I’m going to share and show what I’ve lived with wine.

That first drive, to Ridge’s property in the Santa Cruz Mountains when I was like 18 or 19, with Mom and Dad picking up their Monte Bello futures. If I had to trace my wine story to a single moment, it’d have to be that. I don’t have any pictures or videos. Of course there weren’t iPhones in those days. All I have is the memory.

And that’s what has me seeing and living wine the way I do now, years, decades later. Been tasting many wines lately, types and regions, stylistic, all of it. And it’s like I’m new again.

New like this laptop, or really modified iPad, that I bought specifically for this blog. The wine is new, I am renewed, and wines I’m tasting like last night are newly noting my Now as a penned of wined realities and tells.

I remember asking Mom and Dad what kind of wine they were buying, not knowing what futures were and that they were already paid for. Can’t remember what they said, but I remember Dad telling me it was red.

The story and sense, dimension and manuscript was set. Now I want more stories, more people, words and drives. Last night, Thanksgiving with friends and family, only people I truly love… promising more postmodernism in the wine Beat. This story has to be continual, tireless. It won’t stop, just as I won’t. Wine and I share that determinant language.

So we write together.