Oct 4
cases of Barbera grapes from Beer-Wine Hobby. I don't really know how
the prices of grapes compare to picking them straight from the produce
markets in Chelsea, but I can say that it is a little less daunting.
Haggling with burly men dangling their unlit, over-chewed and
saliva-soaked nubs of cigars from their mouths is not my idea of a
happy Saturday. I would rather pay a couple of dollars more, drive
another 30 minutes and deal with the pleasant-ish women at the
store...thereby dodging the stray bullets at the produce markets. I
have already broken from tradition by doing that. 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!
Wine-making - Begins with the grapes
Thursday afternoon, I drove to Woburn Massachusetts to pick up my 10cases of Barbera grapes from Beer-Wine Hobby. I don't really know how
the prices of grapes compare to picking them straight from the produce
markets in Chelsea, but I can say that it is a little less daunting.
Haggling with burly men dangling their unlit, over-chewed and
saliva-soaked nubs of cigars from their mouths is not my idea of a
happy Saturday. I would rather pay a couple of dollars more, drive
another 30 minutes and deal with the pleasant-ish women at the
store...thereby dodging the stray bullets at the produce markets. I
have already broken from tradition by doing that. 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!
Oct 4
cases of Barbera grapes from Beer-Wine Hobby. I don't really know how
the prices of grapes compare to picking them straight from the produce
markets in Chelsea, but I can say that it is a little less daunting.
Haggling with burly men dangling their unlit, over-chewed and
saliva-soaked nubs of cigars from their mouths is not my idea of a
happy Saturday. I would rather pay a couple of dollars more, drive
another 30 minutes and deal with the pleasant-ish women at the
store...thereby dodging the stray bullets at the produce markets. I
have already broken from tradition by doing that. 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!
Wine-making - Begins with the grapes
Thursday afternoon, I drove to Woburn Massachusetts to pick up my 10cases of Barbera grapes from Beer-Wine Hobby. I don't really know how
the prices of grapes compare to picking them straight from the produce
markets in Chelsea, but I can say that it is a little less daunting.
Haggling with burly men dangling their unlit, over-chewed and
saliva-soaked nubs of cigars from their mouths is not my idea of a
happy Saturday. I would rather pay a couple of dollars more, drive
another 30 minutes and deal with the pleasant-ish women at the
store...thereby dodging the stray bullets at the produce markets. I
have already broken from tradition by doing that. 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!
Sep 14
Roughly-Hewn Words
Sitting here and thinking about my writing before I get all wrapped up in work. Last night was spent transferring my scenes from various sources into yWriter. I have used yWriter in the past and had dismissed it due to the fact that I might use 3 or 4 different computers in the course of my week and i needed portability. This is why I have been leaning towards Google Docs. I can use GD anywhere I have access to the internet. But recently, my computer choices have been narrowed down. I basically work on one laptop and possibly my home PC. Best of all, yWriter is freeware.
Basically, yWriter works best in the basic unit of the scene. Up until now, I was working chapter by chapter. So, in order to import my writing into yWriter, I had to read my story and break it out into scenes. I worked a lot on that last night. But as I was reading, a painful realization came over me: I really hate about 40% of my words. This isn't a phishing expedition; I am not looking for people to tell me they like what I write. This is just a sincere assessment of my writing. Don't get me wrong, I REALLY like many of the scenes (interestingly, those scenes are the ones that have been edited many times especially following the critiques by my Grub Street writer's group, and therefore I still have hope). But the 40% that I hated, I DESPISED! They were poorly-structured, self-serving and ultimately irrelevant.
Then I began looking for a metaphor in my real life and I thought about my father. Here was a man that could do anything in the house. It was not unusual to come home from school and see him starting a new project that would normally take three or four men to accomplish. He was truly a jack of all trades and master of none, to perpetuate the cliche. Whether he was working on plumbing, electricity, carpentry or the garden, he never doubted his ability to get the job done and it always got done. But the reality was, his handiwork was always less than perfect. He took his resourcefulness to an extreme. Instead of buying a new can of paint, he would mix together near empty cans until everything in the house became various shades of brown. He never bought clean lumber, so the garden shed he built was patched together with wood paneling leftover from refinishing my bedroom, to 4X8's split to make 2@2X4's for the wall studs. He unbent rusty nails and painted the basement floor with wall paint. He used coat hangers to hang a drop ceiling and removed one side off an old shopping car to make a grill rack for the BBQ pit.
But, the garden shed has stood there for 40 years without a leak and we have been grilling on the improvised grate for 25 years. To this day, we see his handiwork. Anyone could have done it better, but it would not look like my dad's. I see him in everything I touch in the house.
He simply got it done. He wasn't proud or not proud. He just knew that it had to get done. He didn't beat himself up when corners did not meet at right angles. He worked around it. So, as I became really discouraged last night that "all" I have created are corners that don't meet, I stopped to think of my dad. He got it done and so can I.
Thanks for listening.
