When I ordered those grapes a couple of weeks ago, the woman suggested
I purchase 25-30 cases of grapes, just as I was filling out the order
form. I had told her what I had for barrels at home and what my dad
used to produce and that was her recommendation. I reminded her that I
was a mortal and at $27/case, 10 cases would be sufficient, thank you
very much. To spend $600 on an experiment is not enticing.

I had planned on leaving work a little earlier than normal to give
myself enough time to make it up there, pick up the grapes, purchase
some supplies and ingredients, drive home, unload and make it to my
school parent meeting at 5:30. Needless to say, after years of driving
in Boston, I knew that was not likely to happen. When I finally pulled
into the parking lot, it was already 4:30 and I knew that the grapes
were not physically at the store and I would need to drive to another
location to pick them up. So, I skipped the browsing around the store
and did not buy any of the items I was going to need before I crush
the grapes. I drove to the shipping dock and handed the “gentleman” my
handwritten ticket allowing me to pick up the grapes. The first thing
he noticed is that I had a pink shoelace on my shoe from the week
before when my job was celebrating its relationship with the Komen
organization to cure breast cancer. I guess rule number one should be:
never wear pink shoelaces when trying to pick up grapes from a
shipping dock. Well, at least the forklift men had a good laugh at my
fashion faux pas. I loaded up my car with the ten cases while
pretending that the one inch splinter from the grape boxes did not
hurt; fearing further taunting. I pulled away from the dock and then
went a block up the road, dropped the tailgate and took a picture of
the grapes. A mix of emotions flooded over me. In one breath I was
every excited. The prospect of making at least one attempt to
perpetuate a cultural tradition was overwhelming as well as the
research value that this will provide as I write my book. In the next
breath, I was sad; sad that my dad was not here to be a part of it and
sad that it was only ten cases. When I took the picture, I noticed how
sparse it looked. I can remember riding home from the produce markets
with my dad carrying grapes on my lap because we didn’t have enough
room to put all the cases in his truck. I was also a little scared. I
knew that I would be making this wine all alone without the reassuring
verbal “hand-slaps” from my dad if I did something wrong.

For the entire drive home, the familiar bouquet of grapes filled the
car and I even got a knowing glance and a thumbs up from an old man in
his pickup as we waited at a red light.

Stay tuned for more updates!

Posted via email from Dan’s posterous