous warehouse on the grounds of the Bien Nacido Vineyards. Once again, we hit the ground running. These were busy guys.

“Hey, I see we have visitors!” Brad, a newbie preparing for his first bottling, strode over to us and extended his hand, adjusting the rim of his soiled baseball cap. “Have you guys ever tasted free run wine?” I’d only vaguely heard of it, let alone tasted any. Free run is the juice that’s produced from the de-stemming process before the grapes have been pressed. He grabbed a glass from a nearby worktable and carefully dunked it in the barrel, gently scraping the side to collect just the bright ruby juice. The clean ripe taste was refreshing; it was the real deal.

Since this was his first bottling, Brad drew samples of wine from his two barrels produced the previous year. He would taste each one, and then, with the skill of a budding alchemist, he would blend them. What he needed was some expert advice. We followed him to the vineyard’s makeshift office where a man in his early thirties sat, examining the two glasses lined up in front of him on a bottle strewn table. James, a 9th generation Californian, whose family had harvested the land I was standing on for several hundred years, not only grew his own grapes and sold them, but was a highly regarded winemaker as well. Brad took a deep breath. I didn’t hear him exhale.

James swirled the first sample, then stuck his nose down into it briefly. He straightened his spine and slowly brought the glass to his lips. As his eyes closed, he took a deep sip and held the wine in his mouth awhile before he swallowed.  Eyes still closed, he sat quietly, almost reverentially. I raised my eyebrows and looked at Brad, who whispered that he was counting the time of the finish. Just then, James opened his eyes and gave his colleague a slow, warm smile. He took off his cap and ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. Thoughtfully, he suggested areas for improvement, then blessed Brad with sincere praise.  Eyes dancing, our new friend beamed and extended a glass in our direction. We took turns enjoying the samples, giving what we hoped were knowledgeable sounding impressions. Having witnessed a baptism of sorts, I felt privileged.

We began to say our goodbyes when the owner of the winery invited us to stay to be part of the toast given to the exhausted but satisfied men who had brought in the harvest. At the end of the meal, James asked us if we’d like to try some of his wine.  It was as if da Vinci had asked if I’d like to look at some of his sketches. Our day had come full circle. From tasting grapes plucked off the vine to this. Lifting a glass with a man whose veins pulsed with his family’s accumulated wisdom and skill. I swirled mine gently in a small circle on the rough table. Lifting it to my nose, I pulled in a deep breath. Hints of black cherry and vanilla drifted up lazily. I took a healthy sip, letting the wine wash over my entire tongue. The smooth, velvet texture wrapped the fruit in a creamy embrace. I swallowed almost reluctantly.

In the end, it’s all about how it makes you feel. Rather than distracting me from my recent birthday, this trip immersed me in the rhythm of the harvest, the fruitfulness to be found in the passing of time. And that is well worth a toast.



Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Fussin': a fiction short

James felt relieved when he spotted Wanda’s rusty green Dodge resting in its favorite spot at the back of the lot. He had heard about her husband’s death a couple of weeks ago and hadn’t seen her at the diner since. Wanda’s Place was as reliable as the sunrise, the eggs were always piping and the bacon always crisp. He pushed the squeaky screen door open, wiped his boots on the bleached welcome mat and headed for his favorite stool, the one by the wall under the Coca Cola clock at the end of the no smoking section. A relatively recent concession Wanda had made just for him.


The swinging doors that led into the kitchen opened without their usual burst. Wanda moved through them gingerly, as if avoiding contact with a bruise.

“Hey there, honey, Good to see ya.” She grabbed one of the creamy mugs that were stacked to the left of the coffee pot and set it in front of him. Normally, she’d hit the punch line before she finished pouring, but today was different.

“Wanda, I just want to tell you how sorry I am.”

“No, James, they’ll be none of that.” She shook her head. “I know ya are and if you say any more, you’ll just get me going again.” She sighed slowly and reached a plump hand into her faded blouse to snatch a hankie. She dabbed at the blotchy skin by her once lively blue eyes. “It’s just that I don’t know who to fuss over now.”

She moved off to take care of another customer, leaving James with his thoughts. He held the mug with both hands and blew the steam softly. Wanda had ministered to Ed for longer than James had been alive. She grumbled about it, sure, but everyone knew that’s what fueled her. Fussing over people.

Late for a meeting, he polished off his scrambled eggs, took one more sip of coffee and tipped his cap to Wanda on the way out. Gravel crunched under the tires of his muddy red pickup as he sped up to the warehouse. He strode around to the side door, jangling his keys. His boots clumped heavily on the plank steps, nearly drowning out the pitiful mewling. He stopped short, keys in mid air.

“Meew, meew.” A hoarse, high-pitched call crept up through the steps.

“What the hell?” James jumped off the side and peered underneath. Sunlight stole through the cracks in the wood, throwing splotches of light into the small space. Perched on a pile of twigs was the tiniest kitten, its huge triangle ears threatening to topple it head first.

“Meew.” It squeaked again, its small fuzzy body shaking with the exertion.

James dropped to his belly and reached in slowly, crooning “It’s okay, little one, I’m not going to hurt you.” He scooped the kitten up with one gentle swipe of his sturdy paw and drew her out into the welcoming sunshine. He stroked the orange stripes of her downy fur with his other hand and her trembling began to subside. His meeting temporarily forgotten, he leaned back against the steps and began to inspect his new friend. Her green eyes looked clear, and except for some leaves and a bit of dirt, she seemed pretty clean. Well, her motor works, that’s for sure. He smiled to himself as she cranked up her contentment to a rolling purr. She was so young, so needy; she’d have to have a home where loving attention flowed freely.

She battled with his bootlaces as he hurried through his meeting. He knew what to do. Less than an hour later, for the second time that day, James was relieved to see that rusty, green Dodge.