St. Francs Claret.  I’ve had this wine so many times, vintage after vintage, but this one is provoking me somehow.  However, whenever, now and in a chase of new chapters.  Mom gifted me the bottle last night, with some dinner that I tonight had… pasta and pancetta I think it was.  And now, I force myself to the floor, laptop on lap, sipping slow and typing. Semester about to end.

No run today, again.. fuck, I say to myself, and yes aloud but the dishwasher’s doing its duty so I hope the babies didn’t hear me.  Get a text but I ignore.  Shelter-in-place ordered again for two weeks or something.  Love the urge to keep everyone safe but why two weeks?  What will that do?  I don’t want to talk about that, I want wine.. wine ideas, wine stories, go back into wine memories, all the pictures on this laptop… even the Kunde days when I’d hate to have to interact with certain people, mostly “management” and ownership.  Walking the vineyard on my break or escaping to my car and writing for 30 minutes looking out at the Syrah block, and that bird box, that one tree.

This Claret, reminds me of Mom, my sister, Dad, us moving here to Santa Rosa from San Carlos.  Now Sonoma County homed.  All wine and wine country, and yes we’d had wine before and my parents have always been I guess what you’d call collectors, but now we’re wine people.  Always bringing wine places and going o wine events.. and since being “industry” as people say going to wine tastings and socials and whatever.

But now, covid.


Covid.  The disease, or virus.  I’m not a disputer of its existence, at all.  I’m just frustrated like so many.  There’s wine though, here in my house.  The Bordeaux blend talking to me. Claret, I remember someone explaining it to me, like a British Bordeaux… having something to do with Joan of Arc, something like that.  I don’t know.  I’m into this wine and her voice, humility, tenacity and praise of our home.  SONOMA.

Class tonight with Tom Foreman, remind me of what I already knew but to hear him say my conviction in his words and from his what looked like dining or family room, or maybe his home office, I’m here on the floor.  Usually I’d watch some ridiculous Netflix show at EOD.  Tonight, I’d rather keep working.  Seeing my wine story further take shape and sow and probability turned into immediacies wish glowing and sharp intricacies.

My books, all wine, give birth to the shop… store.  Hate both those words.  So what then, ROOM?  Nod to ms. Woolf?  Maybe.  Don’t have to decide now.  Just sip and remember the St. Francis tasting room, that dive up Highway 12.