The usual joys of autumn—snap in the air, tinge of the trees, return of orderliness after lazing through a summer—are not lost on me, but they are secondary. When summer shifts to fall in my corner of New England, I want to be home for another reason. It is time for wine making and I must be at my cave.
Home and cellar are at Providence, near the area that 11th century Norse explorers named "Vinland," but now hardly renowned for its viticulture. Since 1954, however, I have made my small contribution toward correcting this shortcoming by tending an annual birthing of the grape into wine. I am now able to proclaim, loudly if somewhat vinously, that I probably am one of the few of non-Latin extraction in the region who can serve a true vin de maison. Probably? Ah, the hell with it. I won't hedge. I say there are none around here, regardless of heritage, who produce a wine better prepared, aged, bottled and labeled than that which comes from my own stone cellar.
Heeding this September call of the grape has frequently called for logistical maneuverings that would try the Kennedy entourage at campaign time. My work as a newspaper sports columnist has often put me far from the desired scene as vendage time nears. The World Series, for example, has a bothersome custom of being played early in October. Nowadays I always root for the Los Angeles Dodgers to win the National League pennant, not because I like the team especially, but because my paper will not stand the cost of sending me to the West Coast. Accordingly, Walter O'Malley in my book is not all bad.
In 1957 I was in Moscow in mid-September. The assignment was fascinating, but I passed up the chance to prolong it because an extension would put me at my cellar too late. Last summer it was Rome for the Olympic Games. My wife and youngsters were with me, and the living—and the Olympics—were splendid. Neither could hold me. We left Rome a few days before the end of the Games so I could keep to schedule. My wife may claim that the real reason for hustling home on this occasion was to get the youngsters back in time for school opening, but this simply goes to show once again that men and women hear a different drummer.
This fall may be devastating. The turn of the wheel will have me, without recourse or return reservation, in England in October, and I despair. There are, I understand, a few hardy souls in old Blighty who attempt home wine making. I shall try to find one. But I have heard that wine grapes there are scarce and unsatisfactory, and that English wine making is more ritualistic than feasible. It will be a sad October.
Of course, there is with my own wine making, as with that of the English, a certain ritual and illusion. My grapes are not picked up by singing workers in nearby vineyards and hauled to the chai by oxcart. Instead they are freighted in by refrigerator car from California, and I lug them from the store to my suburban home in my car. (It is a Renault, and that helps a bit.) The amount of wine I make is not great by commercial standards, but it is enough to sustain me and mine from one October to the next. And my methods for wine making, though classical, are what I consider informal, as opposed to the formal procedures of your truly purist home-level oenologist.
The formalists deal in such worthy matters as sulfurization, sugar content, total acidity and alcoholic content, and they come equipped with the gadgetry to infuse and/or test for same. I do not decry. But in my vintage I hold to this theory: as an airplane is made to fly and wants to fly, so do wine grapes want to become wine, given the proper set of circumstances. So I proceed by ways that were in use centuries ago. I make no claim that my wine has the bouquet of a Ch�teau-Latour, the velvet quality and size of a Roman�e-Conti or even the robust Latin verve of a Chianti. But it is wine, a true descendant of the product made by the ancient Egyptians and before—if the caveman was as herbivorous and clever as claimed.
The urge to make a wine of my own was the only aim in the first year or two of my vintage. But now I find that I am caught up by lures that go far beyond quantity or even quality. I am bound to admit that better domestic wines may be purchased from the commercial wineries at not much more than the cost of mine, figuring in time, effort and original costs of materials. But that's not the point. It is the other appeals that now make the vintage more compelling than ever.
For instance, my wife and two children are enlisted for the first step, that of crushing the grapes. In my system this is done by hand. The four of us gather around the vat, take a few bunches of grapes, crush them until the pulp is loosed from the skins and the juice running, then drop them into the vat for the fermentation. I do not, as often accused, force my children into the vat, barefoot, to crush the grapes in the ancient manner. It's a thought, Ell grant, that does have an appeal to a classicist, but the gas from fermenting grapes can be fatal—after all, it's carbon dioxide—and I do worry about what the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children might think. We already have had one small and significant reaction from those who do not completely understand.
This happened last October in the classroom of our Martha, then age 8. The teacher, somehow or other, got into the subject of wine making and gave out the old one—complete with shudder—that real wine makers foot-press their grapes. (There is a cartoon on the matter, in which a Helen Hokinson lady is saying timidly to the wine clerk: "Are you sure it was not made by foot?")