Trumer!

The most exciting news of all:


We love Trumer!

Excuses, Excuses

I'm a slacker. What can I say? I did try to spend the evening catching up with the posts and putting down all the hilarious, heart-warming, self-deprecating, insightful, light-hearted, sardonic, and mundane posts that are floating through my head. Instead, I spent the evening putting pictures on my computer and online. Some can be seen here. And all I got to posting was this lame excuse for not posting!

In my defense, it is a busy season. We had twos T-days to contend with:

Followed shortly by Christmas:
With a whirl wind tour of the lovely Texas cities of Houston, Waco, Crawford, and Hearne in between. Talk about a frightening line up.

Well, we've come out the other end of the holidays relatively unscathed. Well, most of us have. Val was turned into a bit of a Nancy in the chaos of the pre-Christmas bachelor party:

And Dad followed up Val's bout of puking with one of his own the next night. He was like a bulimic Santa Clause trying to shed a few pounds in order to fit down our narrow chimney pipes. Or maybe he was just anxiety ridden that he wasn't going to make the "nice" list this year.
Anyway, there's more news to follow... and someday i may even get to it.

Potato Gratin

Our friend Richard (on the far right) passed away this summer. I heard about his tragic death when I turned my cell phone on around midnight of August 15th. I had just landed on the tarmac of Oakland airport and was returning home from vacation because my grandfather was about to die. The day after grandpa died, I went to the service for Richard. I was having a rough time so when they invited people up to talk about Richard or relate a favorite story about him, I didn't go up and say anything. I meant to relay the following vignette.

We were hosting a dinner party at Halcyon Court several years ago and many people from Kermit Lynch wine merchants were coming over, including Richard. Richard was a jolly gourmand with an appreciation of many fine things in life, including Potato Gratin. He arrived and came into the kitchen, my usual post during dinner parties, to say hello. He glanced at the potatoes I was slicing on the mandolin and with delight apparent on his face inquired: "Are you making potato gratin??" I smiled and assented. He watched as I buttered the LeCreuset Gratin Pan and added some minced garlic. "With garlic??" I smiled again and nodded. He watched as I layered the pan with thin slices of potatoes, and then sprinkled salt, pepper, and a few shavings of nutmeg. "And nutmeg??" I grinned again. And then with the gusto of life and the joy that gratin brings, Richard said "Oh, I LOVE YOU!" The evening was great, although between the wines and rich food I have only fuzzy happy memories of the rest of it. And now, when, as tonight, I make potato gratin, I think fondly of Richard.

(cover layered seasoned potatoes with heated cream and milk, and then shmear sour cream on top and bake for an hour and a half at 300, plus 30 minutes at 400)

(the picture is from the dinner before our friend Erin's amazing wedding in France, where Richard was the only person to plow through the disgusting, although very French, Andouiette sausage. what a champ!)

Trumer Sluts, for the record

I love Trumer. It's so refreshing and delicious. Just thinking about it now makes me thirsty. It's like Snickers -- it's really satisfying (I'm just talking about the great branding motto, not actually suggesting that Snickers is anywhere near as satisfying as Trumer) . Luke brought a keg of Trumer up the Sky Fourth of July party a couple of years ago. It was primo. The Fourth was so hot that all you could do was fill up a pint and plop down in the shade. Trumer, for those sadly not in the know, is a pilsner style beer that is brewed in Salzburg, Austria and now in Berkeley, CA, USA, planet Earth. It rocks.

The thing about Trumer, though, is that it apparently breeds low lifes. There has been a proliferation of Trumer sluts lately. Oh, you all know who you are. Don't pretend that you don't. A prime example is Paloma. I had never seen her drink a whole beer before in my life until Matt and I and Amy started bringing Trumer up to Sky. Now, it's hard to catch her without a mostly empty bottle in hand or trying to steal a less empty bottle from the clutches of one of the rest of us or from another Trumer Slut, like Chris or Lore.

Just in case not everyone know who you are, I'm here to out all you Trumer Sluts. Well, at least all of you that are caught on the digital film (is that even called film anymore?) that currently resides on my computer (photo credit to Mica Muskat and Cameron De Palma):
Ok. Matt isn't technically a Trumer Slut since he purchases most of that which is consumed up at Sky, but look at the expressions of longing on those two other Sluts...
Now Chris is definitely a Trumer Slut. It looks like he's been thrown under the truck here, but really, he's just hiding out so no one steals his first sip. Or the next, or the next, or the next, or the last...
Yeah, Maya's one too. She poses like she isn't, but it's all an act. Look at the professional guzzling...that's no joke. (And again, notice the jealous gazes of the unTrumer-ed onlookers).
And here is perhaps the most impressive or the saddest evidence yet. Yes, Katie (Katy? Kate? Our fact checking department attempted to confirm the correct spelling of her name but Val and Mica apparently have an early Friday night cut off...much like the Texas Criminal Court of Appeals) apparently likes a little Trumer action, but does she really need to get the little ones hooked at such a young and tender age? The look of pure Trumer joy on Sarah's face is understandable, but a little precocious and disturbing at the same time.

There are more. Previous posts in the archives have Trumer Slut-a-licious picutres of Val and Paloma both knocking a cold one back. But the rest of the pictures are on matt's computer and its up the stairs so I can't be bothered. Perhaps I'll add an addendum later.

And no, although I SHOULD be paid for this post, I haven't been. Now, please excuse me while I go check the supplies in the fridge...

The Harvest Moon Has Set

Yesterday was the last day of harvest. Picking in November is a novelty for Sky. Generally when harvest lasts into October, it's note-worthy. November? Unheard of.
It was atypical in many ways. The leaves had all fallen off the vines and we were picking late harvest from the old vines. I've never seen the vineyard naked and full of fruit at the same time. The crew was small -- Lore, Matt, Jesse, Chris, Paloma and me -- and we sought an elusive bunch of grapes so we wander in groups of one, two or three throughout the various blocks. Although the vines were loaded down with fruit, we picked only a bunch or two from the vines. Personally, I had no idea what we were supposed to be picking. Late harvest is dessert wine so we were looking for the sweetest grapes to ensure that there would be some residual enough sugar after fermentation. We were instructed to pick bunches that were raisony and had shriveled grapes, but weren't too dried out. And nothing with plump grapes. And nothing that was too picked over by birds. And nothing that was pink. And nothing that didn't smell right. And nothing that didn't taste good. We had 14 boxes to pick and it took hours. And I'm sure I didn't pick one bunch that actually met the specifications. Not that any one person could agree on what the specifications actually were. Needless to say, it was a typical sky deal.

After a mellow and light lunch of chanterelle mushrooms and humbolt fog grilled cheese sandwiches, we headed down to crush.

It was a particularly fun crush. We set up outside and crushed our quarter ton. The grapes, despite being undoubtedly all wrong in the vineyard, magically were transformed into awesome looking late harvest. Barely any juice and super high sugar. Matt got to fulfill a life long dream and vinify the grapes in a traditional manner as old as the zinfandel grown in Croatia back in the day (whichever day that was) (zin used to be thought to have come from the Primitivo grape in Italy, but was recently proven through DNA analysis to actually come from Croatia. Exonerated from any connection with La Famiglia).



I'm feeling a little post-partum but also relieved. Another harvest here and gone. Now we just wait with anticipation and anxiety to see the results of all the hard work and in two years we can assess the success of the endeavor. If it turns out well, I'm sure it was from my skilled eye at picking which bunches would lead to perfection. If it's a disappointment, it must be someone else's fault. I'm just saying, that's all.

Me Too Iguana...

Who has a fish on hand and likes to rant on his new blog? This guy! Yeah, yeah, free speech blah blah blah. I still liked it better when I had the final say in the blogosphere, at least as far as my own household was concerned. Matt's first post is a rant about me and my new regime. I'm still not seeing any problems with the new regime. I like what I like, what can I say? Its not like I imposed a foie gras ban or steroid testing. Mmmm....foie gras. There's nothing like force fed duck or goose liver...What was I going on about? Guess we'll see who's the biggest fish around here when the boxes are unpacked and the dust settles... I'm just hoping its me.

Bile Is Back In!

Puking went through a passe phase for a while there. I think its moment in the sun (imagine steam radiating from the pumice pile) has returned.

A while back, Matt was reading Athletics Nation, the blog he obsessively checked for new posts from obsessive A's fans salivating or fuming over every new thread of a rumor related to the team. I believe this was even before the last season started so it was just speculation about the arrival of the first pitch of the season. Anyway, one of these rumors was that a despised Anaheim Angel player might be signed to play for the A's and some clever and outraged A's fan posted "I think I just threw up a little in my mouth."

As much as I may not need to hear every little detail about the A's the way that avid readers of Athletics Nation might, I was THRILLED to have this information relayed to me. I just threw up a little in my mouth. It's f-ing brilliant! I love it. And I've used it - judiciously, of course -- no point in quickly burning out on the best phrase i've heard in some time - since then.

Fast forward to one of the many more rambunctious nights at Sky from this harvest. It was just a small group of us staying up past when we should have long since been sawing logs to build up stamina for the day of picking ahead of us. I vaguely recall Alyks, Ttam, Amolap and Lav talking incessantly over each other, jockeying for the floor, snorting and chortling (what the hell is chortling, anyway??). Drinking all the Trumer in sight and imbibing who knows what else. All of a sudden, there is an overwhelming stench assaulting our intoxicated senses -- and it is not coming from the prime suspect among the four of us. Amalap jumps up on a chair and yells something about a skunk walking into the kitchen with us. General chaos insues. Oh my god, did it smell. One of us MUST have gotten sprayed!! It became absolutely critical to evacuate the kitchen. We wandered around looking for a sanctuary from the stench and covertly trying to smell each other to find out who was the targeted culprit. Eventually we find ourselves on the front porch and someone starts retching. A dry heave-fest ensues. Think of that scene in Stand By Me with the pie eating contest that turns into a lumpy laugh fest but without the projectile vomiting. Mica eventually shows up to investigate the horrendous sounds and inform us that it was acutally the dog that got skunked. Things simmer down and as the dust settles, we take stock of our situation. It turns out that Lav might have blown a chunk and change, but the rest of us were able to keep our cookies down.

That's the thing about bile. It's just so FUN to talk about. Few things are as visually and verbally stimulating (even if in a repulsively can't-stay-away sort of way) and as humorous. Anything for a laugh...

I'm Wacko, I'm Yacko, and I'm....CUTE!

Well...they all think they are cute..
I started this post a week or so ago and forgot where I was going with it. Lets just assume it was witty and insightful and call it a day.
The crew above (working hard, or hardly working?) is pretty darn cute, I must admit. Although, it does seem like they are a little too cool for school. And if you don't get the title, please do us all a favor and watch yourself a little Animaniacs. Its really that good.
I guess I was mostly just putting some pictures up that I liked from this harvest. I like this new view of the vineyard, although it would be nice if there were fewer gopher holes...

What are you two smirking at anyway? Someone must have been up to no good to inspire just such a grin on the big sister's face. Why is it that I can't find too many pictures of anyone actually doing any work around Sky?? I guess that is the consequence of having everyone boss everyone else around... It leaves very few people to actually get the work done. And if you do get suckered into doing some actual work, for dog's sake, don't let anyone catch you on film doing it or you'll never get a moment's peace.

Perhaps I am spouting much ado about nothing this evening. Perhaps its the effect of the perfect Mandarin Hangar One and Tonic that Matt has so skillfully created tonight. Perhaps its just my favorite M.O. When you go this much, eventually something must hit the mark, even if its entirely on accident.

Sky Article in the Chron from September 7, 2007

Napa off the map
Beyond the corporate players and cult hits is a side of the valley few people know
Jon Bonné, Chronicle Wine Editor
Friday, September 7, 2007


(excerpts)



On the face of it, Sky Vineyards shouldn't even be in Napa Valley. Its mailing address is in Sonoma County. So is the turnoff to its long dirt driveway. Only as you climb near the summit of Mount Veeder and cross the precipitous ranch trail that divides the two counties, do you finally reach Sky's 14 acres of gnarled vines.
This is Napa.
No manicured estates up here. Just a couple of weather-worn buildings filled with nubby rugs, a wood stove, bare-bones kitchen and reams of paintings and sketches, one of which graces Sky's labels each year. The owner, Lore Olds, sits on the porch of his unpainted cabin, describing life above the fog line.
"This is probably Napa's s- chateau," he remarks, "and I say that proudly."
There is the Public Napa. Its established names sit imperiously on Highway 29 and Silverado Trail, courting visitors who come for a picture-perfect glimpse of where American wine came of age. Many began as modest family establishments in the late 1960s and early '70s, often growing to huge proportions as their fame spread.
Increasingly, they are now corporate affairs. When Warren Winiarski sold Stag's Leap Wine Cellars to Antinori and Ste. Michelle Wine Estates in July, he joined a long list of preeminent names who have turned over the keys to big concerns: such wineries as Beringer, Beaulieu Vineyard and of course, the template-setting Robert Mondavi Winery.
Then, there is the Private Napa. These are cult names like Colgin Cellars, Bryant Family and Dalla Valle, an elite tier with just the opposite goal: Keep the public away from the gates, and welcome a select few to worship at the altar of $200 Cabernets. This second wave began in the 1970s but hit high gear in the booming '90s, when the model for a Napa winery went from public to private (in part, after walk-in tasting permits were frozen by a 1990 ordinance). Most newcomers now aspire to follow in the model of Screaming Eagle, whose very location is a closely kept secret to ward off supplicants begging for a place on its waiting list.
These two Napas share some common goals: preserve the valley's image as idyllic wine-fueled paradise, where the legend of the small family winery lives on, where all wine is wonderful and all vintages, like the children of Lake Wobegon, are above average. Without this buffed-up version of reality, Napa's rarefied image and high prices would be at risk.
Then there is a third Napa: wineries that stayed small without grasping for cult status. Call it the Alternative Napa. No single thread binds them, but their wines are well regarded enough to attract distributors and regular customers.
While not cheap, the bottles are usually reasonable, at least by Napa standards. Most vintners arrived early enough to buy wineries before land prices went stratospheric. Typically, they have been out working in the fields as Napa matured around them into a playground for the rich.
These scattered holdouts occupy an increasingly rare place. Here's a side of Napa Valley that's largely been obscured from view.

Mount Veeder
Spring Mountain's contradictions seem mild compared to those on Mount Veeder. There you'll find large, prestigious wineries like the Hess Collection, owned by Swiss businessman Donald Hess, and Mount Veeder Winery, now owned by Constellation Brands, the world's largest wine company.
There may be fewer than 20 wineries in the sprawling Mount Veeder appellation, which covers 15,000 acres, but it's more than Bob Travers recalls being in all of Napa County when he arrived in 1968. Travers, owner of Mayacamas Vineyards, continues to make one of the long-lived Cabernets that helped establish Napa's reputation; in 1976, it was one of those chosen for the Judgment of Paris tasting.
Now Travers remains away from the tourist fray, still making the same 4,000 or so cases per year he did 30 years ago. At 2,400 feet, his dry-farmed vines yield just a ton or two an acre. But the wines are amazingly durable; Travers just re-released the 1991 Cabernet. "It's still a young wine," he insists.
Just down the road lies Sky Vineyards, where Lore Olds and his daughter, Mayacamas (call her Maya), grow mountaintop Zin and Syrah at 2,100 feet in the heart of Cabernet country.
In the early 1900s, this patch of the Mayacamas was a resort. By late 1972, when Lore Olds showed up, the site was long deserted. He had been working throughout Napa and Sonoma, including on a commune at Sonoma's Old Hill Ranch. He'd also been hunting for a vineyard, one high in the hills with an eastern slope so grapes could ripen in the morning sun's softer rays. This was perfect. Olds bonded the winery in 1979, the same year he went to work for Bob Travers as assistant winemaker.
Maya grew up atop Mount Veeder, then attended Davis and worked in Australia before settling in downtown Sonoma two years ago and taking a job with Phil Coturri's Enterprise Vineyards management company. Now she farms many of the same plots from her dad's hippie days, with one big difference: "I can't even comprehend the amount of money that a lot of my clients have," she says.
Sky may be off the map, but it's hardly cut off from the world. Lore Olds, 61, grew up in Berkeley, where his mother, Betty, is still a city councilwoman. His girlfriend, Amy Dencler, works at Chez Panisse, which gets the fruit from his century-old quince tree.
Obscurity has its challenges. Sales are slow; if they improve, Olds will buy new barrels, enough for 15 percent of his wine. (It used to be 50 percent.) The family harvests virtually all the grapes themselves, hauling some 15 tons to a low barn filled with barrels, cases and a prosciutto Maya is curing.
The grapes go into an old hand press bought from Conrad Viano, whose family planted its Martinez vineyard in 1888. "The wine gets pressed however hard the local teenager can press it," says Lore.
"There's not many of us teenagers around here anymore," Maya replies. She's 32.

2004 Sky Vineyards Mt. Veeder Syrah ($40) The Syrah up atop Mt. Veeder is a newcomer, arriving in just 2000. But it's a curious beast - intensely floral, with the same vibrant, florid fruit that dominates Sky's Zinfandel (pictured above). That Zin can be light, almost Beaujolais-like, at times, but the Syrah has a pleasing weight. Built around a core of gray mineral flavors, it's got a juiciness that offsets its slightly tannic, if refined, texture. A bit rustic, but the texture, and bright purple fruit flavors, give it a nuance lacking in many Napa Valley Syrahs.

I am a Slacker of Sky

Harvest is here. Well, way past here, actually. We're two weekends in, have 11 tons in the winery, a weekend off and then full on again. Its been a good harvest so far. Weather's been cool, picking crews have been big, and everyone has something to say. For a change.

The crews has been fantastic. Big. I know size isn't everything, but, you know, sometimes it is. Tons of people make the tons go quicker. You can even get away with looking cute on a bike instead of laboring away beneath the vines (but only briefly). And the crews have been so fab that they barely complain after 18 yellow jacket stings or blistering burns from picking molten glass out of the fireplace (what a sec, that last part was me). Which brings us to part ii of the joy of this harvest.


Lots of raging.
What the hell is he doing anyway? Besides rightfully flipping me off as he slurps up the last of the Trumer that matt and I brought up. What the hell is with these Trumer sluts? It's like sky is infested with them, along with the R.O.U.S.es that live in the closet I grew up in. Anyway, what I was on about? Lots of awesome Gee-tar playing around the fire and blah blah blah-ing loudly into the wee hours, only to get up for another long day. Nothin' better than sweating the last of the alcohol (or *whatever*) somewhere shortly before the mid-morning break. I still have the haunting refrain from my favorite of Cameron's from the weekend knocking about in the basement of my brain. (If only I could hear the actual words so someone would tell me what the hell the song is & I could find it somewhere).

So what's my point? What is ever my point? I've got new stories and I'm too tired to remember the funny ones that are appropriate for outing in such a place as this. So I just thought I'd put up a few pictures and express my gratitude for everyone who is a Slacker of Sky. Or a Dog of Sky. Or a Punk-Ass of Sky. Or a What-the-Hell-Did-I-Get-Myself-Into of Sky. Or an XIX.VII of Sky. or just someone willing to forgo whatever other plans dominate our busy lives in order to help us out for a day or two.
Life is flying by. It's nice to appreciate it. Even if you have to put up with all kinds of shit for saying so.

ps. All the victims of the vicious yellow jacket attack have been vindicated. Against the advise of his lawyer, Matt joined a number of hooligans in pouring diesel fuel into their home and burning the shit out of those fuckers. Lets just say: mistakes were made. drinks were had. boys were scolded. and people died (ok, no people, just the sociopathic yellow jackets).

Grandpa's Obituary

Walter Olds 89, died of cancer on August 17, 2007, at his home in Berkeley, where he had lived for the past 54 years. Walter was born on a farm in Iowa in 1918 and learned carpentry from his grandfather, with whom he lived while attending high school. Walter was a quiet and private person, who designed and built the leaded glass and most of the furniture in the family home. He graduated from Iowa State University in 1942 with degrees in architecture and civil engineering. While waiting in the university library for his girlfriend and future wife of 65 years, Betty Milne, Walter discovered a magazine about the work of the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. Inspired to devote his career to the study and practice of architecture, in 1947 he was accepted by Mr. Wright as an apprentice at the Taliesin Fellowship. Later Walter would serve as the senior apprentice and supervisor for the Wright-designed V.C. Morris building on Maiden Lane in San Francisco, the Walker residence in Carmel and the Buehler residence in Orinda. After leaving Taliesin, he was hired as the first employee of the architectural firm of Anshen and Allen. He later joined the firm Skidmore, Owings and Merrill, where he spent the next 40 years of his career. His first few years at SOM were spent in Okinawa working on the reconstruction after World War II. Retiring from SOM in 1990, Walter continued to practice architecture. In 1994, he supervised the restoration of the Wright-designed Buehler home, which had been partially destroyed by fire, and had recently designed a home for a longtime client in Kenwood. Walter Olds was an avid hiker and with his wife, traveled extensively around the world, often with the Sierra Club. He is survived by his wife, Betty Olds, a Berkeley Council Member; sons, Lore and Colby (Deborah); daughter, Marcia, and four grandchildren, Mayacamas, Skyla, Olivia and Samuel. There will be a private family service. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made to The Nature Conservancy, 4245 N. Fairfax Drive, Suite 100, Arlington, VA 22203.

More ironic than Alanis Morrisette...

8.20.2007

I just finished reading The World According to Garp by John Irving. I initially resisted the book due to some early Wellesley bashing, but by the end, I really enjoyed it. For me, the book was about death and the irony and absurdity that often accompany it. Garp loved an ironic, unexpected, and ultimately karmic death.

As I sat in the corner of the café near my house frantically to finish some work on a death penalty appeal that I’m behind on, I had a vision of my own death. The tables and chairs are bulky and placed close together here. Between me and the door is a larger table. A woman with a huge stroller was trying to maneuver her way to the table and eventually had to park the stroller outside and bring only the bulky car seat with baby in to set next to me on the bench. The difficulty of logistics inherent in this small activity caught my attention and distracted me. Moments later, her friend arrived with another oversized stroller and they shuffled the large chairs to make room at the table to park the baby. Just settled in to drink lattes and discuss the latest triumphs of their precious little things, I had a vision of a fire in the café. I am stuck in the corner, trapped by the large machinery of birth, with all fire exits and paths to the door blocked by the oversized stroller. At the end, the babies take their collective revenge for my obstinate immunity to their charm. It would be a death that Garp would appreciate.

Of course, real death is neither ironic nor absurd. It is not romantic nor literary. It is sad. So so sad. Heartbreakingly so. It is painful and it hurts. Even if there is relief in some death, there is nothing redeeming or sensible about it. It just hurts.

chooks

we've got chooks.

they are very exciting. Chris built a chickencoop where the bottom rows of monkey island used to be and after nurturing the chicks through their early months, Linn brought them up to their new home.

There are four chooks and about ten names. Originally, Linn's seventh grade girls named them Grimia, Einstein, Dina maybe? and I forget. (no, i really do, that's not the name). Pomme thinks she should get to name them since Chris built the coop. So she has her own names for them all. Dad can't call anyone by their right name, and certainly not the chickens, so he's got Benjamin, Jessamia, and the little guy. Amy calls the aggressive piggy one Jezebel. I named the runt Pigeon (same word as Dove in Puerto Rico, and Paloma's most despised creatures) and then dad and I changed it to Pigelina (mixing in Pomme's middle name). We think we're funny. Paloma, oddly, hates it . The naming wars continue but I imagine it will settle out eventually. Or not. I guess Jesse's dog has at least5 different names: Sasha, Salsa, ratdog, X-dog, wiggles.


Anyway, Dad makes oatmeal each morning and takes it out to the coop. Like everyone up there, the chooks are very snobby about what they'll consume. Is that parslane organic? they wonder. I went out to observe the morning meal. Dad sat down on the ground in the breakfast nook, put Pigelina on one shoulder, Jezebel on the other, and fed them all breakfast. Benjamin is apparently the gross one. She seemed more interested in picking at dad's burn scabs on his arm than the oats. It was a funny scene. Dad looked like St. Francis of Assisi preaching to the birds. Probably more worthwhile than preaching to anyone else up there.

No pictures yet of the chooks, so i put up dad with the wall of roosters behind him.

in spite of my rage

I have an internal sense of justice based on the relative power dynamics of parties and whether we allow them access to the intentionally unavailable language and process of legal system. This sense of justice and fairness is at odds with how criminal justice is administered in US. It makes me think that playing a small part fighting against the overwhelming tsunami of the legal system is inadequate. How can you work within a system based on denying access to justice to those who need it the most?

Particularly now. Roberts, Alito and the rest eviscerating the delicate balance that made compliance in system possibly worthwhile. They don’t even apply to fundamental principles of our legal system – already stacked against the powerless and unwanted – evenhandedly. The arrogance of their easy execution of injustice inflames me. I understand what people mean when they say they see red and are consumed by rage. You feel it within your body.

Makes me want to stop. Alternately makes me want to withdraw into the easy distraction of daily life and pursue my own happiness; or give it all up and truly crusade for change through drastic measures. But the war rages in my head and never trickles down to my actions. In spite of my rage I am still just a rat in a cage.

What does it all mean? I feel eternally plagued by this question. I’ll be drawn into work or life and forget to obsess on the central existential questions, and then they come rushing back into focus, eclipsing the minutia of the mundane. But no answers, ever. Only the question and the possibilities of ignoring it for just a little while longer.

6.25.07 (happy birthday amy) upon reading of Supreme Court opinion in Sanchez-Llamas v. Oregon.

Mee too!

I think I, like Donny B., have a man crush on Baron Davis.

Is that ok, Matt? (I'm a big fan of Matt Barnes too. He has such a great first name.)


GO WARRIORS!

Decades of History

Grandpa will be 89 on March 26. He was born in 1918. When I think about that, it is a little unfathomable. He has so many decades of memories. He lived through wars, depressions, over 20 Presidential terms, computerization of work, fast cars, nuclear escalation, and over 60 years of Grandma's cooking. He's hiked up Mt. Everest, traveled through Africa, the Middle East, South America, and who knows where else. When he was lying feebly in a hospital bed, only loosely aware of what was going on around him, it was hard to remember how experienced and competent he is at life.

I have spent a lot of time with Grandpa over this past week. He had a lot of time alone in a room to reflect on his life and talked about he kept going back to growing up on a farm in Iowa. It struck me how much our early childhood stays with us. It wasn't the time he spent in Japan as an architech, his wedding day, the birth of his children, the sights he had seen, or the work where he spent most of his adult life that he kept coming back to. He talked about his sister and milking cows. I feel like I have forgotten large chunks of my own childhood and I am 50 years closer in time to it that he is to his own. I wonder if the memories lost or repressed will return when I'm lying in a hospital bed in my days of twilight. So much of what we carry on our shoulders every day -- the stuff that makes us bend over decrepit, wince at the thought of getting up, avoid looking at our responsibilities directly -- isn't what sticks at the end. I guess that's somewhat comforting.

I watch Grandpa experiencing this reflection on his life. I see he has certain regrets and desires to make amends, tries to be less harsh and inpatient, and appreciate people who are important to him in a more expressive and verbal way. It makes me a little sad that I have not taken every opportunity to get to know him and hear more of his stories. He has almost 90 years worth of stories and I've barely scratched the surface. Most of our conversations over the years were light and trivial. I talk to him in short sentences, straining to be heard over his increasingly poor hearing. The speaking in short sentences made my topics more simple, my comments more simple, my questions more simple.

I need to remember how full his life and understanding is and take advantage of what opportunity to hear stories and tell him some of my own remain.

I love the little details of our lives that you forget about shortly after they happen. Or they are so insignificant that they don't seem repeating to other people but they make you smile: the image of Grandpa as a young man, milking the cows and squirting milk toward the transient barn cats that were sheepishly lurking around waiting for just such an occurence, and jumped at the milk before it could even touch the ground.

What It's All About

About a year ago, Chad sent an email out to a number of wine-drinking friends asking something about what wine meant to them or something to that effect. Lamely, I mulled over the question, intended to write a thoughtful response, and never got around to writing it out. Anyway, answering that questions is part of my impetus for writing here. Wine is important to me. It is deeply connected to where I come from and occupies much of my attention. (As Jesse remarked: What is the difference between drunks and alcoholics? We drunks don't have to go to stupid meetings all the time.)

Drinking wine is about community. Its about sitting around the table on the front porch with the people we love (and sometimes people we can barely tolerate - but that's more of a mai tai kind of night), eating a meal we made with our hands, drinking wine from grapes we harvested, and talking -- always talking, usually about everything and nothing, and everybody all at once. Wine evokes memory of people and moments, and it connects us to the same rituals of feasting, celebrating, and relating to our clan that our oldest ancestors engaged in.

That's part of why wine is important to my life. And the people that are around that table are what is even more important to my life. And it is stories about them that I want to write about here.

The first story

Regardless of where my life takes me, my heart remains safely nestled up in the hills on the property where I was born. Every year I return to pick grapes for my father. The vineyard is small and we recruit friends and family to pick on the weekends. The work is strenuous but there is something comforting and wholesome about being out in the early morning in the hills that look over the Napa Valley, trudging along the rows with your bucket, your knife and your back bent. Most mornings, the valley is an ocean under a blanket of fog with the opposing mountains emerging as islands in the distance. Hot air balloons rise above the fog and the harsh city noises carry up the canyon, muted through the moisture.

Picking is one of the most social events on the hill. People partner up and choose a row, moving from vine to vine, gossiping, laughing, and complaining. Above your own conversation you hear the murmuring and outbursts of your neighbors, culminating in shrieks as a grape fight erupts. Jesse, the neighbor and first cousin who my dad fires on a biweekly basis, is the bucket runner. Responding to bellows of “BUCKET!” he walks the rows to pick up buckets brimming with zinfandel, leaving behind a fresh bucket and his peanut gallery comments. Competing with the crows, my sister and I squawk our rendition of “Picking Cab Sucks” to the tune of “Three Blind Mice.” Meanwhile, at break time, my artist-vintner-winemaker father, in Homer Simpson mode, slinks off to the truck in search of “doooouuughnuuts.”

There are rules to follow: First rule is Clean Clean Clean; second rule is Safety First; third Rule is Don’t Make Eye Contact; and the Fourth is Don’t Mention the Unmentionable. The first two are obvious; the latter refer to ex-wives and hostile neighbors. In direct violation of the Rule, the Unmentionable is the favorite topic of discussion.

Picking is the soul of our winemaking. The people, the laughter, the bitterness, and the love that gets crushed into the fermenter along with the grapes is raw and real. They are the needle and threads of the tapestry that the vineyard weaves into my life.

originally written in 2002