…I see my children at a winery, on the crushed and out in the vineyard with me and their aunt.  Doing what.  Who knows.  Maybe doing some serious examination of the vines or just going for a walk.  All the wineries I’ve worked with, showing me something different.  About me, and wine.  I always look through my notes, in whatever notebook I have closest to me, see a different me, especially if in the proximity of wine, or a vineyard, or a barrel room like today watching my friend, an assistant winemaker, top barrels.  The chilled surroundings, those echoes, the smell of the topping wine from the plastic carafe…. Freewriting, and free writing about wine has the writer feeling evermore liberated.

Had to laugh today, at a mole on one of the winery’s lawns, dodging all the traps and smoke bombs that were sent underground into its tunnel network to stop it.  The little bloke kept coming back, kept antagonizing us and showing a persistence you don’t see in most creatures.  Not sure why it spoke to me, and made laugh, but it did.  Thought of giving him a name, but I forgot.  And now that I entertain character names for this wee sneaky being I’m blank and can’t think of anything catchy or thrilling or…. What I need to do is focus on all characters around me, all the people I work with and worked with at other wineries—  One guy, at one of the first wineries I ever poured at, introducing me to Bobby Hutcherson and many of the jazz behemoths I listen to today…. Rich.  Nice guy.  Golfer, loved wine, loved music…

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