Good company is more important than good wine.

I raced home from work tonight. It just might be the first night where I don’t have to drive someone to baseball practice or karate or the myriad other events that normally dot our evening.

Work has been leaving me numb lately and it is all I can do to work less than a 10 hour day. Too many projects, deadlines and fires to put out. You have all heard me whine about that ad nauseum.

The only thing on my mind on the drive home was a bottle of MacMurray Ranch Pinot Noir sitting in my cellar with my name on it. I could even picture on which shelf it was sitting. I knew exactly where I wanted to enjoy this wine; outside on the picnic table, under the grape arbor. This just might be my favorite place on Earth. Despite living in the city, with buses passing the front of my house every 12 minutes, under this arbor and I am instantly transported to the little village my dad comes from in Italy.

I didn’t even go into my house. I just went into the wine cellar and pulled out my wine. I brought it out to the picnic table and called my father to join me.

As you know, my father is battling Lou Gehrig’s disease. He can no longer speak except in a very thick, gravelly voice filled with mostly grunts and lots of guessing by his family. Even the shadow he casts has changed as this horrible disease takes over his once powerful body.

I told him to bring down a glass for himself and to join me. He came out with a plastic cup and I laughed. I poured him a glass and he eyeballed the 18.99 sticker still on the bottle. He smiled at me while at the same time shrugging his shoulders signaling his disbelief that a wine can cost so much.

Because of his disease, when my father drinks thin liquids, like wine, we have to be prepared for the reality that the liquid will move faster than his mouth can process it and he may sputter. This is a cause of enormous embarrassment for him and stress for us as we hold our breath.

I was busy swirling and sniffing while he dumped the wine into his mouth ungraciously. I saw him shut his eyes as I assumed he was merely trying to work his swallow muscles. But when he finally did swallow, his face turned to a grimace. He shook his head as if he just drank some vinegar and we laughed.

Here was a man who spent his whole life drinking only his homemade wine. He is no longer able to make it himself and I have begun stocking the cantina with bottles I purchased. Every single wine I have shared with him, caused the same reaction.

Once he got over the initial taste of the wine, we sat there, under the arbor with fresh shoots that will grow so thickly this summer that it will keep us dry when it rains. We were together, without saying a word, sipping the wine. I was no longer looking for those damned “cherries, spice and hints of vanilla” that the wine-maker tried to convince me were in there. Now, it was simply about being together; father and son, with never much to say to each other even when he had his voice. But the silence, the wine, the picnic table, the beautiful spring weather and the good company all combined to make my stresses slip away; even if for just a brief moment in time.

As the sun popped behind the thickening clouds, my father stood up and looked at the grape vines and held a fresh shoot in his hands. He tapped me on the shoulder and began speaking as if he had something very important to say. I could not honestly say that I understood everything but it was extremely clear to me that he was telling me how to prune the vines in the fall. I looked at him in the eye and told him that I am such a city boy that he will need to show me again in the fall. He smiled and lifted his hand and gave me a thumbs down.