How’s everyone in wine country doing?
Nothing But A Musing Here
If ever I was musing…
My wine blog… it’s taken a hit this year from my usual self. I don’t even know how I feel anymore. There’s so much more going on in my personal life; the death of my mother-in-law, a child of mine with a serious illness, friends now in the path of horrific fires (and perhaps us, again), and a cat who can’t live much longer into his 18th year, but if we have to evacuate again, into the car he goes again, which he hates…
I’m ready to sleep in the car, if need be. I’m so exhausted, so I would prefer not to. (We have invitations to places that will be safe, but I don’t even know if I want to go to other places, while California burns.)
And yet, I want to write about wine.
And, I want to continue dreaming about an upcoming trip in November to Venice, Piedmont, and Spain. I want it to happen so badly. I truly believe I lived in Venice in a past life. I’ve had a dream in Italian and I understood every word. It woke me out of deep sleep. I sat right up, woke Jose to ask, “What does this mean?” He casually said, “You were Italian in a past life, Now, go back to sleep.” I did, but I’ve never forgotten. I hold a deep feeling about being an old housewife, hanging out of her third-story window, to pull on the rope of a shared clothesline with a neighbor, across the way. We used to yell back and forth to each other, pre telephones.
This is August in wine county. Usually, it’s still summer in quietly, almost non-descript, temperatures in the 80s. When August hits, I’ve always been able to feel the slightest descent. Not this year, not in this global, pandemic year with a crazy kind o’dragon that’s shooting lightning bolts to an earth that was first baked by the highest temps on record… getting it all nice and crispy… for the next “greatest show on earth,” and I don’t mean any real circus has come to town.
So there. I want to write about wine, but I’ll be damned if I can find the words right now.
[Photo purchased: Iakov Kalinin]