Winemaker's Journal

Adolescent Grapes and the Risks of Sun Bathing

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Mon, 23 Jun 2025 02:48:00 +0000

Parts of the vineyard were a jungle—unruly vines, leaves thick and moist, cloaking the grapes in a humid green veil. Perfect habitat for mildew to incubate and thrive. So, doing what any good farmer must, I spent hours thinning extra shoots and pulling excess leaves, and opening the canopy, allowing the grapes to breathe. Fresh air is a great organic antidote to powdery mildew, the mostly incurable cancer of grapes.

The green clusters looked happy in the aftermath—shiny, vibrant, newborns, inhaling the morning’s cool breath under a shroud of June Gloom.

Fog seeped down the hills, down the drain of the Pacific. The sun blazed.

By afternoon, many of thos
e same grapes—had burned. No trip to the ER could help them now.

In farming, there’s always something. The sun giveth and the sun taketh away. Blessed be the rays of the sun.

Still, plenty of grapes were spared, nestled in just enough shade to avoid the scorch. We’re early in the season. And despite the casualties, the 2025 vintage still holds promise—like baseball on Opening Day, full of hope, potential, waiting to unfold.

(Singed Tempranillo: Teenage grapes caught off guard by a sudden sunburst—some charred, others dreaming in green.)

Memorial Day Reveries from the Vineyard of Good and Evil

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Thu, 29 May 2025 02:27:00 +0000

He took machete, pickax, and shovel and began hacking through the jungle behind the house. How could there be a rainforest in parched San Diego? The original owners had planted a green belt of ivy around the house, the one crop they watered, leaving the kiwis to die and the orange and avocado trees to fend for themselves.

With the thermometer topping one hundred degrees, hot by San Diego standards, even for dry heat, he slashed, thrusted, jabbed, swung, and dug, clearing an opening through ivy trunks thick as trees, hollowing one out, like an ancient Sequoia, through which Merlot Mac drove his Gator.

A muffled rolling thunder of bombs blasting in the background from Camp Pendleton triggered the dog’s barking. “It’s OK, boy,” the man reassured him. “They’re on our side."

Helicopters whirled overhead thap-thap-thap-thap-thap returning to base from sorties. His mission on the ground – to capture and hold a piece of flat land, then clear it so choppers could land.

In those days, combat continued in Iraq and Afghanistan and while the troops overseas operated in 120-degree heat, the man and his neighbors enjoyed the comforts of home, peace and prosperity. At the height of heat in the day, he kept fighting for the sake of the troops and swung his pickax against imaginary mangrove trunks. Half a world away, Taliban and al-Qaeda insurgents tunneled through mountains and U.S. forces played a life-and-death version of whack-a-mole. Toiling in the vineyard became his moral equivalent of war and the least he could do was work in the yard as hard as the troops overseas. To stop meant surrender and defeat. The troops couldn’t take a break at noon, go inside, have lunch, drink a cold beer, take a nap, and take up the hunt for the enemy in the late afternoon. If they couldn’t rest in the heat of the day, neither would he, so he kept up the work.

The photo, nineteen years later ... the ivy is largely in retreat, but has yet to surrender, and resurges with winter rains. The vines planted among them struggle, some bearing good fruit. As for the troops, always remembered, always thanked.

Tale of the Snake and the Snail

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Sun, 29 May 2022 17:49:00 +0000

The other morning, I found this snail on my S-car and plucked him off and carried him to a safe place. if you save a snail, do you save humanity?

That afternoon at the same spot where I rescued the snail, I saw this snake, inspecting closer, saw his tail was pointed, and concluded he was one of the good guys, a gopher snake. On hot pavement in May - not a good place to be should the neighbors return in their car and run him over, I picked him up with a hoe and brought him to the middle of our vineyard, to rest in the shade. At night as we slept, he woke from his slumber and slithered off. If you save a snake, do you save humanity?

Why did I call him a good snake? I found myself harboring misguided snakeist thoughts. They are just snakes. Some have rattles, some don't. They all eat varmints. They're all good, in nature's scheme. Snake lives matter.

Winter's First Rain

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Tue, 29 Dec 2020 01:14:00 +0000

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Tap, tap-tap-tap, a single stick rapping a snare drum, the first drops tiptoe from the sky announcing the rainy season, the tap-tap-tapping crescendos to two sticks then double time, the storm accompanied with gusts of wind, hanging fronds of palms levitate, point opposite the sea, guiding rain where to land and a path for howling wind. Pellets hit baked clay; drops gather into puddles; hardened earth softens; gravity pulls drops down the slope, slowed by a sprouting weed here, a clump of leaves there. Two and two makes four, four and four makes eight, eight squared makes sixty-four, sixty-four squared makes a movement, drops band together into a stream, strength in numbers, the people united will never be defeated. How does a waterdrop split a boulder and rip apart a mountain? The same way a single voice crying in the wilderness topples a corrupt regime. One drop at a time.

The drum roll increases, rain falls faster, droplets flow into streams, streams carry dirt particles to the back of a retaining wall, are slowed for a moment, but not deterred. History is on their side. Gravity is on their side. Laws of nature are on their side. Never give up. Downward proceeding never receding water hits the wall then veers in the direction that is down, always heading down, down, down the slope of the hill, some seeping underground, through topsoil, penetrating clay, a superwoman-superman-superperson passing through a concrete wall, the power of water falling from the sky, magic water, blessed water, holy water that has been prayed for, wished for, dreamed of. Dogs dance like children in the rain; a child-like farmer looks up to the sky and opens his mouth to catch a sip and spins circles celebrating the water of life; dogs rollick and roll in the mud, precious mud, rare mud; I have missed you for a year, glorious, red, ochre, paste of mud paint, finger paint, reddish rusty magnificent mud squishing between fingers of a farmer turned kindergartener, drawing finger trails of mud on the stuccoed retaining wall, then shoveling, shoveling the mud, make the paths straight, raise the berms, cut into the mountain, shape the earth while you have the chance, take the shovel, carve a flat trail into the hill, ouch, watch your back, oww, threw out my back, you’ll be visiting the chiropractor, you could have hired a guy to do this work for what you’re going to pay the doctor to crack your back, don’t look back, you could have hired two guys for a month but you tried to save some money and it ends up costing more, because the rain fell and the earth was soft and you had to shovel the mud and carve the path while you could.

Another Snail Story for 2020

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Sun, 29 Nov 2020 16:09:00 +0000

Who knew pet snails would become a thing during the pandemic? Here's what happened when one winemaker found a snail gorging on a young grapevine's fresh green shoots, excerpted from About That Wine I Gave You.

Spring rains paved the way for slugs to glide along paths and some ventured up the trunks of vines to forge on fresh greenery. When Paul found a snail in a spot where there should have been baby grapes, he plucked it from the leaves and crushed it with his foot. Snails were everywhere, in birds of paradise, roses, and shoots, and when he found one, he either crushed it, threw it onto the road with a splat, or sprinkled salt and watched it squirm, writhe, and melt. Paul noticed Bluey the dog chew one of the salted snails and lick his lips.

Bluey and Paul were hungry so he lit a fire to cook a leg of lamb and after the meat met the flame, Paul remembered when Marie-France took him to an escargot farm in France. He collected plump snails from the garden and placed them on the barbeque. Paul admired the well-mannered dogs of France who behaved under restaurant tables and wished Bluey would behave like a French dog instead of a bull-in-the-china-shop Tasmanian devil. At least he’ll eat as well as French dogs. He offered Bluey a flame-roasted escargot. As Bluey smacked his lips, Paul heard his name.

“Who’s there?”

“Paul, why are you persecuting me?” he heard, and at that moment, comprehended his cruelty. Ashamed and humbled, from that day, whenever he found a snail on a flower, vine, or walkway, he picked it up and gently placed it out of harm’s way. He was transformed from a killer of snails to their protector.

His new-found pacifism didn’t stop with snails. The next day when he lifted the top off an irrigation lid, he found a family of mice, terrified at their discovery. Normally, the shovel would have been called upon to do what shovels do. He let them be. Next, he stopped setting gopher traps. Then, he became a vineyard pacifist, saying kindness towards all people begins with kindness to all creatures. The dog, however, having tasted the best of French gastronomy, continued to chew raw snails in the shell, to the point of secretly following Paul when he was on a rescue mission, devouring the snails Paul saved.

A Winemaker's Advent

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Sat, 28 Nov 2020 15:03:00 +0000

To the Scent Sommelier and Faithful who walk the Way of the Vine,

And to all those who would learn more,

Greetings from the vineyard!

It’s time to prepare, to cut into the side of the mountain to make the paths straight!

Don vestments of purple and violet in preparation for the season. Paint your nails and toes shades of dark grapes.

For the next six weeks, open one celebratory bottle per week, remember and honor:

· Prophets

· Shepherds

· Angels

· Mary & Joseph

· The Birth

· A New Beginning

· The Wise Women

Week One: Prophets live among us as our venerable elderly, the Greatest Generation, and their offspring, the Lucky Few. Let us toast them with a well-aged wine, our 2009 Merleatage. It’s like sinking into an old leather couch, absorbing aromas of tobacco our elders smoked and many wisely gave up, as they impart their wisdom to us. Prepare yourself for the season. Honor the prophets. Be still - listen for the voice crying in the wilderness.

Week Two: Shepherds are the front-line employees in service industries who keep us fed and going. They tend our flocks. They harvest fruits and vegetables in the field. Pick grapes from the vines. They work in slaughterhouses, preparing meat, defeathering and dismembering chickens. They pick the white flesh from crabs; descale and debone fish at the market; labor at grocery stores. They drive the buses and the trains and attend us on planes. The salt of the earth. They were chosen to hear the good news first announced by angels and faithfully proceeded to bear witness. To remember them, sip the 2017 Aglianico wine, which is endowed with the strongest structure of any of our wines, the highest acids, the sturdiest backbone, the ripest, darkest of grapes. And as the Aglianico will age beyond our earthly lives, so too will modern-day shepherds inherit the earth.

Week Three: Angels are the nurses and doctors who care for us, instruments of the Lord’s healing power on earth. An angel’s kiss on the forehead is a blessing, as light and joyous as a sip of 2017 Tempranillo – the elixir of angels in heaven and caregivers on earth.

Week Four: May our souls magnify the lord. Mary the Magnificent, the Magnificat. The handmaiden, who with Joseph her betrothed, both, full of faith, accepted their callings, accepted their duties. To honor their faithfulness is Petite Sirah, the color of the Bishop’s ceremonial advent vestments, the wine that magnifies the grape.

Christmas Eve: As the word becomes flesh and dwells among us, celebrate the birth with blood extracted from a stone, grape juice extracted from sun-stressed raisins clinging to vines gripping a craggy slope. King of kings. Queen of Queens. Wine of wines. Port of ports. This is the treat Santa Clause, and you, will appreciate after climbing down the chimney. The late harvest, fortified, 2016 Zinfandel port, an oasis in a bottle vinted in the time of drought.

Week Five: New Year's – a new beginning. When everything is clear – you can see the future. The purity of a rose, flower of the virgin’s rosary. It’s fresh, it’s clear, it’s pure - it will make you blush. A wine to begin a meal, a wine to start the year, a timely Tempranillo rosé.

Week Six: They carried gifts of gold, frankincense, and mir – three wise men from the east, bearing gifts for the Messiah, arriving on the Twelfth Night, King’s Day, the epiphany. The most treasured gift may have been a fragrance, frankincense. Today’s bearers of wisdom are the wise women who bear us, nurture us, labor for us, and who lead us. Honor these women with the most fragrant wine we know, the 2008 Petit Verdot. May its magic continue to inspire and strengthen you this day, throughout the year, and beyond the time when we meet again.

Thanksgiving for an "Open Book"

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Thu, 26 Nov 2020 16:15:00 +0000

"Open Book" took on a new meaning today when the host of the same-titled program revealed his own personal struggles, like an open book.

It all started at the beginning of the pandemic when he broadcast a live video stream each day at 5:15 pm Chicago time choosing to read a paragraph or a page or two from a book, often dusty, from his library then expound on it, inviting authors, historians, and others for Q&A to a live audience of 100 or so people online, an intimate setting for a man with over a million followers, inviting questions, calling us by name.

You know his voice. If you listen to NPR on Saturday mornings, he is the host of Weekend Edition. He is a voice of reason in an age of insanity.

To express our thanks, one of the regular viewers, Peggy Shannon (author of the forthcoming book Churches of Paris) contacted other regulars and invited them to answer what does Open Book mean to you? She collected the answers, bound them, then delivered the present.

So it was we gave thanks, letters of gratitude, today to Scott, and Open Book, and to his family. And to all those who feed us, transport us, shelter us, and comfort us. Caroline called for the tissues. At least a box was needed to soak up the tears of those who read from the opened book, not to mention those who watched in real time on Twitter and Periscope.

For the family who gives so much, Happy Thanksgiving, and thank you for your gifts to us.

______________________________________

Dear Scott,

In the early days of Twitter in 2009, I heard your touching essay on the radio about a close family friend of yours who passed away. I tweeted you about the afterlife. You responded. Who does that? You made me a fan for life.

When the Covid-19 pandemic started, I said to myself, “I hope Scott never retires. We need his voice of reason and reassurance on Saturday mornings.”

And then,

One day,

My phone sent me a message: “Scott Simon is live….”

I clicked…

It was Open Book.

What it means to me is new ideas, learning new things, things I should have learned in school, for example, the writings of James Baldwin.

After your session with a historian about Robert E. Lee, I called my dad who had attended Robert E. Lee Elementary School in Richmond, Virginia in the 1930s. “Dad, there’s this program you should watch. It’s with Scott Simon, you know, the NPR radio host on Saturday mornings….” This is an example why truth matters, because dad grew up with the theology Lee was a great man, a loyal statesman to his country, Virginia.

How Open Book inspired me is like this:

On Valentine’s Day this year I completed a manuscript that took one year to write and four years to finish, because of wine, or the effects thereof, having a daytime job, a thousand vines, and a wife to care for…

The book was finished, but my godmother’s eyes had failed, and mom’s eyes weren’t as good as they once were, so I had an idea, inspired by you. I would read them my book, a chapter at a time, and this became my project during the lockdown, during the pandemic, that at happy hour, I would open a bottle of wine, talk about how it was made, and read a chapter of the book. And when it was June 6^th, I’d talk about what that date meant to me, and read the chapter that featured D-Day events and characters, and then when you and Caroline talked about your experiences during Open Book about Normandy and D-Day, I realized we were connected by more than Twitter and Internet signals but by life events.

The last chapter of my book reading recording experiment acknowledged all those who had inspired the work with a huge shoutout to you, who gave me the idea to read it aloud, record it, so those whose eyes were bad could listen, and with their ears, see. Here’s a link to it on YouTube: https://youtu.be/2EXK_nVfyCY?t=57

I don’t have your address, so I can’t send you wine. But if I could, this is the note I’d send to accompany the bottles. Since Peggy has given me an impossible deadline of writing this tonight, when the wine bottle is now half-full, I could think of no better essay to send than what I wrote to another pair of Chicagoans ten years ago:

Dear First Lady and Mr. President,

For months, there has been nothing but dreary news in the media about the economy. No city or town has been passed over by the damage and pain. Even in our semi-rural, gentlewomen and gentlemen farmer community, we have seen neighbors’ homes foreclosed, families uprooted, shops on Main Street abandoned. I am reminded of what scripture tells us about the biblical patriarch Joseph and his dreams; he foresaw seven years of famine followed by seven years of abundance. In ancient Egypt, after seven years of drought, the rains returned and so did the crops. And from the depths of the 1932 Depression, the United States emerged to become the world’s greatest economic power. The lessons from the past speak to our time. We will rise again.

We come and go – but the land is always here, always serene. You should visit this area sometime and experience it – to park your burdens at the entrance for a day and reconnect with Nature and the Earth. In the vineyard among the vines, there are answers to all dilemmas. All things have their seasons. After midnight’s darkness, the sun will rise again. After winter’s cold, spring’s thaw will follow. We spent the cold, dark winter pruning vines, cutting back, cutting expenses as well. In winter, the vineyard is barren. Just as the sun must rise and the swallows return to Capistrano – this Recession, it too shall pass.

Yesterday in the vineyard, I came across a shoot – a green shoot – with fragile green leaves – signaling the start of spring. Then I saw another, and another. Green shoots, everywhere. Mr. President, just as there are green shoots in the vineyard, there are green shoots sprouting in the economy. The recession is ending. Growth is on the way. Stay the course and keep the faith. We are keeping hope alive.

About that wine I gave you …The first bottle is Petit Verdot, the most fragrant wine known to womankind and dogkind – a wine made for fine ladies. It is for Michelle. The second bottle is a blend made from all the different grapes of our vineyard, some Petite Sirah and Petit Verdot and Zinfandel and Tempranillo and Grenache and Aglianico … the recipe is a little bit of this, a little bit of that. This is the Ellis Island of wines, an assembly of our leftovers, our poor, our huddled masses. Grapes yearning to be free. A melting pot. A kitchen soup. And the result? Bluey the Aussie gave it six licks, the most I’ve ever seen, and it is perhaps the best wine we’ve ever made. Just as the good Lord brought people from all over the world to this country to make America the Beautiful – we have taken grapes from each corner of our vineyard – and carboys of wines from all corners of the winery – to create this blend, which we henceforth call President’s Cuvée.

May God bless your Presidency and the United States.

Sincerely yours,

Bootlegger

Towering Trees Grow From Tiny Seeds

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Thu, 26 Nov 2020 04:16:00 +0000

When you were a kid, did you ever try growing an avocado tree from a pit? Enjoying a second childhood, keeping hope alive, planting seeds.

Time to Let Go

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Tue, 24 Nov 2020 00:16:00 +0000

As leaves fall from vines, canes protrude as skeleton bones. At year’s end, only a few leaves cling, except for two green rows at the block above the leach field, fueled by organic matter powering perpetual growth that faithfully produce a second crop picked December 31^st, a dozen grapes eaten during the twelve strokes of midnight to usher in luck for the new year.

“It’s OK to let go,” Paul told the last leaves gripping vines for their lives. “Your work is finished. Have faith spring will come again as surely as a rainbow after a storm.”

With last rites read, the leaves took a deep breath, exhaled, and when the next circling air current arose, released their grip and were borne skywards by a wind funnel, and the vines closed their eyes and fell asleep, their songs silent for a long winter siesta, the vineyard, a cemetery of stick figures, crosses, and memories.

Blush, Roses, and a Special Rosé

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Mon, 23 Nov 2020 04:06:00 +0000

On Thanksgiving Day, he bottled the blush wine bucketed away in a fire brigade from the Tempranillo juice immediately after crush with no added sulfites. The pink wine had notes of apples, light citrus, brambles – a descriptor Jayne would appreciate – and was as delightful and addictive as wine could ever be. Once opened, a bottle never survived until dawn, and often not the next hour, an obstacle to productivity and gateway to Saturday afternoon siestas. It was fresh, fun, and good.

Paul thought of Jayne as he bottled and admired the photo of her in Central Park surrounded by flowers inspiring the name for this batch. Upon a bottle he affixed a print of the photo and wrote with metallic ink in flowing cursive letters:

Jayne’s Roses

As for a second bottle to fill the two-shipper case, he searched his cellar and found a case of Petit Verdot hidden in a corner – the fragrant wine that brought them together. He wrote on that bottle:

To the one who understands Petit Verdot

To the one who understands me

Enjoy the wine that changed our lives forever

He opened a bottle of Petit Verdot to taste how it had aged. The initial aroma was musty, perhaps a bit of mildew from the South in summer, with barnyard overtones, so uncharacteristic of the aromatic, floral wine this was supposed to be. Then, he tasted, and, oh, the taste was there. If you get by the smell, you’ve got it licked. I hope she likes a bit of earthiness in her wine. She’s a wholesome, earthy woman. She’ll get it.

He wrote her a note and slipped it into the box:

Dear Jayne,

I found a case of Petit Verdot! From the same vintage as the first bottle I gave you you described as fragrant as dew on a honeysuckle midsummer morning. The wine has changed in the years since our first encounter and I suppose we have too. A little earthier now, a bit more mature, a bit mellower, and the taste is still delicious.

About the blush wine … it’s made from the ripest Tempranillo grapes separated from the dark skins leaving behind a light, pink elixir, the color of the unicorn of your dreams. I call it Jayne’s Roses, as fresh and as vibrant and as innocent and as fun as the first time we met. After you sip it, I think you’ll want more. This is how I felt the first time I met you and every time we meet… I want more …to see you again, more. Again and again. Merry Christmas!

Jayne replied with an email December 26^th, Boxing Day:

Thank you, thank you, thank you. The rosé label makes me laugh, cry, and rejoice. This is so special. I am beyond grateful. The Petit Verdot is spectacular. I almost feel guilty about how good it is, and that I get to experience it again, one of the last bottles. It takes me back to my grandma’s raspberry patch, sun-ripened fruit next to grandpa’s rhubarb and tobacco. Then, I journey down the rabbit hole into a bootlegger’s speakeasy – the air is smoky and alluring. The most special aroma in this bottle is a faint hint of creosote. That resilient desert brush that reminds me of walking with you on Paris sidewalks when it rains. That note is so special. I am beyond grateful. We have to meet again soon – but it will be different next time. Like going down the rabbit hole to other worlds. More and more. Curious and curiouser. And all the more magical. Can’t wait to see you more in the New Year.

Wine Summit: The President, Joe the Wino, Bootlegger, Miguel, and the Bishop Debate the Issues

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Sat, 10 Oct 2020 22:17:00 +0000

The 2nd Presidential Debate of 2020 has been cancelled, but fear not. If you crave the back and forth of right vs. left, you'll enjoy this debate you probably missed, when, rumor has it, President Obama visited San Diego to join a "Wine Summit" attended by Joe the Wino (a surrogate for President Trump and the Tea Party), Miguel (the local migrant labor boss), the Bishop, and a local winemaker named Paul. Here's the full story, excerpted with permission from the forthcoming novel About That Wine I Gave You.

After the 2010 mid-term elections when the Democrats got “whupped” to Joe’s jubilation, the president felt a need to get out of Washington to reconnect with and bring his message direct to the people. Keisha proposed an event to bring together non-politicians, real people with opposing views, to see where they could find common ground. The president was due for a fund-raising trip to California to refill coffers depleted by the midterms and was itching to play golf at Torrey Pines. A presidential visit to San Diego made sense.

“That’s a Republican stronghold,” said the Director of Communications. “Are you nuts?”

“I’ve been researching a congressional district where there’s a pocket of support for the president. It’s the perfect setting for an event,” Keisha countered. “It’s scenic and one of the residents is Joe the Wino.”

“What a work of art. He’s donated millions to the Tea Party.”

“There’s a vineyard there owned by a dog – an Australian shepherd. Almost as smart as POTUS.”

“Vineyard owned by a dog?” the director asked with arched eyebrow.

“His owner is named Paul. Seems to be a down to earth guy sympathetic to our message. You said you wanted ‘real people.’ The president could tour the vineyards – think of the photo opp – POTUS nurturing ‘green shoots’ of the economy – and meeting with migrant laborers, too.”

“To build closer ties with the Latino community and support for his immigration policies.”

“Exactly. And, I think we can flip the district.”

“I like this,” said the communications chief. “Ever since the Beer Summit last year, the American Association of Wine Distributors has been after me to organize a ‘Wine Summit.’”

“What did Jessica Fachhandler promise you? A date?”

The director smiled and replied, “She’s very persuasive.” Jessica was the executive director of the distributors’ association whose charm and powers-of-persuasion were legendary.

“Imagine the scene: The Communicator-in-Chief bringing all sides to the table to unite a divided community. Joe the Wino and the Tea Party on one side; the winemaker Paul and a representative of day laborers on the other.”

“What about FLOTUS?”

“Michelle loves wine. They could make it a date-day as they tour the vineyard.”

“And Bo?”

“And Toto, too?” mocked the intern. “Yes, and Bo-Bo too.”

“Go ahead and set it up.”

Keisha contacted Paul with the news, who enlisted Joe, pleased to be given a national platform for his second fifteen minutes of fame. Miguel and the Bishop also agreed to participate, so that a trinity was represented – left wing, right wing, and the angels’ wing.

The White House welcomed an opportunity for Bo to engage in dog diplomacy. The American people loved dogs, at least over 50% did, and canine affection crossed political boundaries. But the divide between Republicans and Democrats was worse than dog lovers vs. cat lovers. Could a glass of wine, the Charmer-in-Chief, and their dogs elevate civil discourse and bring the nation closer together?

When the presidential visit to Hidden Hills was announced, the press christened it “The Wine Summit,” in accordance with Keisha’s plan. In the plush Washington D.C. office of the American Association of Wine Distributors, Champagne (with a capital C because it was the real deal from France) corks popped and shot down a chandelier in the boardroom and the bubbly flowed as the staff watched the news on a 96” flat screen. They had a strong horse in this race – with Joe the Wino a surrogate for their conservative views, although Jessica Fachhandler became wary of Paul after reviewing his social media feed. She would keep an eye on him.

A week before the summit, a Secret Service advance team scoured the area to remove security risks. They reviewed the social media feeds of all the neighbors (spending an unusually long time ogling the Cougar’s selfies) and were concerned by Joe’s history of inflammatory remarks. He was the first visited by FBI agents who quickly determined he wasn’t a physical threat to the president. However, they confiscated pistols and rifles from Paul’s neighbor, who used his backyard as a firing range in violation of county statues requiring 2,000 feet distance between residences. Joe notified Tea Party officials and the San Diego Union Tribune which wrote an editorial denouncing Obama for confiscating peoples’ guns in violation of the Second Amendment right to bear arms. When Harlan saw this news on his prepper’s Facebook page, he got all up in arms convinced Obama was planning an attack on Texas to disarm it. Jenny Lea told her husband to shut-up and stop believing everything he read on the internet. “How could you believe this, Harlan? Even my sixth graders wouldn’t fall for such horse dookie,” she said, putting him in his place.

The Secret Service inspected Paul’s winery, taping black plastic trash bags against the windows to block the view of sharp-shooting assassins. They insisted he remove boxes stacked to the ceiling filled with forty-five years of elementary school report cards, college blue books, textbooks, research papers, note books, all the books he had read, and bird sketches – so a ninja couldn’t hide behind the stacks and strike the First Couple.

The Secret Service selected the Yellow Room, decorated in Provencal shades of lemon, sunflower, and fields of hay, as the Hold Room in case POTUS was called upon to deal with a crisis. They ran cables from the Yellow Room to microwave receivers they installed on the roof for encrypted satellite communications. From the roof, agents surveyed for possible sniper threats, taking longer than usual as they observed the Cougar in the valley soaking up vitamin D in the privacy of her back porch.

Years later on a visit to Obama’s presidential museum and library, I found the day’s official schedule in the archives. When Obama started calling Paul BOOTLEGGER, the tag assigned by the Secret Service, the name stuck. Here’s an excerpt:

09:30 H: Arrive Miramar Air Base on Air Force One

09:45 H: Greet Top Gun Commander

10:00 H: POTUS, FLOTUS, FIDOUS board limousine. Drive to Blue-Merle Winery.

10:45 H: Arrive Blue-Merle Winery. Receiving line. Greet Host Family (BOOTLEGGER – host), WINEDOG (Australian Shepherd), VINEYARDISTA (hostess), and guests including PIRATE (Miguel, migrant labor leader boss), RICHMAN (Joe the Wino, businessman and Republican fund raiser), PURPLECOLLAR (Bishop of San Diego)and selected neighbors including COUGAR, CHICANOCHICK, MRFIXIT, MERLOTMAN, others.

11:00 – 11:30 H: First Family vineyard & winery tour on property led by BOOTLEGGER. Plant ceremonial vines. Golf swing practice with LEFTYFLOP

11:30 – 12:30 H: Lunch inside house

12:30 – 14:00 H: Wine Summit Forum On Terrace: Attending: POTUS, PURPLECOLLAR, PIRATE, RICHMAN, BOOTLEGGER.

14:30 H: Depart by Marine Force One for Torrey Pines Golf Course for golf with (names redacted)

To keep us and adversaries guessing, we didn’t know if Obama would arrive by air, land, or sea, the latter a theoretical possibility, since there were amphibious landing craft at Camp Pendleton that could be seen from Paul’s property by telescope. Air traffic control implemented a no-fly zone except for helicopters based at Pendleton that patrolled the skies, their distant hum piercing the peaceful scenery. The 15 was closed from El Norte Parkway to San Louis Rey, angering motorists, but to many, it was just another sig alert for the 15, a parking lot during rush hour, although traffic congestion eased during the Recession.

Three days before the president’s arrival, Paul’s Buddhist leanings regarding possessions were tested when the water heater in the winery-formerly-known-as-the-garage leaked, sending water onto the floor absorbed by cardboard cases. A dry box is strong and supports more than 150 lbs. but wet cardboard is weaker than a spent erection and although the flood wasn’t a threat to the house it was a threat to the wine.

With his new Washington connections, Paul thought about calling FEMA to help but it might take them days to respond – worse, they might condemn the property – the government having powers of condemnation and exclusion in an emergency preventing him from returning to save his own property. Paul and Sheila scrambled to save the towering stacks of wine, forming a two-person brigade carrying boxes one at a time to higher elevations. Sheila shrieked as she uncovered Templeton the Rat’s winter sanctuary abandoned, except for a Black Widow, and littered with carcasses of three months’ meals of roly polys, stink bugs, and crickets, covered like an ice cream cone with chocolate sprinkles of dried rat feces. After Paul dispatched the spider there was only one thing to do before Food and Drug Administration officials condemned the property – clean it up.

He put on a mask, eye googles, and rubber gloves and swept the rat’s nest mess. He poured non-chlorinated TSP cleaner into a bucket of water, took one of the dog’s towels as a rag, got on his knees and washed, the white towel blackened as he wiped. And as he prepared to sterilize after he cleaned – friends, beware of sterilizing your winery with bleach because you don’t want the stench of cardboard infused chlorine seeping into your wine – he took a fresh rag infused with citric acid and wiped, and as he wiped, the rag moving in a rhythm like windshield wiper blades, he imagined washing the bare feet of the president, soon to be his guest. Paul joyfully cleaned the winery floor and he and Obama dodged the hantavirus bullet. Never before had their winery been so clean and Paul hadn’t seen Sheila this happy in months.

With the press crawling into the quiet community like a hoard of ants looking to feed on mealy bugs’ dew, Karianne postponed her full-frontal vitamin D absorption ritual because paparazzi with long-range lenses were searching for racy photo opportunities. The Secret Service rated her photos and videos. If you throw out the high (one gave her a 10), and the low (one ranked her 5 saying she was too old), she averaged 8.3 If Karianne had known which agent considered her beyond prime, she would have fucked his brains out to teach him a lesson he’d never forget.

Making wine is a three-ring circus and the property took on the look as the driveway was tented as a security measure along with the house’s terrace. Canvas was also strung along the Poplar trees bordering the road, blocking the views of anyone below who tried to gaze up.

The big day was a media circus with Joe the Wino reliving the attention he enjoyed during the 2010 elections. Ms. Palin, in search of a new job, made overtures about attending the summit, and Paul said he would be honored to host the former vice-presidential candidate so long as her participation was balanced by Tina Fey as Mistress of Ceremonies. Ms. Fey never responded so Paul thought it better Ms. Palin stay away. “I can see Alaska from my house,” Paul told a reporter from NBC News, suggesting his view would be almost like having the Alaska Governor seated at the table. Moreover, Joe, who almost succeeded putting her into the White House, could rigorously represent her positions. A summit that included Joe, the president, the Bishop, and Miguel at the table would be enough, without the glamour of Ms. Palin and Ms. Fey, much to Paul’s chagrin, as he thought they were the hottest candidates ever, real and imagined, and though he wouldn’t vote for either, after a glass of wine, or even without, he would kiss either if invited.

And Miguel?

The nation was up in arms about illegal immigrants, their health care costs (not to mention the health care of the rest of us), and their employment (not to mention the unemployment of the rest of us), searching for solutions and San Diego, sharing a border, economic, cultural, and family ties with Mexico, was a good place to look for answers. Paul noticed convoys of vigilantes, many funded by Joe, following the coyote paths in the valleys below his house headed south to secure the border. Although billed as a Wine Summit, Miguel made his preference for Corona known, but the National Association of Merlot Makers, who had launched a counter-offensive after being blind-sided by the insult slinging Pinot Pussy of Sideways, persuaded Miguel to request a glass of Merlot. Miguel proved his loyalty to the local community by “eating his own dogfood,” ordering wine made by Merlot Mac, chuckling as he requested a cute White House staffer, “Make it ‘fine’ Merlot, más fina please, heh, heh.”

Jenny Lea was excited for Karianne, approved for the guest list, and called to learn more. “Sugar, is it true what they say about those secret service agents?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret now would it?” Karianne answered.

“Oh my God. You didn’t, you know, did you?”

“Jenny Lea, stop beating around my bush. You wanna know, ‘Did I fuck him,’ right? Let’s just say the president needs to strengthen his security.”

Paul noticed an aircraft carrier cruising the waters between Camp Pendleton and Catalina Island. Security scanners and metal detectors were set up at the property’s entrance, which all guests were required to pass. The Secret Service used their authority to provide an extra pat-down screening for Karianne. They confiscated Paul’s flask of homemade brandy as a liquid explosive he volunteered to drink to prove it wasn’t. The SS enjoyed it at their after-party that evening according to a reliable source from the neighborhood who was there.

The presidential visit brought all kinds of people out of the woodwork – hermit crazy ladies painted signs “Welcome President Obama” nailing them to poles at the bottom of Paul’s road. A protest area was set aside at the base of the mountain near the intersection of the 15 and Deer Springs Road. Belle Marie Winery, which offered a good view for protesters, offered free wine tastings to registered Republicans if they showed their Republican ID, and to anyone else over 21. The California TTB, conducting a sting operation against the winery to trick it into serving minors, declared an unofficial truce for the week. Students from the University of California San Diego strung a large banner from the bridge over the interstate “Make Wine Not War”. Others carried signs “Out of Iraq Now” and “Close Guantanamo.” Some protesters purchased vegetables from the organic produce stand at the bottom of the hill and stood behind birthers carrying signs “Show Us Your Birth Certificate” and threw eggs, tomatoes, cauliflower, and avocados at the long black limousine (the president arrived by land), none penetrating its armor.

The limo climbed and slalomed five miles into the hills until it reached Blue-Merle Vineyard’s entrance. The driveway was too steep and narrow for the vehicle, so the president, First Lady, and Bo emerged at the cul-de-sac and Bluey barked in sheep herding mode to welcome them and make clear to Bo who was top dog. Bluey announced Bo’s arrival to neighborhood dogs who rushed through the neighbor’s locked gate, unforeseen by the Secret Service.

“Hey man, how you doin’?” said a jovial president as he walked up to Paul with a fist pump and handshake. “The Secret Service tells me they have a special name for you – BOOTLEGGER.”

“Let’s see if I can live up to that,” replied Paul. “Mr. President, we welcome you, the First Lady, and the First Dog to Blue-Merle Country.” Bluey, enamored by the First Lady who wore a bright yellow dress, was taken to the other side of the vineyard to keep him from lunging at her crotch, where he and Bo hit it off running around with the other dogs.

“Thank you for the letter and wine you sent,” Obama said. “It’s encouraging to see parts of the country turning around.”

“Let me show you around,” said Paul who lead them uphill. They started at the Via Dolorosa, where the Bishop noticed carved wooden figures nailed to posts signifying stations of the cross. Paul paused at each vineyard block to explain the varietal, pointing out differences in leaf patterns, cluster shapes, and berry sizes.

“There was a lot of work that went into this,” observed the president.

“Yes sir, and satisfaction. I suppose George Washington and Thomas Jefferson found satisfaction in working the land when their crops turned out well.”

“They had slaves and you have me,” Miguel interjected.

“Gracias Sancho Panza,” said Paul, referring to Don Quixote’s sidekick. Paul turned to Obama and continued, “After a hard day’s work, it’s refreshing to take in these views. Working among the vines, everything becomes clear. I invite you to take a few moments of quiet time to find clarity and answers to the country’s challenges and hope you leave here re-energized.”

As Obama listened, he imagined hitting a hole-in-one at Torrey Pines and getting 10 million people back to work.

“Let’s pick avocados for Sasha and Malia,” Paul suggested. The president and First Lady twisted the green softball-sized fruits off a tree.

“I’ve never seen avocados this big,” said Michelle.

“It’s a Reed – the flavor is good. It’s ripe when you shake it and the seed inside rattles. Cut it in half and pour a little olive oil into the avocado’s cup and sprinkle it with Hawaiian red clay sea salt. It’s delicious, and on the menu for today’s lunch. Speaking of olive oil,” said Paul, pointing to a grove of Picoline and Arbequina trees, “This is our Mount of Olives. Bishop, you’ll appreciate our theological garden.” Paul pointed to Golgotha and the Cross of Calvary at the summit, and beneath it, a cave symbolizing the Tomb of the Holy Sepulcher. The president pulled a ripe olive from a tree and popped it into his mouth before Paul could stop him.

“Damn, that’s the bitterest thing I’ve ever tasted,” Obama said, spitting the remains to the ground.

“I was about to warn you not to eat it,” said Paul. “It needs to be cured. Don’t worry, we have estate grown and cured olives on today’s menu.”

“What are those flowers?” the president asked.

“They’re Proteas. Some look like yellow pin cushions. Their origin is South Africa where they grow like weeds. The climate here is similar. Why don’t we cut some for Michelle and the girls?”

“You really put a lot of work into this place,” the Bishop said to Paul.

“Gracias monsignor,” said Miguel.

“Most of our neighbors have put a lot of work into their properties as well, right Joe,” said Paul. “Joe’s place is magnificent. It’s a shame to see people lose their houses – it’s even happening here.”

“We’re looking at things we can do to keep people in their homes,” Obama said.

“That seems like a good idea,” said Joe, “But it’s complicated. There are legal contracts involved. The best way to solve the problem is for homeowners to declare bankruptcy and start over and for banks to foreclose. With the slate wiped clean, houses will sell at market value.”

“You know,” Paul said to the president, “We bought this property near the height of the market, and there’s a pretty large mortgage on it – at least large for us. Interest rates have dropped, but since the house’s value is underwater, we can’t refinance. I’m not asking for a handout – all I’m saying is if my interest rate were lowered, we’d have more money to spend on other things that would be good for the economy. Right now, all our money goes to mortgage interest and Miguel over there.”

“Why don’t you pay me as much as you pay him?” Sheila asked. “I do more work than he does.”

“How much do you earn working in the vineyard?” FLOTUS asked Sheila.

“About as much as the First Lady,” she replied, to which the president and Michelle, paid $0 for her duties, chuckled.

“There’s much more to see,” said Paul changing the topic. “Bluey! Go to gazebo!”

They walked along the Great Wall of Merle behind the trotting Aussie and Bo, crossing the Zinfandel block to a flat area with a Gazebo from where they could see more mountains, valleys, Camp Pendleton, and the ocean.

“Do you have snakes on the property?” Michelle asked.

“There’s always a serpent in the Vineyard of Eden and the corridors of Washington,” replied Paul. “Don’t worry. Bluey is trained to detect snakes. If he smells one, we’ll know about it before it reaches us.”

“I told the snakes you were coming and asked them to stay away,” Sheila said. “You’ll be fine.”

Paul said to the president, “One of my favorite memories of President Reagan is him hiking through his Santa Barbara ranch and crushing rattlers with his boot heel.”

“No problem,” said Obama. “I’m better with my feet than Reagan ever was.”

Paul pointed to the horizon. “I can see Sarah Palin’s Alaska from my house – and Russia, and all the way to Japan and China.”

“You have a wonderful place,” said the Bishop.

“It’s God’s Country,” said Paul.

The president was a pied piper followed by a pack of dogs that barked and ran circles around him. A little, feisty, Jack Russel terrier led the dogs and invited Bo to play. Even Joe’s Weimaraner and Miguel’s Pit Bull joined in. There were no purebreds or mutts. No AKC pedigrees or rescues. No rich or poor. There were just dogs – black, white, yellow, brown, red, and blue – all playing together. The Canine Coalition. And for a moment, there were no Republicans, no Democrats – just people and dogs. Karl Rove, the neighbor's cat, wisely watched from a tree.

The president petted all the dogs then took a frisbee and winged it – the disk soared like a hawk riding thermals all the way to the property’s bottom where the dogs sprinted to catch it. The Jack Russell outleapt Bluey and the others to snag it.

“We wanted to let you roll up your sleeves, dig in, get your hands dirty, and experience a little vineyard work,” said Paul. “We’ve got three vines for you to plant around the gazebo. The first is a Spanish varietal, Tempranillo, to honor the Spaniards who planted the first grapes in this area. The second is Alexander Muscat, widely planted here last century, and the third is a Champagne grape – because my wife has been after me for years to plant Champagne grapes,” said Paul, handing the president and Michelle a shovel.

As the guests inserted the vines into pre-dug holes, Miguel showed them how to form a ball of dirt and place the roots over it. Paul noticed two secret service agents on his roof and sharpshooters (the kind with rifles – not the pests carrying Pierce’s disease) on the roofs of houses below. If I give them a bottle of wine, would they pick off some squirrels? Paul handed Michelle a hose to soak the vines. When they finished, Paul announced, “Since you like golf, I asked my fellow San Diegan to set up a hole so you could warm up before your round at Torrey Pines,” introducing everyone to Phil Mickelson.

“My afternoon schedule was supposed to be a secret,” said POTUS.

“A lucky guess,” replied Paul, who with Phil had groomed a T-Box on Gazebo Hill and landscaped a green with a cup and pin flag 175 yards away. It was as scenic as any hole on the PGA tour. “Just one request, Mr. President,” said Paul. “Please don’t hit the aircraft carrier – I don’t want them returning fire with a cruise missile.”

Obama took a few practice swings with a club handed to him by Keisha. Paul observed the president had a good swing and gave a few tips to Phil, who was working on his. Paul handed Obama a golf ball with Bluey’s logo on it saying, “This is my favorite ball. I know you won’t shank it into the canyon. Take the honors and hit away.” The president set the ball atop a tee, addressed it, took a breath and swung a controlled swing, “Swooshping!” the impact of the ball combined with the swoosh of the club triggered Bluey who barked an alarm. That dog hated golf. Paul could never stream the Masters, because the sound of a drive set Bluey off. The president’s shot followed the arc of a perfect parabola landing on the green.

“Nice shot!” The onlookers clapped.

“Let it be a good sign for the country,” said Paul. “Let’s go for a quick tour of the winery then have a bite to eat.”

As they walked downhill, Sheila veered to the kitchen and Paul volunteered to enter first in case any ninjas waited in ambush. He noticed a military officer with a large black case. “Is that the nuclear football?” Paul asked the president.

“Heck no. He’s carrying my Honest Tea.”

Paul invited the commander-in-chief to sniff the barrels since he couldn’t drink on the job. The president bent over and inhaled. “Come on back when you retire and we’ll taste them all, just like old bulls,” said Paul.

“Deal,” said the man.

“If you retire after your first-term, you can drink all the wine you want sooner,” suggested Joe.

“Thanks Joe. I’ll think about retiring when my work is finished.”

“Hey, thanks for approving our winery application,” Paul said to the president. “The TTB staff were terrific. The first thing I learned after becoming a professional winemaker was how to spit wine to taste without swallowing. Because if you drink ten different wines in ten minutes, you’re looking at a DUI.”

Sheila, who hated to cook, insisted on having the summit catered. Three days earlier, the caterer, Les Gourmands Françaises, was raided for hiring illegals. Sheila rose to the occasion claiming it would be just as easy as cooking for the harvest crew, and Karianne and Steph leaned in. Twenty-four hours before the guests arrived, Sheila started cooking her well-tested dishes and, without stopping to sleep, at lunch time plates of food covered every table, counter, and desk in the house. No one ever left her home hungry – and she paired estate wines with each dish the media and NGOs could sample. Sheila shrieked when she saw a glass falling to the ground and a vision of throwing out all the food flashed before her. She didn’t know the Secret Service had substituted plastic for crystal as a security measure and she was astonished, and relieved, when the cup didn’t shatter.

Michelle’s condition for attending the summit was permission to drink one glass. Paul poured her Petit Verdot, the same wine he and Bluey were making when they first heard candidate Obama speak. “Barrack, honey, this smells so good I could wear it,” she said, placing a few drops behind her ears.

After lunch, the guests gathered on the terrace where the Bishop recited an invocation, the Wine Summit officially began, and the harmony of the day evaporated with the spirit of the Bishop’s prayer.

“Mr. President,” Joe began respectfully, “Obamacare is a job killer. As a business owner and job creator, I know first-hand forcing company owners to pay more for employee insurance will raise costs and result in less hiring. If you want companies to hire more people, repeal Obamacare and reduce the corporate tax rate.”

“What about the deficit?” asked the president.

“When the number of tax paying employees increases, tax receipts increase and the deficit will decrease. Look at the economic growth under Reagan spurred by tax cuts.”

“Joe,” responded Obama, “When President Bush cut taxes, how many more folks did you hire?” After an awkward silence, the president continued, “From what we see, the only thing tax cuts did was put more money into the pockets of business owners and increase the budget deficit. Moreover, in 2008 after a year of record sales and profits, you laid off 25% of your company’s staff.”

“It was a pre-emptive strike.”

“Is that the Bush Doctrine for business?” asked the president. “Look, uh, Joe, I’m not convinced company owners like you would hire more people with a tax cut – for sure, the deficit would increase. It sounds like voodoo economics all over again. I want to see more data.”

“Perhaps the Bishop,” Paul interjected, “Sees a middle-ground to this policy conundrum?”

“Work is important for human dignity,” said the Bishop. “Since the time of Adam and Eve, people have had to work for their livelihood. Any responsible government policies that increase employment are a good thing.”

“I respectfully disagree,” countered Joe. “It’s one thing for the government to create a heathy framework for business to operate and create employment – but it’s better for the private sector to create jobs through the market, rather than wasteful government spending. Look at the trillion dollars the government just pumped into the economy – if that money had been put into the hands of people to spend, and not spent by the government, the impact would have been much greater.”

The president nodded attentively.

“What will we do as a society,” asked the Bishop, “When artificial intelligence improves and machines can perform many jobs? How will society organize itself as peoples’ jobs are replaced by machines?”

“That’s an interesting question,” said the president, “Fortunately, that time is far in the future. I’m concerned about the millions of people who need a job now.”

“To continue with the Bishop’s inquiry into how society organizes itself,” said Paul. “What moral obligation does a government have to provide health care to its citizens?”

“None at all,” interjected Joe. “America was founded on the principle of self-reliance. People are responsible for taking care of themselves and managing their own health.”

“What about those born with an ailment? Is that their fault? Should they be denied insurance and care?” asked the Bishop. “Joe, there’s something I’d like to ask you,” the Bishop continued. “Business leaders are for free enterprise and prefer government take a laissez-faire approach to the economy. Why is it the owners of the San Diego Chargers demand public funds to subsidize their new football stadium? To me, it seems our city’s scarce discretionary funds could be better used to help the homeless become independent, to assist at-risk children grow into productive citizens, and for other pressing needs. Is subsidizing a private business to build a sports stadium the best use of public funds?”

“Well, at least we fixed the college football playoff system,” interjected Obama. “A new stadium for San Diego is a local issue beyond the scope of federal government. Let’s steer the conversation back to federal programs.”

“Why don’t you give me money to buy a new truck?” asked Miguel.

“And why is that?”

“Mr. President, why don’t you just condemn Miguel’s truck?” suggested Paul. “It’s so old, it’s a road hazard and polluter.”

“If you give me an incentive to buy a new truck, it will help the auto companies,” Miguel said.

“We did that already – don’t you remember cash to clunkers?”

“I couldn’t buy a truck then – I had no money.”

“I guess you can buy one now since you took all my money,” Paul said to Miguel.

“It’s something we could look at again,” Obama said to be polite. “We threw a life-line to the auto industry and it worked. We’re glad to see Detroit on the upswing.”

“That’s what’s wrong with government spending in this administration,” said Joe. “Increasing the federal deficit to help Miguel buy a vehicle he’s going to purchase anyhow when his truck dies. That’s not wise – it’s not an investment.”

“Let me tell you about the real world,” said Miguel. “Joe talks about buying new things. My car won’t die – I’ll just keep fixing it and it’ll run forever. We Mexicanos can fix anything,” and Miguel whispered to Paul, “You can’t fix shit, amigo.”

“If you’re still looking at pumping money into the economy that’s an investment, why not put solar panels on every roof here in southern California?” Paul suggested.

“Keisha, write that down.”

“Ok, here’s something we can agree on,” said Paul, “Joe, help me out here. Mr. President, the Clean Water Act is killing us. It’s turning us into criminals. Look outside at the ivy and bushes. During harvest, we pick grapes and put them in containers and carry them to the winery. We used to wash the containers with a hose over the ivy. The government says that’s water pollution. Why is it a crime to water your plants if the water has a little grape juice in it? How is that polluting anything?”

“It’s a perfect example of too many government regulations stifling business,” Joe added.

“We’ll look into that,” said the president. “Keisha, make a note.”

“Mr. President, here’s another thing I’d like to ask you to look at where Joe and I agree,” Paul said. “Since you’re a constitutional scholar, this is right up your alley. Doesn’t the ‘commerce clause’ of the Constitution allow Congress to regulate commerce between the states? Our winery is licensed by the federal government to make and sell wine – yet many states don’t allow us to ship wine direct to their residents. Those states are interfering in interstate commerce. Isn’t that unconstitutional?”

“What about the Twenty-First Amendment?” replied the president, who knew his constitution.

“The what?” asked Paul.

“You know, the amendment that repealed Prohibition.”

“Yes, and?”

“It gave states the right to limit or prohibit the import of alcohol.”

“Sounds to me like a violation of the ‘commerce clause.’”

“Look, Paul, I like the way you think. I know Michelle likes your wine and we’d like to order some – Keisha, can you work up an order?”

“He can ship to Camp David, but not Virginia.”

“Why’s that?”

“Virginia law.”

The President became serious and looked Paul in the eye. “I understand you advocate shipping wine across state lines – I hope you’re not breaking any laws, or I may have to ask the Justice Department and J. Edgar over at FBI to investigate you.”

“I heard you’re really good putting people at ease,” Paul replied. “I think I just stained my pants.”

“Keisha,” said the president, “Let’s look into interstate wine shipments and let’s order a case of wine from each winery here and have it shipped to Camp David for the upcoming meeting with the French President. I’d like to show him how well grapes grow in America.”

“We haven’t discussed the elephant in the room,” said Joe.

“What’s that?” asked Obama.

“Illegal immigration – why doesn’t the government enforce our immigration laws?”

“We do, Joe. Look how many illegals we’ve deported since I assumed office.”

“We need to send more back. You say you want to create shovel ready jobs – illegals take away work from American citizens. They lower the quality of education in our schools. They increase healthcare costs for all of us when they go to emergency rooms without insurance. And, they taint our elections by voting illegally – that’s why California always votes blue.”

“What are we supposed to do with the people here working hard contributing to society?”

“Send them back. And then build a wall, like the Great Wall of China, to keep them out.”

“We should be building bridges with our neighbors in Tijuana, not walls,” said the Bishop.

“The only bridges being built are underground tunnels for trafficking drugs, people, and terrorists,” said Joe. “We need to defend our borders.”

Miguel injected, “You guys should know we got alota people in my community upset with the police – it’s gotten to the point where we don’t want to see any police near us.”

“A city shouldn’t be responsible for enforcing federal immigration laws of the United States,” said Obama.

“The city is creating a situation where we fear talking to police,” said Miguel, “And I’m not talking about illegals. Even me. I’m a U.S. citizen, but if I go to the cops to report something, they’re gonna ask for my driver’s license. What if I forgot it? They’ll throw me in jail. That’s gonna hurt law enforcement when everyone is afraid of police.”

“Look, Joe,” Obama said. “I agree with you we must protect our borders and that’s why I’m increasing Homeland Security’s budget for border security.”

“That’s something we can agree on,” said Joe.

“Joe, tell me something. Where did you get the intel about terrorists infiltrating the country through Mexico?”

“I read it in a Tom Clancy novel – everything Clancy writes comes true. Everyone knows the border is porous and people who shouldn’t be here are coming in.”

“Clancy, huh? He’s a lot better than Fox News,” said Obama. “If you get all your news from Fox, you’re living on another planet. Uh, Bishop, for a non-political organization, the church seems to be taking a stand offering sanctuary to illegal immigrants.”

“The church’s doors are open for all who seek refuge. We mustn’t close our doors on political refugees,” replied the Bishop. “Before entering seminary, I served in the Peace Corps in El Salvador where my friend the Archbishop Romero was gunned down during worship services. When even the bishop of a country isn’t safe, how safe are its people? I felt a moral obligation to assist Salvadoran refugees escape death squads and flee to the U.S. – and you’re right, many entered the country illegally, and we sheltered them in churches, and I’m glad we did. It was the right thing to do.”

“If the government can’t control the border,” said Joe, “A well-regulated militia can, and, it’s in the Constitution.”

“We can’t have armed citizens taking justice into their own hands. We welcome the assistance and support of concerned citizens who want to assist the Border Patrol – but we can’t have them carrying arms and arresting people. Let’s set up a task force to work on this. What about the HB1 visa program – how do you feel about legal immigration and bringing skilled people into the country?”

“Hell yes, we need more software engineers and programmers,” said Joe.

“We’ll work to expand it,” said the president, “While increasing investment in schools. Our students are our future. There’s not just a shortage of skilled workers in tech. There’s a shortage of farm workers, too – how do you suggest we address it?”

“Take all the people on welfare and food stamps and make them work on farms. And if there’s still a shortage, then a guest-worker program might work.”

“What if we hit the demand side of the problem and increase enforcement and fine companies that hire illegals?”

“That’s a good start,” said Joe.

“Hey Joe, good luck finding guys to take care of your vineyard,” Miguel said.

“Uh, Bootlegger,” Obama said, “We’ve already got an issue with you shipping wine across state lines. Are you hiring illegal aliens, too?”

“Mr. President,” Paul replied, “A moment ago you asked me a pointed question and I did #1 in my pants. With your latest question, I just did #2. We don’t hire any aliens; we hire human beings.”

“I’m just jivin’ with you man – take it easy,” Obama said.

“I’ve got something to add,” the Bishop said. “After Jesus rose from the dead, his very first appearance to one of his followers was as a gardener. Think about it.”

Jesufuckingcristo thought Miguel.

After a moment of reflection, the president spoke. “There’s something I’d like to ask the Bishop. I hear you’ve been having a little trouble in your church about gay marriage? Please share with us what you learned from your experience.”

“The Lord brought his ministry to all people – if we focus on the mission of the church, to bring God’s grace to everyone, we wouldn’t waste energy on political fights.”

Obama was still formulating his policy on the topic and listened intently. The Bishop asked, “Isn’t it the government’s role to create a legal framework to protect people from discrimination? What similarities do you see, Mr. President, between the struggle for civil rights and the struggle for gay rights?”

Joe the Wino detested the Bishop almost as much as Obama and funded break away churches that occupied property owned by the Diocese of San Diego. Before the president could answer, Joe jumped in, “The next thing you know, homosexuals are going to be getting married in church – it’s disgusting.”

“Joe, you’re a Christian, aren’t you?” asked the Bishop.

“Yes – and the Bible says holy matrimony is between a man and a woman.”

“If you changed the words ‘between a man and a woman’ to ‘between two people’, that would take care of that,” Paul offered.

“Yeah, I get that,” said Joe, “But I can’t understand men marrying men.”

“Mr. President, I think the public is optimistic and looking for leadership from your administration on this. What are your thoughts?” Paul asked.

“Michelle and I know what it’s like growing up with prejudice. I believe the role of government is to ensure all people are treated fairly without regards to their religion, race, gender, or sexual orientation.”

“What about chicks with dicks who want to use the ladies’ room?” asked Miguel.

“Miguel!” – exclaimed Paul.

“That’s alright – let him speak,” said Obama.

“Man, ask the fucking dog over there for his opinion,” said Miguel.

“Miguel!”

“I’m sorry,” apologized the Pirate. “Look at the fucking dogs,” and it wasn’t a figure of speech as Bo, who started by sniffing Bluey’s butt then licking his willy-wonker, had mounted Bluey from behind in the style of dogs. Canine psychologists said it was a display of dominance by Bo trying to tell Bluey who was top dog. The Aussie was having nothing of it, snapped at Bo, then mounted him. The headline in the French media was “Le Sommet Levrett” which couldn’t be printed by prudish English publications. Rumors began circulating the president’s dog was gay. Any suspicions about Bluey’s sexual preference were dispelled by the attention he paid to FLOTUS’ flower.

“My position on this is still evolving,” said Obama, who lowered his voice and continued, “Since this is off the record, ask me this question during my second term,” which Joe leaked to a Fox News reporter within five minutes of the president’s departure, warning Obama was going to legalize same sex marriage if re-elected.

A president’s schedule is strictly followed and at 14:30 H, Keisha interrupted to call time. The president stood, invited the Bishop to make a closing prayer, and all rose and bowed their heads.

“Today, the president talked about respect – and how we should respectfully listen to each other. Let us agree to respectfully disagree about differences in opinion. And let’s take one step beyond respect – to love your neighbor – to love one another. Love solves all problems. I’m not talking about romance between two people who have fallen in love – but truly caring for each other, treating strangers, treating people different from yourself, as you would treat family members, because we are all one human family. If we respect each other as members of the same family, the same community, and love each other, the power of love dissolves all differences, solves all problems. May peace be with each and every one of you, and may we all have the strength, wisdom, and courage to go forth to do the work God has given us to do. Amen.”

“Amen!”

The host family escorted the First Family uphill along the stone path to Gazebo Hill repurposed into a helicopter pad where Marine One waited. As its rotors started, the president said to Paul, “Watch this,” and the commander-in-chief ordered his dog to chase birds off the property lest they collide with the chopper’s blades. Bluey, not to be undone, joined the First Dog in clearing out birds when Paul shouted, “Bird check!”

“Come back after your presidency and we’ll drink wine from the vines you planted today,” said Paul. “Six-year-old vines make great wine.”

Paul, Bluey, and Sheila took a selfie with the First Family and Bo and as Marine One lifted, avocados, grapefruit, blood oranges, and olives were forced from their branches (which Miguel scooped up and took to his truck) as the helicopter flew towards the coast, escorted by three similar choppers as decoys.

The avocado, blood orange, and grapefruit trees would die from drought and neglect years later, but the olives and Phoenix Canarias palm trees Sheila purchased at the depth of the Recession would grow taller than a three-story house. Although the Obamas would never return, the vines planted by Barrack and Michelle would grow to cover the gazebo, then smoother it. Today, the gazebo is tattered in ruins – the vines are strong with hope.

Making an Elixir of Love

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Wed, 07 Oct 2020 01:16:00 +0000

Although this wasn't a drought-year for winegrowers in Southern California, I let the late harvest Zinfandel hang a little too long, yielding a mere 350 lbs. My reaction was, is that all? I was expecting close to 1,000 lbs. But, perhaps it was a nice miss? Because with all those concentrated raisins, I could try to replicate the legendary Elixir of Love I had heard about, and, go one step further by fortifying the sweet wine with barrel-aged brandy salvaged from the remnants of the Bootlegger's Express.

For those of you unfamiliar with the story, it's reprinted here, with permission from the forthcoming novel About That Wine I Gave You.

"Paul’s strategy for making good wine in the vineyard during the time of drought was to allow grapes to ripen quickly and harvest early, unlike “normal” years when he tried to lengthen gestation by irrigating to lower acids, keep sugars from rising too high, and prevent grapes from shriveling during a heat wave. In theory, harvesting early was a good approach for less acidic grapes with higher pHs, such as his Tempranillo, but not with the Zinfandel and Aglianico, which had high acid and needed a longer ripening period (and irrigation) to bring the acids down. To ration his water, Paul sacrificed the Zin, diverting their water to other varietals. The Zin harvest was a meager 200 lbs. and only produced ten gallons of wine – forty-eight bottles of the sweetest elixir and worth its weight in gold, considering all the expense he incurred producing it. He named it Jayne’s Port, because he would travel 3,000 miles for a taste of this wine as he would for a taste of her lips, and whenever he returned home from his travels, he poured himself a dram as a welcome-home libation. He sent Jayne a bottle with this letter:

Dear Jayne,

I just returned from Seattle where it rained every day and I feared my dried-out bones would melt in that Emerald City, suffering the fate of the Wicked Witch who liquidated faster than Tillamook cheese squeezed between bread in a searing panini grill. I walked along Lake Union’s docks admiring the yachts, taking notes for the time we visit together, rent one for the weekend, and putter up Puget Sound.

As the waters open, you slip into a wetsuit and into the waves and into skis and the boat accelerates pulling you up and you crisscross the wake of Orcas who clear a path for you through the sea. You pull yourself onto the boat and we cruise further north, threading the needle between Whidbey and Camano Islands into Skagit Bay and into La Conner where we dock, debark, and dine with Tom Robbins, with whom we discuss the adventures of two star-crossed water molecules as they travel through the circulatory system of a vine, become separated, end up in different grapes, then, are reunited in the wine, separated again when the wine is poured into different glasses (why can’t they just hang onto each other?), and through a miraculous kiss, are rejoined when our lips meet.

The next morning we return to Seattle, filling our ice chest with salmon we catch from trolling lines, pass through the Ballard Locks where you toss a fish to the Sea Lion barking louder than Bluey, on to Lake Union, and return to port, where we share a special wine, aptly named port, to commemorate the journey.

About that wine I gave you … grown in the time of drought, vinted from concentrated Zinfandel grapes dying of thirst, when crushed, extracting juice was harder than squeezing blood from a stone. We let the sugars in the grapes rise over 36 brix, a preponderance them wrinkling, many into full-fledged raisins. During the coldsoak bath after picking, the brix of the must, assaulted by an onslaught of raisin sugar bombs, rose above the scale, off the charts, through the stratosphere, over 40 brix, resulting in the darkest, most concentrated, luscious, thick, chewy, syrupy, elixir ever. I’m not allowed to name it after the sweet wines of the Iberian peninsula, but I shall call it port, because when returning to my home base after so many travels, this is my go-to welcome-home beverage, a tender taste on my lips, I imagine as sweet as yours, and, to honor my muse for all your encouragement, I’ve christened it with your precious name, Jayne, and in the fullness of time, may my home-base be called the same as this wine, the Port of Jayne.

Behold, a bottle of Jayne’s Port. May it please you and fill you with fond memories of our times together in the past and in the future.

Cheers,

Bootlegger"

Fire or Flood: Which Would You Choose?

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Mon, 05 Oct 2020 02:40:00 +0000

We're in the middle of hurricane and fire season. If given the fiendish choice between flood or fire, which would you choose?

Below is one winemaker's choice and the consequences. Excerpted with permission from the forthcoming novel About That Wine I Gave You.

ire or flood?

When waters rise onto your lawn, up the steps, and knock at the front door, it’s time to go. The body is waterproof and human nature is resilient so you wade through the water to bring your family and pets to safety and to check on neighbors. Flood waters aren’t going to kill you unless your backyard suddenly becomes whitewater rapids that pull you under. At least water isn’t going to burn you.

Even with doors and windows locked, the unwelcome guests enter and when they recede, leave a calling card of mud, debris, sewage, and hazardous waste. The house, sorely wounded, develops gangrene. The scourge of mildew spoils anything left standing. Spores of freeze-dried black mold rehydrate and rot everything. When you return to assess the damage, at first, you’re relieved to see your house standing, but cancer has invaded, metastasized, drywall sucking it from the floor up into the epidermis and house’s lymph nodes – only invasive, radical surgery can save it. You have your house, but you don’t. You need to rip out everything, furniture, carpet, floorboards. If water covers tile for a day, it’s beyond repair. And then the walls. Perhaps some framing can be kept, but it must be treated with strong disinfectant.

When I was a curious toddler, mom left an iron on the ironing board I learned to respect and after that a hot stove, as my fingertips turned white from second-degree burns. Did you ever touch an iron? Can you imagine how much more it hurts to place an iron on your forearm or thigh? Makes me cringe.

“Y’all have your hurricanes,” Karianne told Jenny Lea in Texas over the phone, “And we have our fires. I’ll take fire.”

“Be careful what you wish for, sugar,” cautioned Jenny Lea. “I still say the good thing about having your house flooded is you can go back and pick up your photos, silverware, and mementos. When your house burns down, you lose everything.”

The time to be on alert was when temperatures rose, humidity dropped, and winds blew from the east, reminding Paul of Mongolian winds that blew across China carrying dust from the Gobi Desert to Beijing. Sheila was reminded of the Mistral winds of Provence in southern France.

Estephanie teased Karianne Santa Anas are the revenge of the Mexican generalissimo who screams across the land to reclaim the Texas territory his army lost to Sam Houston at the battle of San Jacinto thanks to the Yellow Rose, her namesake. Miguel called them Santana or “devil” winds that brought fire from hell. After Karianne heard that, in October when temperatures rose and winds picked up, she turned on the music of Carlos Santana, took off her clothes, and salsa-ed and cha-cha-cha-ed to the rhythms and riffs while absorbing vitamin D and having her hair naturally blown-out on the privacy of her back porch.

When people asked Karianne where her winery is located, she answered, “Out in the countryside where cougars roam free and fires burn.” Fire is a fact of life in the back of your mind until you see billowing smoke clouds and the apocalypse suddenly becomes real.

Wildfire destroys almost everything in its path, converting slumbering stored carbon into dancing flames, light, and heat – oh the heat, an inferno, turning glaze on pots to glass, melting metal, carbonizing cars, breaking bonds binding materials and molecules together, releasing energy, sucking in oxygen with the force of a black hole and exhaling smoke, smoke, and smoke. Fire keeps moving – fanned, whipped, accelerated by the wind – like a shark that must keep swimming or perish searching for fuel to feed the beast, an earthly incarnation of evil and destruction. Fire is fickle and without explanation might passover your house, or if you cleared your property with defensible space, might turn towards an unfortunate neighbor. Then again, fire may throw grenades of embers at your fortified home from afar, singling you out, yours, the best-prepared yet only house on the block to burn.

A massive wildfire in San Diego County or anywhere in California could consume a thousand or more homes. On the other hand, the one-two combination punch of stalled hurricane and wind surge could damage 100,000 Texas homes.

The body is waterproof. Waters that turn roads into rivers are repelled by the skin and dirt can be rinsed away with soap. Yet, that same skin is not fireproof. The smell of burned flesh, a macabre barbeque for the fiend of fire, the blistering painful peeling of raw, melted skin, is excruciating agony. And that’s just the beginning. Weeks, months, even years later, countless operations, skin grafts, suffering.

Fire or Flood?

“I’ll take fire,” said Paul, regretting his remarks the second after he spoke not wishing to bring it on, recalling God’s promise to Noah after the Biblical Flood, “Never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth,” to which Paul added the postscript, “Next time, I’ll get you with fire.”

During the Great Recession, Paul did everything in his power to save their house from foreclosure, using ends to justify the means, with continuing consequences to his domestic tranquility. Yet, when Sheila began dropping hints about moving to an apartment in the city with closer access to medical care, not once did she mention selling the home she intended to keep for Kate and Alex, although they showed no interest. Everything she and Paul had worked for, dug and posted, ripped and replaced, planted and grown, harvested and vinted, could be consumed by flames fueled by the Devil’s wind with a satanic wave of the pitchfork. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord. Did the wannabe-monk-on-the-hill honestly not care about losing all his possessions? Would he, Sheila, and Bluey evacuate in the face of fire? Or, if Paul stood his ground to defend their property, would his heirs save the cremation expense?

Paul knew a fire was coming as surely as the sun would rise – the only question was when. “I’ll worry about it when I see it,” and from his perch on a mountain top, he and Bluey were in a good position to see one coming.

If it comes from the west, it’s going to race up the valley, he imagined, plotting a battle plan, follow coyote trails up the canyon to our property and find the land cleared except for grapevines. Fanned by ocean breezes, humidity will be higher, temperatures lower, and fire-fighters will establish a defensive perimeter behind the vines protecting the house. If it comes from the south, the fire needs to burn through the City of Escondido before reaching here. That’s a good barrier and not going to happen. But if it comes from the east powered by Santa Anas, all bets are off. At least we’ll see it coming, right Bluey?

The Devil and Grim Reaper love a good bet and got to work, conspiring to get that dog.

Everyone in Southern California knows the warm dry conditions of the Santa Ana as temperatures rise, sometimes to triple digits, while humidity drops to single digits. If there were truth in the saying, “But it’s dry heat,” that’s true of the Santa Ana, for living along the coast of San Diego, usually relatively cool with ocean induced humidity, the Santa Ana is a burst of summer in fall. Up at Blue Merle Winery, it was a vacation escape, a time to enjoy warmth outside and inside before winter turned their cozy home into a frigid rabbit hole since their heater didn’t work. It was the best possible weather in the world, if it didn’t kill you.

Santa Ana is synonymous with desert heat that travels from Aridzona carried by winds that blow leaves off grapevines and branches from trees; the trees sway, palm fronds hang on horizontally in the wind tunnel, tumble weeds roll, with gusts causing vines and branches to dance with abandon, a reminder why fire in these conditions is unstoppable.

At the end of October, the Santa Ana returned and the fire department placed red flags at the one and only entrance and exit of the Hidden Hills as a warning not to burn fires outdoors, to abstain from outside work that could accidentally start a fire, and to be vigilant, a “red flag warning.”

Still, a man’s gotta make a livin’ even with the wind blowin’ and two of Miguel’s crew went to work with a long blade chainsaw and a high-powered weed whacker with metal blade to clear land for a homeowner, a good idea to create defensible space, but not during a Santa Ana when the weed whacker or chainsaw hits a rock, sets off a spark, and the next thing you know you’ve got a little fire on your hands and what started small as a match becomes a wildfire that can’t be put back in the bottle. If you think Miguel is the villain of this story and he started it, that’s a good guess. I heard the chainsaw buzzing, so got in my jeep and drove over to ask the guys to stop.

“Hey amigo, there’s a red flag warning. No chainsaw today.”

“No problem – it’s OK.”

“Si there is a problem – it’s not OK. You can work by hand, but not with the machine. No machina. It can start a fire.”

“No problem – no fire,” he said and continued to cut down tree limbs and bushes aspiring to be trees while the other guy attacked overgrown scrub.

There was no need get into a Mexican Standoff with these hombres and not seeing the owner, I stepped away and called our friend the Fire Chief who immediately dispatched a Fire Marshal over to speak with the guys. Turns out, as I figured, the owner didn’t know what a red flag warning was because he was new. All was good in our area and in hindsight, maybe it would have been better if we had been ground zero, because the brave, efficient, quick-reacting women and men of the Deer Springs Fire Department could extinguish a blaze quickly, at least under normal conditions.

Out in the back country, conditions were anything but normal as gusts topping 100 miles per hour pushed powerlines like kids on swings then kids jumping rope and with electric lines swinging like that, one arced, and with humidity that low, grass in the area was tinder that caught, and what in normal conditions would have been a campfire was fanned by the Devil. Winegrowers on Ramona’s edges were the first to be hit and fled for their lives. Bellows stoked the flames and soon towering smoke clouds could be seen from downtown San Diego skyscrapers and forty miles north at the top of Blue-Merle Mountain. When Paul returned from his visit to Marcie, he told Sheila it would be prudent to pack, just in case, and he texted Karianne, Steph, and Merlot Mac pictures of the blooming mushroom.

Evacuation orders were issued and the exodus began with two main routes out of Ramona towards the coast – fleeing up to wooded Julian was the equivalent of jumping out of the pan into the broiler – so the main route to safety was down. As fire spread, cautious residents in high risk areas prepared to evacuate.

What would Sheila and Paul pack? What would you pack? She had already thrown out his photos, so that didn’t matter.

Passports? Check.

Birth certificates? Check.

Marriage certificate? Paul wasn’t sure if it was in their closet or Sheila had shredded it. He found it rolled up in a scroll. If I let it burn, would we be divorced? He wisely kept his humor to himself.

“Don’t forget Bluey’s papers,” Sheila reminded him. American Kennel Club Australian Shepherd. The real McCoy. Check.

Winery license? Check.

TTB records? Check.

Corporate tax records? Check.

Personal tax records? Check.

Sheila’s medication? Check.

Mortgage documentation? How do you burn a house underwater? Buy a home in San Diego’s countryside during the boom and wait.

Medical insurance cards? Check.

Cell phone charger? Check. “Sheila, be sure to charge your phone,” Paul reminded her.

Case of water? Check.

Dog food? Check.

“Don’t forget Bluey’s Louis Vuitton leash,” Sheila yelled over the noise of the vacuum, “And his toothbrush.”

“Why are you vacuuming?”

“When firemen enter our house, I want it clean.” Paul shook his head and bit his tongue, but her words reminded him to unlock the garage and the doors so firemen could get in.

Homeowner’s insurance policy? Check.

“Don’t forget the toilet paper,” Sheila yelled from her closet.

Since they didn’t have TV, Paul turned on the radio for updates. As thousands then tens of thousands willfully or mandatorily evacuated, a call had gone out for donations of children’s toys, diapers, and blankets needed at shelters. A shelter was set up at Escondido High School, and since all was calm in his neighborhood, the least Paul could do was gather items to donate, besides wine.

Diapers were one thing he and Sheila didn’t have although they were one coital-oops away from grandparenthood. He opened a hallway closet grabbing blankets from one drawer then pulled another drawer revealing a world inhabited by Beanie Babies, dozens of them, living a parallel life to the humans outside. There was a farmer, princess, and unicorn, who together ruled a Noah’s Ark of animals Alex and Kate played with as children. Paul reached for the unicorn saying, “I’d love to give you to Jayne, but a child needs you now.” He reached for Nuts the squirrel. “You’re just a rat with a bushy tail – time for you to go,” and put Nuts into the large plastic bag with all the stuffed animals, having no need for them here. He grabbed as many towels as he could carry and he and Bluey drove down the mountain.

The normally bustling 15 was empty and eerie, drifting smoke currents all he could see, the smell, darkness, and stillness reminding him of Beijing in heavy evening smog.

Bluey enjoyed the role of comfort dog herding kids at the shelter and they loved chasing and petting him. Paul enjoyed playing Santa Claus carrying a bag of toys over his back and giving them away.

Back at the house, Paul observed orange flames dancing in distant darkness – he slept with one eye open on the floor of the living room with a picture window view of the valleys for miles around. What he couldn’t see was the fire storm racing down Highland Valley Road through vineyards, avocado, and citrus groves.

Most residents of San Diego proper didn’t worry about wildfires. Except for a little smoke, fire was only a problem for those in the back country. Instead of snow days, school children had smoke days. Paul had the vantage to see it coming – for those asleep in their beds around Highland Valley and Rancho Bernardo, their only alarm was the smell of smoke as the fire unexpectedly shifted their way.

Imagine waking at midnight in a house full of smoke. Startled, you rouse your family, pull on clothes, scramble to get everyone and dog and cat into the car. Now!

Imagine driving though the thickest fog – you can’t see three feet in front of you. Driving in smoke at night is worse, and smoke chokes you, because you don’t have a gas mask. You can’t see, you’re dangerously driving blind, you slow to a crawl, crack the door open to see if you’re crossing the line, or pull off to the side to wait for a break, or you crash. Then you feel the heat – it becomes so hot, the plastic of your car starts to melt, the car ignites and you’re trapped and there’s nothing you can do except leap into the flames.

Fire leapt into Escondido’s Wild Animal Park, an extension of our famous San Diego Zoo, that resembles an African savannah with roaming animals now reenacting an African bushfire. If there’s one thing that rips open the hearts and pocketbooks of the public, that’s images of suffering animals, be they singed Koalas in Australia, or pets lost in the conflagration who miraculously emerge and are reunited with their owners.

As fire penetrated the park, elephants, giraffes, and rhinos instinctively moved away staying safe. Fortunately, the land was cleared and with little fuel for the beast, it moved in another direction. Although the zebras were spared; the thoroughbred racehorses of Bonsall were not as lucky. The horror, the horror.

The fire didn’t jog, it raced down the winding road, jumped the 15 (or to use Joe the Wino’s words, snuck under the bridge crossing the interstate like illegals flooding into San Diego through Tijuana’s underground tunnels) and attacked populated neighborhoods within San Diego’s proper city limits, then moved into Escondido’s scenic community along Del Dios Highway and continued the route into prestigious communities of Rancho Santa Fe.

Paul’s father telephoned, reporting calmly, “Son, I wanted to let y’all know we’re surrounded by fire.”

“Dad, stay there. Don’t try to out-drive it. Your home is new. Stay and you’ll be fine.”

“We’ll be fine as shake and bake chicken. We love you son.”

After the call, Paul pressed coffee and sat with Bluey looking out the window and spotted flames to the east where there had been none before, noticeably closer than the glows on the horizon. This doesn’t look good.

At daybreak, there was no sign of fire in Hidden Hills. As Paul folded his blanket, he heard the crackling of static electricity and felt he had poked his finger in the socket, the humidity that low. He and Bluey walked up the hill for a better look and observed white smoke from the new front in the fire wars he spotted the night before in Valley Center, with waxing Santa Ana winds nudging it their way. He and Bluey walked down to the house, pressed fresh coffee for Sheila, and woke her.

“It’s time to load the car.”

If the winds continued, their time was coming and later that morning, the reverse 911 call came with mandatory orders to leave and the volunteer became an evacuee.

Joe the Wino reserved a suite at the Grand Del Mar, a luxury hotel by the coast where dinner could cost $1,000 and rooms started at $400 per night. Karianne, who sold wine by the truckload at Temecula’s annual wine and hot air balloon festival, was contacted by a winemaker she knew who, in the spirit of generosity that brings people together in a crisis, offered her, her neighbors, and their pets a place to stay. That sounded good to Steph and John, Merlot Mac and family, and Sheila and Paul, whose plan to shelter with his parents was impossible since roads were closed in that direction.

Everyone put on a brave face and decided to make the best of it. Karianne packed an assorted case of her best wines (not the ones she made, but the ones she and Steph purchased). To save time, she threw a pile of dirty clothes into her SUV, reasoning since she wore them recently, they must be good and she didn’t lose any time choosing clean clothes from her closet. Paul grabbed a can of pâté de foie gras he was saving for a special occasion – what could be more memorable than eating the best food in the world and drinking the best wine with best friends as your houses burned? Karianne posted a photo: “With my BFFs #BestFireFriends.”

John, always prepared for everything, was determined to stay and defend his house, ignoring the warnings of authorities and pleas from Steph, who relented knowing she couldn’t change the mind of her strong-willed husband. Though Steph and the others were concerned, they knew he was equipped as well as most firemen and mentally prepared to fight. While John respected the fire department, he had the most motivation to save their house with firefighters spread thin, unable to protect every home.

Paul loaded the car while Sheila finished packing clean underwear, toilet paper, and sanitary wipes. Into a plastic Ziplock baggie, she placed a sapphire ring (a gift from Paul she admired), a necklace of pearls (symbols of her tears), and pearl earrings (symbols of her elegance). She left her wedding ring behind to burn in hell.

Time was of the essence with only one exit and everyone leaving at once; there was a traffic jam and you didn’t want to be stuck in a car when a wave of flames passed through. They checked their neighbors to make sure they were able to get out and with both cars stuffed like students starting a new year at college, Sheila entered her black car and Paul the matching white with Bluey, they descended the driveway then down the road where Paul saw a neighbor struggling to load horses into a trailer by herself. Paul stopped to help and as he took the reins, Bluey jumped through an open car window and talked with the horse calming him, so he peacefully stepped inside. While Paul helped load the filly, Bluey started trotting up the steep road home.

“There goes Bluey,” said the neighbor.

“Bluey!” called Paul. “Bluey, come back!” The dog with a mind of his own kept trotting up the hill with the dignity of an Arabian stallion. Why did he return to the house? To protect it? Check on the neighbors’ dogs to make sure they got out? Or, did the Devil make him do it?

Paul called Sheila on her mobile phone telling her to go ahead; he would join her and the others in Temecula, she, in a line of cars on the normally sparsely populated road, edged down the steep pavement, and not a moment too soon as embers carried by winds singed the sides of the 15 all the way to Fallbrook. Paul, unaware the first flurries of ember snowflakes were falling, drove up the hill to fetch Bluey after the horses were safely in the trailer.

He found Bluey on the French Terrace and as he approached, Paul noticed the large wisteria by the side door that bloomed magnificent white and purple perfumed blossoms in spring had wrapped itself around a pole, the railing, and up into the house’s wooden eaves. “That’s not going to be good if it catches fire,” he told Bluey. He gave the wisteria a haircut with loppers. “Sheila’s gonna kill me, but it’s either the wisteria or the house, so the vine’s gotta go, right?”

“Woof!”

Paul looked at the wooden barrels on the terrace he had turned into tables and rolled those into the vineyard and removed other flammable objects adjacent to the house. He noticed garden hoses attached to outdoor faucets without nozzles; Sheila had cut them off. What good is that going to do when firemen arrive and need a hose to douse embers? He went inside to fetch three nozzles, three hose repair kits, and a screwdriver, and lost another fifteen minutes attaching nozzles.

Paul peered towards the threatening east and witnessed the Devil incarnate riding a chariot of fire down Palomar mountain, his wake fanning flames with wind gusts above 100 miles per hour. Paul heard a voice, “Take that, scarecrow,” as the Wicked Witch of the West threw a fireball at the strawman without a brain whose house was made of wood and the flaming sphere flew across the sky landing in the thick, dry, chaparral in the Valley of Death, the riparian wilderness below his property, creating a new threat.

Red on yellow, kill a fellow.

Red on black, OK Jack.

Fire from east, kill the beast.

Fire from west, take a rest.

If only that were true, Paul thought as the first solitary ember fell like the first shoot of budbreak, pop, followed soon by a second isolated pop, and then an acceleration of pops like popcorn. So it was with the ember drizzle that started small patches of fire that grew and merged and as winds whisked leaves into the sky like sparklers, he opened the door for Bluey to enter the house. He wondered if his death would be from asphyxiation or a thousand ember burns, remembering what Karianne told him about the Apaches who started with a scratch as insignificant as a paper cut, but killed you with a thousand. The first ember was not so bad, no worse than a pin prick. But a thousand embers? As for the house, all it took was one ember to enter one of three dozen air vents that cooled the attic, which Paul futilely tried to cover, but it was too late for construction projects for a scarecrow in a firestorm.

He called 911 to report the new threat to Hidden Hills from the western flank in a Hail Mary move with hope there were some firefighters, somewhere, available.

A towering row of poplar trees planted by the first owner blocked embers from reaching their targets in the property’s interior but like any missile defense system, it became overwhelmed by the number of incoming warheads and some penetrated and did their work. Poplars became Roman Candles firing mini rockets into the sky. It only takes one nuclear bomb and a single ember to ruin your day, Paul thought, grateful he was still standing and not yet seriously burned. This isn’t so bad until he observed a nuclear Armageddon of mushroom clouds on the horizon.

The fight was on and he was all in and instinctively acted to save his home with the same foolishness and innocence he decided to plant a vineyard and make wine. Ignorance was bliss, if he survived, because he truly didn’t know what he was in for. Paul saved his house from the repo-man during the Great Whoops on Wall Street, but could he save it and himself from the Great San Diego Fire?

He changed into a makeshift uniform, using goggles and respirator for vineyard spraying, so he could breathe (maybe) when immersed in choking smoke. He found a long winter jacket to protect him from flying embers (hoping the wool wouldn’t ignite), and a pair of goggles for Bluey (which would have been comic in other circumstances). He covered the dog’s snout with a bandana and pulled doggie booties over each paw should he step on any embers outside when the time came for Bluey to abandon house. Scarecrow covered his head with a wide-brimmed vineyardisto’s straw hat and rejoined the battle outside.

Paul had created defensible space around the house – but had ignored the palm trees next to the side, figuring there was no flammable material in the trunk. He was right about that, but when dried fronds caught fire, igniting the green ones, they brushed wooden eaves with flames.

“To the roof!” Paul cried and Bluey cheered him from inside, the safest place at the moment. Paul carried a hose with him onto the roof, careful not to step on yellow algae made super slick from water he sprayed on the flaming palms.

An ember hit its bullseye, a bird’s nest hidden in a crevice between the eaves Paul didn’t clean out. Did I trade a bird for my house? He doused it before it ignited.

Embers fell in the dried-out ivy patch behind the home causing leaves to smoke then catch. Paul sprayed the spot fires closest to the house, then slipped on a tile, accelerating feet first down the roof. Fuck! – this is no way to die was his final thought as he sped towards broken bones at best, grabbing an exhaust pipe that stopped his fall. Thank God! He took a deep breath, composed his thoughts, pulled himself to his feet, then dismounted the roof into the ivy with the hose, sprayed, then shoveled dirt to smoother the hot spots. He saw flames licking eaves under the section of roof closest to the ivy and doused those.

As winds blew east to west, the fledgling fire in the valley to the west of Paul’s house was like a salmon swimming upriver against the current, for its instinct was to climb from the valley up the ravine, as surely as Newton’s apple fell to the ground. When there were lulls in the wind, the fire took a step forward up the ridge with the confidence and persistence of a Sherpa, one step at a time, and from Paul’s panoramic rooftop view he observed a marshalling of Noah’s Ark, a Ringling Brother’s parade of animals and unlike the circus march and Noah’s census, animals fled in panic for their lives, surprising Paul with the numbers of species with whom he shared the land and never saw. Frogs, skunks, deer – he had never seen deer in the vineyard. No wonder they named the road Deer Springs! Following Bambi was a pack of hopping Thumpers who jumped ahead of a caravan of ants, stink bugs, Jerusalem crickets climbing up the valley and spilling into the open space of the vineyard. Then a pack of coyotes emerged, trotting up the paths of the vineyard. With the coyotes gone, a covey of quail scurried along the ground and Road Runner strode up the hill and away. When Paul saw a mother mountain lion leading her cubs from the flames, he became a believer in Karianne’s tall tale and wished he had his camera but had left the phone in the house and remembered his charger was in Sheila’s car.

Rows of lavender became lit fuses that raced towards the house. Where the lavender field ended, a fat opossum with fur on fire dashed into the vineyard bumping into vine after vine. Is that a suicide bomber? No, these aren’t gopher wars. Paul carried the hose to the critter and saw its eyes singed white – a face of fire’s horror branded on his brain. He sprayed water, extinguished the flames, and smelled the stench of seared, soaked opossum flesh realizing it was a mistake to have stayed and that he’d die at best or worse be seriously burned. Not owning a rifle, he swung his shovel to end the opossum’s misery.

He dug a shallow grave, covered it with dirt and sighed deeply in a pocket of smokeless air. He went inside to text Sheila he and Bluey were stuck and safe at home; he texted Alex he was proud of his service and that dad was getting a taste of battle; his text to Kate was, “I’m fine, but if something happens, please help your mother take care of the vineyard, LOL (Lots Of Love), Dad.” And then he texted Jayne, “I once wrote you we’d be together in our next life. Looks like I’m on the way. Yours forever. Til we meet again!” Paul filled a bowl with water and another bowl with food for Bluey, gave him a hug, and went outside to face his fate.

Winds shifted, now flowing from the Pacific, and the drizzle of embers from the west increased to a rain. Paul returned to the roof to douse embers and keep creeping flames away from fascia boards of eaves. He turned on an irrigation valve that rained on the ivy to make the area less hospitable to fire.

A neighbor below had invested thousands of dollars fireproofing their home, encasing eaves with fire-proof material and replacing old roof tiles. They had evacuated safely and Paul noticed smoke rising from their house. With the ivy irrigation running, Paul left his post, headed down the driveway, and climbed over their fence. He saw they had left a hose outside with a nozzle and when he went to the back, he saw the flames and found himself engaged in a losing battle he had no chance of winning with a garden hose and walked briskly back up the hill to his house. Why would their house burn and Paul’s old, vulnerable house, survive? That’s what one ember could do. Fire is fickler than love.

Meantime, less than a mile away, John maintained vigilance over his property, while the USAA insurance company sent a rapid deployment force of commandos to Karianne’s hacienda, covering it with protective fire-retardant foam and clearing away combustible materials.

Back on the roof, the smoke became thicker, and Paul coughed up black spittle reminding him of his trip to India, the foul smoke clogging his lungs worse than streets of Beijing during super smog.

Paul looked out over Camp Pendleton – where are the airplanes and helicopters? Be careful what you wish for, because at that moment, a converted commercial plane flew over and dumped a thousand gallons of water, followed shortly by a dive bomber that released a payload of red fire retardant down the valley. Thank goodness they missed the vines – how would I ever clean that up?

The fire slowed like a snake wounded by a shovel and a crew arrived on the scene to cut off the head and mop up. Paul and the community of Hidden Hills were lucky. The winds had shifted and the threat from the east turned and consumed itself. It turns out a vineyard is a pretty good firebreak and the winemakers’ homes were spared as was most of the community, this time.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Paul shouted at Joe the Paramedic, who gave CPR to Sheila the last time they met.

“How’s the young lady?”

“As good as ever and evacuated.”

“We’ll take it over from here.”

“Come on over when all this is finished for some steak and a glass of wine. Meantime, I’ll mop up around the house.”

“Check your attic for embers.”

Cell phone batteries were not as good then as they are now and by the time Paul finished mopping up and checking the attic his phone was dead. He spent the night next to Bluey by the window – in case winds picked up and the cease fire was broken.

In the morning, Paul attached booties to Bluey’s feet and they emerged from the house into the smell of burnt wood, that’s the aroma of an overly toasted barrel, and surveyed the property finding charred skeletons of bushes and trees in the valley below in one dimensional black with soft streams of rising gray smoke. On the altar of Golgotha Rock, they found the charcoal corpse of a squirrel Paul scooped up with his shovel and instead of throwing it into the entrance of Squirrel City, he dug a grave, because even your enemies deserve proper burial. A helicopter circled the area with an eye out for flare ups. Chateau Bluey had burned and Paul, numb to all he had seen, felt nothing, only his breathing. He stirred the ashes, curious what he might find, and uncovered a singed photo of a woman with shoulder length black hair, dark almond eyes, pearl complexion, a small nose, pink lips, filling a full-length embroidered silk dress with a slit up the leg, posing on a bench by a lake rimmed with green trees. Paul felt a loss, not for the photos, elementary school art projects, or for memories, which he would always keep in his mind and heart. “Christine, I’ll never forget you,” he said, burying the photo under his favorite vine.

“Bluey, come,” and they walked down the hill to check on John’s and Karianne’s house.

With the fire in retreat, evacuated residents of Hidden Hills were anxious to return, and as they exited the 15 or Center City Parkway to head up the hill, they confronted a roadblock, not to catch illegals, but to keep everyone from entering. Joe the Wino, who supported law and order, was absolutely livid when stopped by the National Guard and threatened to call the Minute Men militia he funded to keep illegals out to help him break in.

“Fuck this,” Karianne said to Steph when they arrived. “I gotta get in there and take care of the wine or it’s gonna get wasted in this heat.”

“Would you mind checking on John after we’ve saved your wine?” Steph asked.

Since the front entrance to their community was blocked, Karianne tried a back door the National Guard didn’t know about. Steph drove her to Lawrence Welk, where Karianne traversed through the scrub up to a fence near the top and scaled over. As she dusted herself from the jump, a uniformed officer confronted her.

“Mam, stop right there please. You’re not allowed to enter.”

“I’ve already entered. I’m here.”

“Mam, you don’t understand. No one’s allowed in here.”

“You’re here.”

“Mam, I’m sorry. You need to go back or I’ll have to arrest you.”

“You don’t understand. I live here.”

“Mam, it’s you who don’t understand. I’ll have to arrest you. No one except authorized personnel are allowed in here. We’re protecting homes from looters.”

“I’m not a looter. I live here,” she pulled out her driver’s license and pointed to her address. “This is America and you can’t keep me from going to my home. If you don’t let me go to my house, all my wine will spoil and it’s gonna be on you. By the way, the Fire Chief is my friend. He’s in my winemaking group, and when I tell him you ruined my wine, you’ll wish you hadn’t stopped me.”

“Mam, he’s gonna commend me for following orders and keeping the area secure.”

Karianne, who was usually adept at applying sugar and charm, kept up her assertive approach. “May I please speak with your commanding officer?” The guard called the duty commander who arrived. Karianne pleaded her case, and the commander relented.

“We’ll escort you to your house and give you five minutes to gather your things then escort you out. Five minutes, got it?”

The guard couldn’t believe the commander gave in to her and asked why?

“She can’t be making this up.”

They escorted her to Cougar Winery where Karianne was surprised to find the air conditioning on and the punch down tool covered with moist grape skins. Someone had been there, who didn’t clean the tools as thoroughly as she. Karianne went inside, grabbed a change of clothes, a couple of bottles of wine and the officer, after making a quick stop at Steph’s to check on John, drove her to the back gate of the Rim Rock community that connected to Lawrence Welk where Steph was waiting, fearing the worst.

“John’s fine.”

“How’s your house?”

“Messier than the clubhouse after the Padres won the world series with corks popped everywhere and a river of wine flowin’ into the ocean.”

“Oh Karianne, I’m so sorry.”

“Just messin’ with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The house is fine. Somebody was there and took care of the wine.”

“I bet it was John,” said Steph.

“Power’s on at my place and the air conditioning too.” Just then Steph’s phone rang and it was John. He said he was fine and that Paul and Bluey were alright, too.

“Karianne says thanks for saving her wine.”

“Wasn’t me – she should thank Paul.”

They made plans to meet that night in Temecula to give thanks for their blessings and to their hosts and to mourn those who had lost their homes, or worse.

The bulk of San Diego was largely spared this time – a thousand homes were lost and a dozen people perished, bless their hearts, as fires continued to rage in wooded hills around Southern California, causing disruption to daily lives, deletion of a lifetime of memories for those who lost their houses, gut wrenching burns, and death.

In Temecula, where the refugee winemakers gathered for a reunion, flames celebrating at the summit of a mountain range were visible. It was a miniature version of the gourmands’ winemakers’ dinner a la camping with somberness, the main course grilled hamburgers (cooked by John), accompanied with store-bought potato salad and coleslaw (purchased by Merlot Mac), and baked beans from a can (heated by Sheila in a chef’s copper sauce pan), while their hosts set the table with paper plates and plastic cutlery. Karianne opened a bottle she rescued, dividing the thousand-dollar wine into nine cups. As Bluey lay down with the other dogs and the cats, Karianne told Paul, “I wanted to share this with you.”

He touched his paper cup to hers and thanks to his rehabilitation from the Scent Sommelier, he smelled, he sipped, he swirled, inhaled and slowly tasted, noticing nuanced aromas and flavors he had never before experienced.

“This wine is new world, the grapes are Cab, the region is Napa, it’s not too young and not overly aged,” said Paul. “Hmmm…. I’ll guess six years old.”

“Close. Seven, actually.”

“I’ve never tasted anything like it. It’s good. Very good. In fact, amazing. I could never make a wine like this.”

“Nor should you try – not with your grapes.”

“What is it? Screaming Eagle or something?”

“How did you know?”

“Because I know you,” Paul said, thinking to himself, but really, I don’t.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“Looking after my wine.”

“You’d do the same for me, and, you’re welcome.” Paul felt an urge for more wine and walked to the kitchen where he found John by a bottle.

“We were lucky,” Paul said.

“Just another day in Nam.”

“If the winds hadn’t died, we would have.”

“You saved your house.”

“I only went back to get Bluey. Next time there’s a fire, I’m gettin’ the hell out.”

“Or you could prepare and fight it with the right equipment.”

Paul filled his cup and reclaimed the empty seat across from Karianne. “To life,” he proposed, raising his paper cup.

“Life’s too short.”

“Then here’s to a long life.” Their cups touched and they sipped in silence.

Glancing over the cougar tattoo on her breastplate, Paul looked into her aptly made-up smoky eye and saw the reflection of the flaming mountain range as mysterious and out of this world as the light of a solar eclipse during totality. For a period lasting as long as it takes the moon obscuring the sun to pass, he felt a surge of electricity race from his gut to his chest signaling the totality of his admiration, his longing, his love for the woman facing him, causing him to forget for a moment in time his earthly possessions, his surroundings, his wife, and the fires ravaging the state.

Wall of Sorrow

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Mon, 25 May 2020 18:33:00 +0000

As we approach the 60th anniversary of its construction, reflections on the Berlin Wall, excerpted with permission from the forthcoming novel About That Wine I Gave You.

In 1987, President Ronald Reagan traveled to Germany’s largest city still very much divided by the still very real Cold War and declared, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall,” referring to the notorious Berlin Wall erected in 1961. President Reagan went on to predict, "This wall will fall. For it cannot withstand faith; it cannot withstand truth. The wall cannot withstand freedom." The exact number of people killed crossing from communist East Germany to a better life in capitalist West Germany during its twenty-eight year history is unknown. A memorial at the site lists 140 victims, while statistics gathered at Checkpoint Charlie, the U.S. controlled border outpost where I served, put the total higher.

In the early 1980s as a peace movement gathered momentum in West Germany, I decided to return. You may not regard Berlin an ideal vacation spot, but I enjoyed the night life when I was in the Army and wanted to go back to find an acquaintance. When I walked from West Berlin through Checkpoint C to the other side in March 1982, it was like Alice walking through the mirror into another world, as stark and contrasting a border crossing as Hong Kong to Shenzhen, Kansas to Oz, San Diego to Tijuana. East Berlin was dark, gray, and subdued compared to the bustle and brightness of West Berlin’s Kurfürstendamm – and though I spotted some good-looking food, packaged goods, and delicacies displayed behind a few glass windows in the East, such luxuries were out of reach of most citizens behind the Iron Curtain.

I explored East Berlin, ventured into a bar and drank beer with punks dressed in black leather jackets, one with a purple mohawk, then went to a theater to see a play I couldn’t understand. After the performance, I spoke with some members of the audience. Younger people were eager to talk with an American and here I was, people-to-people with East Germans who were “the enemy,” members of the Warsaw Pact controlled by the Soviet Evil Empire. It was surreal. The conversations were open and you could sense their humanity, but mostly their hopelessness of a future without promise.

After my hardship tour in Vietnam, I was posted to West Berlin where I met an East German soldier my age on the other side. I saw him a couple of times; we exchanged greetings and cautiously extended our conversations. I assumed he was a spy trying to entrap me, but, after several encounters, I could tell he was just a regular guy. One night, he told me he needed to get to our side to see his deathly-ill mother who had fled to the West before the wall was built. He asked me to switch uniforms. I almost can’t believe this happened and wonder what the hell I was thinking but I loaned him my uniform and stayed in his family’s apartment and joined them for stew and bread while Hans visited his mother. I remember the bread was good, thick, sour. His family was like any family back home. We were prepared to fight them, and Berlin was ground zero for the Third World War. We were enemies on paper, but they were just people. When Hans returned a few hours later, he gave me his Lugar as a souvenir and I kept it, using it now to manage the surplus squirrel population.

Hans, of course, was against East Germany’s government and despised the secret police – he knew life on the other side was better – but what could he do to voice opposition? There was no Friedensbewegung peace protest, no March on Wall Street by East Germany’s 99% against the accumulation of wealth and privilege by the 1% communist party elites. For Hans, the dream of America – called Beautiful Country (Mei Guo) by the Chinese and El Dorado by the Spanish where streets were paved with gold – appealed to people on his side.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

Each year, more people in search of a better life die crossing the U.S. border with Mexico than during the entire existence of the Berlin Wall. The U.S. Government tightened our southern border after the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, and since, more people have died crossing into the U.S. from Mexico than perished in the Twin Towers. Don’t even get me started about Europe’s refugee crisis in the mid-2010s. Desperate people will do anything for a chance at a better life. Nature abhors a vacuum and people are drawn to America like ants to fresh grape juice – even if it means getting sucked up into the hose of a vacuum, the same consequences faced by migrants caught in the whirlwind.

The human carnage along San Diego County’s southern border caused no loss of sleep for Joe the Wino who said illegals have it coming to them. He was all for steps to tighten border security around San Diego, shifting the flow of illegal immigrants from the city into the isolated, harsh desert. And, he put his money where his mouth was funding the local Minute Men, a citizens’ militia that took protecting our border into we the people’s hands since the god-damned government wasn’t keeping illegals out. It was the same with his vineyard. He had a right to defend his grapes and erected a barrier of nets around his vines to protect them. If some birds perished trying to sneak through, that was tough luck. They had it coming, stupid birds. Same with Mexicans, if they’re stupid enough to come here.

Of course, Joe was the largest employer of illegals in the neighborhood – I still chuckle remembering when Obama called him out during the Wine Summit. Joe’s estate employs a cook, a cleaner, a driver and on any given day he might have three of Miguel’s guys working outside caring for his vineyard, orchard, grove, and garden. He didn’t ask for their Green Cards and didn’t tell.

The Moral Equivalent of Hazardous Front Line Work

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Sun, 03 May 2020 01:40:00 +0000

Nurses can't work a three hour shift, so neither will I, wrapped in a white onesie, commonly called PPE (Personal Protective Equipment), which everyone knows, because of it. Gas mask, goggles, and rubber gloves to protect my hands, my eyes, my body from fungicide. It's the May Day holiday for celebrating organized labor, and I've never worked harder, imagining the sprayed mist is Covid-19, Wuhan Flu, Ebola. Sunglasses - to protect my retinas - pressed hard against my face by goggles, painfully pinching my nose's bridge, labored breathing marching up the hill echoing Darth Vader on a ventilator, then, moving one step at a time, cautiously, watching for the leviathan, sure enough, at the corner of the vineyard, the Valley of Death, she's there, ten rings round her rattle, "Oh!" I step back, and she rises to strike and shakes her castanets.

"I'm the wine guy who brought you the wine," I'll say to the nurses at the hospital's emergency room. "Can you spare some antivenin?"

"We've been expecting you."

Joe the Wino stopped by to trade two bottles of wine for avocados, wine I have in abundance, but food is what I need to eat and live, there being no income to buy, the noblesse oblige of trickle down economics, but I miss Joe, he arrives when I'm on the hill, and there is no break, and I tell myself the nurses can't stop, so neither will I, and keep spraying. It's the least I can do to honor their work.

The Promise and Prophecy of Green Shoots

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Wed, 15 Apr 2020 01:12:00 +0000

Ten years ago in the depths of the Great Recession, I walked through the vineyard, saw the first shoots of spring, and took it as a good sign. I novelized the experience - the message as relevant today as then. I want to share this hope and good news with you. And wouldn't you know it - since our quarantine began several weeks ago, dark, cold, wet, winter has roared - but today, the sun and warm weather returned, and the vines are reaching for the sky. Best wishes to you and yours.

"In the spring of 2010, it was opening day in the vineyard when anything could happen. Buds were popping; shoots were shooting. The fragile shoots of spring will become strong in summer as sure as cars will roll off factory assembly lines, concrete foundations laid, wooden frames hammered for new houses, and store shelves stocked with inventory discerned Paul.

The dormant economy woke from its slumber and green shoots reached the first wire and Paul and the winemakers saw it first. Before the vines grow out of control, the Federal Reserve will step in and cut back irrigation to control inflation and the vineyard and economy will grow in balance.

Paul witnessed the first shoots. A new spring. A new vintage. Opening Day. All contained within the tiny bud of a dormant vine. He packaged a bottle of Petit Verdot, women’s favorite, another bottle for the messenger, and a special blend for a special recipient. And with the foolish audacity of a winemaker – isn’t making wine the operational definition of a fool? – he picked up his pen and wrote:

Dear First Lady and Mr. President,

May God bless your Presidency and the United States.

Sincerely yours,

Paul the Winemaker"

- Excerpted with permission from the forthcoming novel About That Wine I Gave You.

Wine for Nurses

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Wed, 08 Apr 2020 00:20:00 +0000

I do not have masks.
I do not have ventilators.
I do have wine - so this is what I give, in appreciation.

Dear Maria,

I feel your fear.
Do not be afraid, for the people are with you.
We pray for you.
We hold you in our hearts.
You are our savior, our comforter, our healer.
You fear the coming battle, yet you prepare, donning your mask, your armor, to confront the foe.
Fear not - the Lord is with you!

You saw Wine for Nurses - you said, "Here I am."
You asked, and you shall receive.
Blessed are the nurses, for they are God's healing hands on earth.

About that wine I sent you ....
Harvested in 2017, ten years after the vines were planted, all our trials and tribulations in the vineyard came together at the end of the drought to produce a wine to honor you and your colleagues. A wine worthy of your mission. Sunshine in a bottle, to warm you, fortify you, relax you, calm you. Grapes from heaven, to recharge your soul, recharge your spirit, to defend you from the unseen enemy. The Lord is with you. The people are with you. Even a humble, unshaven winemaker 3,000 miles away is with you. May the wine calm you, strengthen you, protect you, bless you, and fill you with love, inner peace, and the courage to do what needs to be done. Ava, Maria.

And Now For a Something Completely Different: Author Reading at Happy Hour

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Sun, 29 Mar 2020 18:12:00 +0000

At the end of the first full week of self-isolation, an author opens a bottle of Tempranillo and reads from the director's cut of his forthcoming novel. Cheers!

A Taste of San Diego Wines After Opus One

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Tue, 03 Mar 2020 02:58:00 +0000

This is not a story about competition - it's about the coming of age of San Diego grapes and wines.
RULE: I grew up with a rule that when serving red wine during a meal, the wines should become progressively better, if different ones are served. In other words, save the best for last.
The first time I tasted Opus One was in 2002. I was hosting Japanese business partners at Mr. Stox restaurant in Anaheim, and one of the guests saw Opus One on the menu and ordered it. I had no idea what it was, nor how much it cost, and was pleasantly surprised by the wine's taste.
The second time I tried Opus One was two years later, again at a business dinner, and this time I ordered it, and enjoyed it greatly. The bottle went fast between two of us, and I needed to order more. Alas, I didn't have the budget for another Opus One - and ordered a good wine instead. Coming right after the Mondavi-Rothschild masterpiece, the 2nd wine didn't stand a chance - and was clearly a violation of the rule to serve progressively better wines.
To state my tasting preferences clearly: I like Opus One; I also love "big, juicy, cabs" from Napa - rarely drinking them, because of the cost, and thoroughly enjoying them when given the opportunity. I also like our good wines (many of them have not turned out so good over the years).
In the intervening 16 years, I've been a winemaker and winegrower. Last night, I was invited to dinner, and as a hostess gift brought an assorted cheese plate and assorted wines made from our "estate" grapes - the wines not to be served, but as a gift.
The first wine served was a 2016 Centered cab. It was enjoyable - well aged for being relatively young (although I thought the vanilla, carmel flavors a little strong). And then came the 2010 Opus One, living up to its reputation, reminding me of a 20-year-old Chateau Lafite Rothschild I drank two years before. Both wines were decanted 90 minutes before serving. The meal featured tomahawk steaks cooked perfectly. With six drinkers, the Opus One was soon gone, and the host said, "Let's open one of Craig's wines." See RULE above - panic time.

2018 Merleatage Bottled Early January

The next course was steamed bass, so I chose a lighter red - our 2017 Merleatage, a blend of estate Tempranillo, Grenache, and Petite Sirah. I decanted it quickly. The musky aroma - as I feared and expected - was totally different than the Opus One. As I took the first taste, however, I thought this isn't so bad, and on the second sip realized this will work. Indeed, the wine made from San Diego grapes was NOT a downgrade from the Mondavi-Rothschild Opus One, and held its own. This is a compliment to the quality of grapes growing in San Diego.
For dessert, the host served fresh, sweet, blackberries paired with a splendid ice wine from Canada that disappeared quickly. I had brought the hostess a bottle of our 10 year old so-called tawny Port, aged for eight years in an old barrel on our back patio in full sun and two years in the bottle. Once again, the San Diego wine - although drastically different than the ice wine - held its own, the nutty flavors pleasing the hosts and guests.
My neighbor Coyote Karen of Coyote Oaks Winery says she started making wine because Napa wines were getting expensive and she could save money making her own. I think we're on the way to doing that, without sacrificing taste or enjoyment. Cheeers, and congratulations, San Diego.

10 Year Old Tawney "Port"

Mount of Olives

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Sat, 29 Feb 2020 18:02:00 +0000

..."Speaking of olive oil,” said Paul pointing to a grove of Picoline and Arbequina trees, “I call this our Mount of Olives. Bishop, you’ll appreciate we created a theological garden.”
Paul pointed up to Golgotha and the Cross of Calvary at the summit, and beneath it, a cave symbolizing the Tomb of the Holy Sepulcher. The president pulled a ripe olive from a tree and popped it into his mouth before Paul could stop him. “Damn, that’s the bitterest thing I’ve ever tasted,” Obama said, spitting the remains to the ground.
“I was about to warn you not to eat it,” said Paul. “It needs to be cured before eating. Don’t worry, we have estate grown and cured olives on today’s menu.”

Excerpt from forthcoming novel About That Wine I Gave You during the fictitious presidential Wine Summit.

First Pop of Popcorn

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Tue, 25 Feb 2020 02:44:00 +0000

Birth, childhood, adulthood, death – the annual circle of life commences as winter’s water, nutrients, and life-force surge from the earth through the trunk to the dead-ends of cordon arms, against the dead-ends of cul-de-sac buds, and probe for an escape; and like a volcano with rising lava, pressure builds, soft lava pressing, pushing, and after pruning, there are no long canes, no branches for that flow to go and buds start to swell, imitating a pussy willow’s furry catkins, the rising dome of a sleep-walking volcano – Marine helicopters from Camp Pendleton circle above reconnoitering the growing dome – will Mount St. Helens explode again? – until the inevitable happens: one pops – the first pop of popcorn – pop, pop-pop – second and third rounds of popping as corn warms over the fire – and soon there is machine-gun popping, chainsaw weed-whacker-sputtering-engine of popping – pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

Welcome to budbreak in the vineyard. The first shoot emerges – a lonely shoot – a pioneer – sparking a celebration among the vintners at the first sign of spring. (Beware the grasshoppers – they’re celebrating too.) The first shoots of spring– the first pops of popcorn– will give way to summer when small shoots grow into a forest.

A new spring. A new year. A new vintage. Opening day. April Fools! This could become the best wine ever. All contained within a tiny bud of a dormant vine.

Business Pruning

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Sat, 22 Feb 2020 22:34:00 +0000

On the either side of the hill, as Joe the Wino cut canes, he thought of pruning his company. Too much dead wood. Weed out the lower-performing 10% to make the company more vigorous. Off with their heads! If only cutting staff was as easy as vines – thank goodness I’ve got HR for that. Snip. Cut. Prune. Bend. Shape the vine. Strengthen the organization. Joe was a builder of businesses, a job creator. But the goddamned President has been a job killer bad for the country. Thank goodness his time is up next year.

Of Oranges and Tangelos

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Mon, 17 Feb 2020 19:27:00 +0000

"Each morning, Bluey walks with me up the hill where I pick an orange and peel it, his mouth salivating. He takes a slice from my hand. He loves oranges. He eats everything I hand him. Paul says you’re not supposed to have citrus trees in a vineyard, because sharpshooters roost there in winter and kill the vines. When I saw him walking up the hill with a chainsaw I shouted, “What are you doing?” He was going to cut down our orange trees! I told him to leave the orange trees alone. They’re here for a reason. They’re tangelos, actually – a hybrid of grapefruit and tangerine – and the fruit is delicious. In winter, young tangelos taste tart, sour as lemons. But the fruit that hangs until summer is very sweet. I’ll squeeze fresh juice for breakfast and after a day in the vineyard, I’ll squeeze one into a glass then pour in a shot of our home-made tequila – it’s grape moonshine – and walk to the gazebo with Bluey and watch the sun set. The juice is so sweet, there’s no need to add triple sec and it’s a perfect home-grown Blueyrita."

- Excerpt from "Soliloquy of the Queen" from the forthcoming novel About That Wine I Gave You

Strange Fruit

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Sun, 16 Feb 2020 22:05:00 +0000

“... he speedily cut down an entire row with loppers, without pausing to pull down canes dangling from the wires, left blowing in the wind, swinging like chimes, sounding dull thuds when colliding. He looked down the row, reflecting on Billie Holiday’s melancholy:

California vines bear strange fruit
Sap on the wood and sap at the root
Gophers swinging in the ocean breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the vineyard trees.”

Our Wines as of December 2018

noreply@blogger.com (Craig Justice) — Sat, 22 Dec 2018 21:15:00 +0000

Dear Friends,

Here's a list of our wines available as of the Winter Solstice, 2018, with tasting notes by yours truly, the wine maker. The list is organized by varietal, and with each varietal the year. My palette doesn't appreciate higher acid wines, preferring fruit forward wines with lower acidity. You, however, may favor higher acid and or earthy wines - and there are several of those to choose from. Underlined wines suit the winemaker's personal tastes (note, your taste may be different!) A general note about pricing - the wines are generally priced at $25 per bottle with the purchase of a case or more. Prices are subject to change, as quality improves and supply dwindles. Exceptions are made for our "rare" wines - those that we love of which there are just a few bottles left. All wines are made with "Estate" grapes unless noted, usually in lots of one barrel (about 23 cases) unless noted. The 2017 wines all came out good. If you wish to discuss the wines in further detail, please email us at bluemerlewinery@gmail.com I'd love to chat with you about the wines. Cheers!

Aglianico 2009 (Guadeloupe Valley) - $25 very earthy, minerality. It has aged very well. If you like earthy wines, this is for you.

Aglianico 2011 - A 1/4 blend of 2009 Guadeloupe Aglianico, 1/4 estate 2010 Aglianico, 1/2 2011 Aglianico - this is a very interesting, complex wine, combining some earthiness with fruit. When Lum Eisenman tasted it a few years ago, he kept coming back for more, because he liked it, and was trying to figure it out. $25

Aglianico 2013 (Estate) - Bold dark fruit and high acidity. If you like high acid wines with rich meals, this is for you. It should age well, with a low pH.

Blush - 2018 - Made from Tempranillo. No added sulfites. Fermented to dryness. Crisp acidity - very characteristic of a French rose, blush wine. Only 6 cases produced.

Grenache 2010 blend (Grenache 50%, Tempranillo, Petite Sirah) - this wine came out well and has aged well. Shows signs of an "aged" mature wine. For sale only locally, in case its corked (so we can provide spare bottles).

Grenache 2011 blend (Grenache 60%, Tempranillo, Petite Sirah) - one of our best wines ever. Just a few bottles left. $49 each limit one per customer while supplies last.

Grenache 2012 blend (Grenache 60%, Tempranillo, Petite Sirah) - very high acid and very dry mouth feel. Very old style French.

Grenache 2013 blend - high acid and dry - a bit more fruit than the 2012.

Grenache 2014 blend - combines strong, bold fruit with crisp acidity aged 18 months in a new oak barrel. I would recommend this one of the Grenache blends (but only if you like high acidity).

Grenache 2016 blend - good balance of fruit and acidity, it drinks like a European, old world wine if you like that style.

Grenache 2017 blend (25% Grenache, 35% Petit Sirah, 40% Tempranillo) - this wine was bottled in November, 2018 and it's very promising - good fruit (cherries, currants) moderate acidity. New oak barrel. Very promising indeed! (Be sure to check out the 2017 Tempranillo, and also the 2017 Petit Sirah - those are all good.)

Montepulciano 2009 (Guadeloupe) - Cherry flavors, minerality -It has aged well. Some people love this wine.

Nebbiolo 2006 (Guadeloupe) $99 per bottle limit one per customer if we can find one.

Petit Verdot - 2007 $99 (just a few bottles left). Grapes from Bonsall, CA. Fragrance in a bottle.

Petit Verdot 80% - Nebbiolo 20% blend 2007 $49 if we can find any bottles. Very good. PV from Bonsall, CA. Nebbiolo from Guadeloupe.

Petit Verdot 2008 (Bonsall, CA) - $99 (Magnum Size Bottle - Local Only). There are a few 750 ml bottles available. $49. Limit 1 per customer. More fragrance, with structure, in a bottle.

Petit Verdot 2008 "Merleatage" Blend (Petit Verdot over 50%, Malbec, Petit Sirah) this was one of our best wines. New french oak barrel. Just a few bottles left. $99 per bottle. Petit Verdot and Malbec from Bonsall.

Petit Verdot 2009 (Paso Robles Grapes) - this is a "lighter" Petit Verdot - it is a characteristically aged wine.

Petit Verdot 2009 Merleatage Blend was made by combining a barrel of Petit Verdot (Bonsall), a barrel of Cab Franc (Paso Robles), a barrel of Petit Sirah (Valley Center, San Diego), with 1/4 barrel of Cabernet Sauvignon (Bonsall) and 1/4 barrel of Estate Tempranillo - this wine has come together as it has aged, sometimes showing hints of tobacco. I tasted this recently after having a $400 Chateau Lafite, and the local wine reminded me of the $400 wine. This wine is for someone who likes aged, old world wines.

Petite Sirah 2013 - New oak barrel, aged almost 2 years in the barrel. One of our best Petite Sirahs ever. This is a very good wine, in its prime.

Petite Sirah 2017 - Bottled December 23, 2018. As promising as the 2013 mentioned above! Really excited about this wine!

Petit Sirah/Tempranillo Blend 2014 - Bold fruit, aged about 20 months in a new oak barrel. Good balance of fruit and acidity.

Pinotage 2010 (Bonsall) - light fruit with minerality ....some people LOVE this wine.

"Port" Style Dessert Late Harvest Fortified Wines - 2010 "Tawney" Nebbiolo grapes with low sugar. 2012 Tawney also with relatively low sugar aged outside pretty much until earlier this year when we bottled some of it. There's also a rich, more ruby style made from Estate Zinfandel, combining production over several years, still in a barrel, and by special request a bottle may be pulled from it. (This is really, really, really good and sweet and rich - it's going to cost more.) There's also a 2014 Zinfandel/Aglianico late harvest wine still in its barrel.

Syrah 2010 (San Marcos, San Diego, CA) - this wine has aged well ... the grapes were a little on the higher acid side when they arrived, but it's aged pretty well.

Tempranillo 2010 - a few bottles left ... an example of aged Tempranillo in a neutral barrel (not much oak flavors). Prefer to sell it locally in case it is "corked".

Tempranillo 2017 - good fruit (cherries, currants, berries) , well balanced, fun. Love this wine! New oak barrel. Bottled early to preserve freshness. Made to drink young. Enjoy it! (Compare to the 2017 Grenache, Tempranillo, Petite Sirah blend - also fun and good.)

Tempranillo 2018 Blush - fermented to dryness, crisp acidity, in style of a French blush wine.

Zinfandel 2013 - This is a very good expression of our estate Zin. Rich wine, yet not over the top. Good balanced acids. This wine is at its prime.

Zinfandel, Carignan, Nebbiolo Blend -Called Bluey's Cuvee - this was a blend of 2010 high acid Zin with low acidity Carignan (from San Diego) spiced with some Nebbiolo - it all blended together pretty well. A fun red wine.

Zinfandel / Tempranillo Blend 2011 - the "Stephanie Stomp" - earthy ... it seems to have come together with age.