Easter of the Immigrants – A Feast for the Ages

From the archives..

Over the past month, as my personal fog has lifted, there have been dreams. And in these dreams, many of them have had family who are no longer with us. The Grande Cinema of them all is one which has taken on a life after waking.

Where my father's footsteps end

In my dotage, I’ve become a bit of a numbers guy. How many bottles of wine in my cellar? What time remains of summer? Days left until the election? And so, I looked back to see my father’s life, and the days he had on earth. And a couple of days ago, the days in my life surpassed his.

Now, I’m in now way claiming victory. It was a relief of sorts. Just like when I turned 34, and chanced upon living longer than Jesus. No, I’m not comparing quality or sizing myself up against a messiah. I am just noting, in the course of my life, those moments when it seems to be a milestone. And when I became older than my dad would ever be, it stirred the compost.

Lost & Found - A letter from great-grandfather in 1920

During this down time, I’ve had the opportunity to go through boxes and papers, organizing my office. One of the packets I ran across were papers from my dad. My mom gave them to me before she died. In this packet there was a letter written to him in 1920 from my great grandfather. It was in Italian and was written in a beautiful script. His handwriting was meticulous. I gave the letter to a friend to translate. This is what it said:

Under the Influence...

#1,500

We’ve all had lots of time to think. I’ve written a dozen dystopian blog posts in my head. And I’ve pondered over Italy and what it means to me and others. And still, I can’t help thinking, how have these past three months influenced what Italy means to me, going forward?

The American Dreamer - From Palermo in 1911 to the United States in 2016

On a Barbarossa class ocean liner, a young man, barely a teenager in 1911, makes it all the way to Ellis Island, by himself. On a ship full of hope and promise, everyone looking, searching for their place in life.

The young man would settle in the west and form a satellite operation similar to his father’s, back in Sicily. He would expand upon the business, and live for nearly 100 years. This is the story of so many of the Italian immigrants who came to America looking for that promise and hope, and opportunity. It was dubbed “The American Dream.”

Easter of the Immigrants – A Feast for the Ages

Over the past month, as my personal fog has lifted, there have been dreams. And in these dreams, many of them have had family who are no longer with us. The Grande Cinema of them all is one which has taken on a life after waking.

Dear Dad, Happy 100th – If only you could have been here

We spent much of the weekend moving a 100 year old man. His wife recently died and his family wanted him to be closer to them. He’s a pretty mellow fellow – likes to eat good food, drink a little wine, read the papers and get a good night’s sleep. He doesn’t get too riled up about anything – always pretty much an even keel fellow. He told me yesterday, “I have to get my mind back in working order.” In January he will be 101.

I talked to my mom today. She’s already 101. She told me today, “I’m 101 and ½.” She’s slowed down somewhat, but her mind is still going 100 MPH.

My dad would have been 100 today. He was born just down the street from where my son lives. Today my son and I worked in the garden, readying it for the winter. He talked to me about his life, his love and his ongoing search for meaning and happiness in life. It wasn't unlike the conversations I had with my dad in days long past.

On turning 100 +1: How many times do you get to say this and it really happens?

You hear it all the time at the Italian table. Someone has a birthday and everyone picks up a glass of wine to toast them. Someone else shouts out “Cent’anni!” and it is followed by the volley “e uno!”

One hundred years. And one.

And this time it really happened. To my dear mom.

In all likelihood, we would be celebrating her 100th today. For years she thought she had been born in 1915. But when she went to get her passport, mom had to dig up a birth certificate. She was born in Tobasco, Colorado, which is now a ghost town. What a surprise it was to mom when she found out she was one year older than she thought she was. Oh well, it wasn’t like she was cheated out of that year.

“It seems like I just turned 100. Where did that last year go?” Where do they all go, mom? We’re in the boat with you, even the young ones. Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin', into the future.

Not a fan of Fruitcake? Then you haven’t had my mamma’s!

I don’t know why folks hate fruitcake so much. Guess they never had one made with love. My mom turned 98 in May and this year she sent me not one but two fruitcakes. I think she didn’t get around to it last year. She had a pretty hectic schedule last holiday season. This year she got out in front of it and made up for it.

My Tuscan Family Reunion

Teresa (Scalora) Borgia and grandson Andrea Farru with picture of her parents in 1921

It appeared to be just a coincidence. We were out picking olives, trying to stay away from the stinging calabrone, when one of the neighbors pulled up in his truck to help. Giovanni owns the sheep farm next door. “My wife’s mother comes from Sicily.” Giovanni came here from Sardegna with his brothers Mario and Bernardo. The terrain is conducive for raising sheep (resulting in great pecorino). Giovanni’s brother Mario also appeared. Mario was more gregarious and joined in the conversation. Mario asked me where my parenti were from. When I told him Sicily and Calabria, he shouted out, “You are terrone, cento percento.” Even in his Tuscan/Nuorese accent, I knew what he meant. He qualified it by saying, “but all of us, we are all terroni in purezza.” Where had I heard that before?

When we delved deeper, we come to find out Giovanni’s mother-in-law came from the same village as my paternal grandparents, Piana degli Albanese. “You must come to Sunday dinner,” Giovanni urged. “Come meet your cousins.” It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Anisetta in Palermo

and other remembrances on this day... 
 

I remember that sinuous ceramic floor, on top of the building on Via Roma. Of all things, why that floor? Perhaps the floor was the safe, the repository for all the memories stored up on the roof overlooking Palermo. All the long dinners, late lunches, cups of coffee in the early morning looking out over the water, watching the ships pull into the harbor. Looking at Monte Pellegrino in the afternoon, in the aperitivo moment. For whatever reason, that odd squiggly tile floor pulls me into the shots. Most of these people are family in some way, most of them are now gone. But here it is, Memorial Day, and one of their kin is remembering them, channeling them, looking back into the past peering into the magic mirror of images my grandfather brought back.

The First Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving 1976. My son had just been born, we were living in Altadena and I was working in Pasadena at a restaurant known as The Chronicle. I had been working there a few months as a server. Dressed in a uniform (essentially a tuxedo outfit without the jacket, and was allowed to keep my hair and mustache). The main clientele, it seemed at the time, were wealthy and very conservative types. “Business and social elite”, I think it has been described as. The restaurant was mere miles from a John Birch Society office.Moderate conservatives were considered liberal in that neighborhood.

I remember working the restaurant the night Jimmy Carter was elected. We had just gone through the Bicentennial year, and Jerry Ford, who had stepped into office when Nixon was forced to resign, was running against Carter. But early on, with polling stations already closed on the East Coast, and this being dinnertime in California, we could already sense there was a change coming. The clientele were pretty upset by it and I could feel their anger and their fear. But I was young, had a new baby days away from being born and didn’t feel as wary about the future as the older establishment folks did. They had more to lose than me, I guess. I was glad for the change, always felt Jerry Ford had been thrust into a position that he really didn’t relish.

Palermo and the Invisible Man

Passing through a cloud of unknowing

Notes from a journal, not about my grandfather, but my great grandfather. In Palermo. He died before I ever knew about him. But one day many years ago, in the family home on Via Roma in old Palermo I was introduced to him in a vision. It was August and all of Sicily was an inferno. The road outside my window was filled with noise and smoky little Vespas filling the air with all manner of intrusions. I was feeling queasy and disoriented. An omelet I had eaten near Alcamo hadn't set well with me. That, and the sizzling heat. My aunt would bring me water with anisette in it, cloudy, cool, refreshing, soothing. But my stomach was a mini Etna.

How to sell your wine to America

This week in New York during the Italian Trade Commission event, Vino 2011, there will be many folks, from Italy and the USA, converging for several days of intensive Italian wine learning, tasting, and hopefully, selling. In the spirit of this event, this piece is posted in the hopes that I will be able to send folks to a place to answer the question, “How do I get into the American market?”

I keep getting emails from Italian wineries and their agents who seem to think that just having good wine is enough. Once again, I am going to lay out the roadmap for them with how I think they should approach selling wine in America. In this post, in no way am I attempting to disrespect anyone in Italy. Actually I am attempting to give you a million dollars’ worth of advice from one who deals with this on a daily basis and has done so for many years. The main fault with this advice is that is it unsolicited and it is free. And as everyone knows, volunteered advice at no cost carried with it is of no value. But I am an idealist and, if for no other reason, I can direct the hundreds of people who knock on my door (or blast me with email) if the conversation should go beyond the delete button.

You have a beautiful wine. It has hundreds of years of tradition. It embodies innovation. It belongs to a wealthy or powerfully connected family in Italy that has influence in its society. In other words, it is a bulletproof formula for success. Right?

Fathers and Sons

Great-Grandfather Assuntino Luigi Cevola in Palermo - 1890's

I never knew my Great-Grandfather, Assuntino, but I met him, thirteen years after he died in Palermo, in 1971. I was feeling sick and was in his bed, in the house on Via Roma, 97. It was August and sweltering. I had eaten something, I think it was an omelet, and it didn’t set well with me. I was going in and out of sleep, sweating, the heat and fumes from the busy street, floors below; it was a confluence of moments. And then, in a dream, I think, he appeared. “What are you doing in my bed?” he asked. “I am sick and resting in it,” I answered. “Who are you?” he questioned again. “I am Alfonso.” He looked at me, “You are not my son.” I returned the look. “No, I am your great-grandson.” He gave that sideways stare he was known for and replied, “Va bene, you can stay.” And he disappeared.

I often have conversations with family members who are no longer alive. In fact, some of the best conversations I have had were with family member who have passed away. They are easier, less stressed, less busy. They understand the concept of eternal reconciliation.

Grandfather Alfonso Cevola in America - 1910's

My grandfather, he was such an enigma. He looked to me more Japanese than Italian. But then his father could have just come from Genghis Khan’s campfire. My grandfather really had the charmed life. A woman to look after his every need, cleaning, great cook, raising the kids. And he would go about his business and be home in time for dinner. She would make him breakfast, and lunch. I often wonder how my grandfather thought of my grandmother. I often wonder about women, too, who treat their husbands like little boys, seeing after their every need. I wouldn’t know about that, save for the brief time when I was young and cute and my mom and sisters would look after me.

Father Louis and Grandfather Alfonso Cevola in California - late 1920's

For the last half of my life, I have raised a son and buried a wife. Today my son had to work. We got together Friday night and made a great dinner. Bistecca Fiorentina, baked potatoes, roasted corn and a sumptuous green salad. With bottles of Soave, Sangiovese and Syrah. So we had our moment.

Father Louis Cevola in California - 1932

I loved being a dad when my son was young. I loved doing all the things that I thought a son would want. I pulled it from the pages of my childhood. My dad was a salesman, and always working. We never took a vacation. The few days we took off, we’d end up looking at real estate and going to restaurants where the bacon wouldn’t be cooked well enough and the hash browns weren’t brown enough. I guess he had his demons. But I vowed I’d be there for my son. I remember coaching the soccer team, though to this day I have no idea how soccer really works. When I was in little league baseball, my mom would be there in the stands, and in other times throwing the ball with me. My dad was making deals. My dad, the deal maker. Big deal. He missed out on his son’s life. He missed out on his life. He was so busy running around that before he knew it, kaplooey, he was dead at 69. My grandfather lived seven years past the death of his son. He died when he was 97. Great grandfather Assuntino made it one month shy of 86.

Grandfather Alfonso, author Alfonso, son Rafael and father Louis Cevola in California - late 1970's

So I really never knew any of the fathers in my life. Except for the dream, my great grandfather and I were separated by the ocean and time. My grandfather really didn’t have any contact with me other than basic ones. No advice, no talks, no intellectual connection. My dad, he was a philosopher after the testosterone died down and he mellowed. But until then he was an emotional whirlwind. He was always warning me about women. Too bad he didn’t slow down a little, like his dad, and stick around for me and his grandson.

Son Rafael and author Alfonso Cevola in Texas - early 1980's

My son, who knows if he’ll carry the name forward? It doesn’t look like my life will be one that will be populated with adoring (or otherwise) grandchildren. So it goes.

Son Rafael Cevola in his clan kilt - early 2000's

When it is all said and done, what have any of the fathers before me left for the future family members? There are pictures, tons and tons of pictures. And films. My father wrote a book about world history, when he was a young boy. He did leave us that. But what is it that they would have wanted to leave for their future sons? I really cannot say. I don’t know. I look at the pictures and stare at them, and try to ascertain their dreams. But I really don’t know what they were looking for.

Son Rafael Cevola the fire-breather - early 2000's

Maybe they were just looking to get through the day with enough food and money and safety. Basic needs. But I really cannot say. I wish life would have worked out where I had been able to really dig into their minds, and they into mine. But they are gone now. Only me and my son remain standing in the New World.

Son Rafael and author Alfonso Cevola in Ireland - 2006

However passionate, however rebellious the heart that rests in a tomb, the flowers that have sprung up over it look peacefully at us with their innocent eyes; they speak to us not only of eternal repose, of that perfect repose of "indifferent" nature ; they speak to us also of eternal reconciliation, and of a life which cannot end.
-Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev ~ Fathers and Sons

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Made to Measure

My grandfather almost 100 years ago-click image to enlarge

I spent the better part of Friday and Saturday at a trunk show in a men’s store, showing Italian wine. Several young men came down from New York to show the latest from Gianluca Isaia, a family of tailors from Casalnuovo, near Naples. I love this line from their web site. “Neapolitan tradition holds that the closer a jacket is cut to the armhole, the more comfortable the fit. Northern manufacturers adopt the attitude of a deeper armhole, ‘for greater comfort’, as they do not have the tailoring skills to emulate the comfort achieved by a true southern tailor.”

These days, respect for the Southern Italian tailor eclipses the work of the Southern Italian winemaker. When one plunks down $3,000-8,000 for a suit, considered the best in the world, it makes me happy and sad. Happy for the respect the tailor has gotten for their artistry, sad for the winemaker who still has far to go to get that level of respect and price. It will come, but probably not in my lifetime.


My family, on both sides, started out by working with their hands. My mother’s mother was an amazing seamstress in her youth, working in Dallas in the days when Neiman-Marcus had just started up. She could do a perfect blind stitch by hand, my aunt once told me. I know she could roll dough for the casalinga (home made) pasta with a broom handle and it always came out perfectly round. She and the family she came from were artistic and artisans in many ways.

My grandfather and father as the business grew-click image to enlarge

My father’s father also came from similar beginnings. His father was a wholesale leather merchant. And the sons learned to make shoes, but not just any shoes. And business, but not just any business. When he first moved to Dallas 100 years ago, setting up shop at St. Paul and Pacific streets (now a gazillion story building for the corporate folks), he would work many hours at the machinery. By the time my father was a young man, my grandfather had learned the way of business, and hired workers, learned to delegate and watch the cash. He did well, retiring at the age of 50 and living for 47 years in retirement. But he learned the art of business, did not like to work the heavy machinery all his life. When my father went into that field, he worked as a sign of respect to his father, in the shop, but he hated every moment of it. He wanted to be an artist too, an actor or a musician. He never was able to realize his dream in that way.

They lived well, for theirs was a time when the American dream was alive and well. And they dressed well, like any respectable Italian, southern or northern. I always had a respect for fine clothes, though in the 1970’s I abandoned sartorial splendor for a more comfortable, tribal Aquarian image. It lasted longer than my family cared for, I am sure, but as soon as I started going to Italy for the wine business and visited wineries near clothing manufacturers, the light turned back on inside. We could have our Montepulciano d’Abruzzo with Brioni, our Attolini with Agliancio. The tailors loved to barter; wine was as expensive for them as their suits were to us.

Now I am not overly interested in image or keeping up with the styles from Paris or Milan. But I do have a sense of responsibility to measure up to my cultural expectations of suiting up. Thankfully, in the corporate world, the suit is back, as is the tie, and the French cuff, and cufflinks, and leather. And so, when I looked into the trunk on Saturday, with the bolts of fabric so masterfully woven in Southern Italy, it didn’t take more than a night to sleep on it to decide to pick a fabric out of the trunk and order up a suit of it.


Winemaking and wine marketing is very much like the fashion business. The fashions of flavors ebb and flow as do the lapels and hemlines. But well-made is timeless. A great tie or suit will look good 5 or 10 (dare I say 20?) years from the time it was made for. Wine, well made, can go down the road too, and be a wonderful reward for the patience one put into keeping it. And while one can wear a suit many times, one can only drink that wine once. Unless one buys a case or two of it.

The boot maker and the tailor inside my bones recognizes this artistry and will pay for it. Now, for the day when people will look at the wines from around Naples (or how about all of Italy?), and see them measuring up in the same way, as they do a suit from Kiton or Isaia.

Italian Family Sundays ~ The Golden Age

Yesterday I was driving to the older part of town to visit a friend who was in the hospital. He has been a mentor to me, and as I was nearing the facility, I saw the old street where my dad and his family had lived more than 90 years ago. The picture above was taken there, 1313 Hall Street, Dallas, Texas, where my dad was born. The house is gone. All that remains of his original family is his sister, my aunt Mary. She's the little baby in my grandmother's arms.

My friend in the hospital was asleep, but he didn’t look well. He is dying. I know the look, the sound, the smell. If it were a wine, I would describe it thus: pale and a bit cloudy. The bouquet has faded with a light scent of dried rose petals and ripe, aged Asiago. In the flavors there is a little tinge of acid, the tannins are all gone, the fruit is fleeting, and the finish is swift.

Hopefully, my friend's will be as well. For his sake.

It had been raining, and the streets were damp and saturated. It reminded me of Ireland, of a hopeless and miserable Dublin after a night of drinking too much Guinness and too little sleep. Cold, dank, unredeemable.

I was near my friend's wine store and hadn’t eaten all day (it was 2 p.m.), so I stopped in to get a sandwich, and ended up working the floor.

The store was crowded, and Sinatra was crooning over the speakers. A young man came up to me and asked me about the Italian Club. I gave him the requisite information and encouraged him to stop in at one of the Wednesday wine tastings they are starting to do. Then he reached out his hand to shake mine. My hand was bleeding from a boxcutter that had slipped when I was arranging some wine case stacks. I didn't even know I had cut myself. All in a day's work, even if it is a Saturday. Or a Sunday. Grab some tape, cover the cut and back to arranging bottles and straightening shelf-talkers.

In the past, we didn’t need an Italian Club. We had the Family. On Sundays like today, my family would spend the day together, eating, drinking, carousing at the beach or in a vineyard somewhere, in Sicily, Dallas, Los Angeles.

My dad and his dad would hang out together. My son is in Vegas, working. My dad and his dad are gone. It’s Sunday again, and I’m sitting in my room writing about something that doesn’t exist anymore.

My dad and his dad were in business together, for a while. I don’t think my father liked that too much. Probably my grandfather wasn’t too clued in on his son’s aspirations. I think my dad probably wanted to be some kind of artist, maybe an actor. He certainly ended up in the right place for it, Los Angeles in the 1930’s. The golden age of American cinema. But my dad cobbled, and my grandfather acquired real estate, and the ship sailed on. E la nave’ va.

Once, when my grandfather had made a pile of money, he loaded his young family up and sailed back to Palermo for a while. He was now an American, and while he was going back to Italy for a while, he could never stay there indefinitely. He had crossed over into the American dream. He was making it big. In the picture he wasn’t more than 24 years old, but the opportunities that he had reached for paid off early. My son is now 30 years old. I wonder if the opportunities for his generation will ever afford him a chance for a good life. It doesn’t seem as bright now. Warmer, yes. Brighter, no.

When my mom and dad were married in 1936, they took their Ford roadster up the California coast. They were building the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. My parents were 21 years old, hopeful for happiness in their future and their children’s future. For their honeymoon, they tooled up Coast Highway 1 into a world we can only dream about now.

The Great Depression was receding, and war was a few years off. It was a moment to enjoy all that the possibility of life had to offer.

On those Sundays leading up to those years, they would spend sun-drenched days at the beach with their Wise Guy uncles and their Hollywood girlfriends. They were “A” listing through life, the Golden Age of the American Dream.
Cigarettes didn’t cause cancer, yet. Diseases were being conquered. The atom was being harnessed. Seat belts weren’t necessary. Front doors needn’t be locked. Out in the San Fernando Valley and Escondido and Cucamonga, the family would picnic in the vineyards. Note the happy faces and the glasses of wine.
My dad with some of the many women in his family. His Aunt Mary, his sister (my aunt) Mary, Josie and Cuccia, Tootsie and Anna, and Rosemary and on. So pristine in the simplicity of their happiness. Wine, women and song. And food, what great food. Local, fresh, not microwaved, not from a can. California, the Golden State in a golden age.
My mom and dad, with riding boots. Chances are, Dad made them. How much my son looks like him. I now am the age my father was when I wondered what it would be like to be his age. I think I might be happier at this age than he was, but his youth sure looked good from this vantage point. And my mom, the classic Italian beauty. She’s almost 93 and still pretty fired-up about life and living. Thank God she’s in good shape. My friend in the hospital, what I wouldn’t give for him to have been that fortunate, too.
My Aunt Josephine, on the right in the picture, next to her brother Felice and his East Texas bride, Reba. And my dad and mom. A night out on the town. Was it in Dallas? Or Hollywood? They look out at me from this picture as if to say, “Bring us your best bottle of Italian wine, and come sit down with us and enjoy your family.” If only I could, Uncle Phil. My mom and my Aunt Jo are both in their 90’s now, both in pretty good health. Still driving. But not in the rain.

My dad’s sister, Aunt Mary, called me today. She was checking in with me. Her husband passed away a few years ago. Her son-in-law died a little over a year ago. Last summer one of her grandsons had an accident in the ocean, and he too is gone. So she called to see if I was still here, still around.

Yes, Aunt Mary. Many of them are gone but we are still here, those of us on the edges of the photographs. Still ticking and kicking. Still dreaming and still looking for a way to make all this work out. I miss our Family Sundays. And so I sit here and put down these thoughts for the internets to hold, for another place and time and people. It was a great time, and the memories feed the heart and the soul, on Sundays, when the family is spread out far.

My Two Sisters, Nebbiolo & Sangiovese

The waves have pounded the shores this week, they have been felt by our family this week and we have been reminded of the fragility of life and how things can change, forever, in a moment.

In a conversation with an agronomist from Greve, she mentioned how some of the major grapes of Italy were related, at least by their DNA. That led me to thinking about my two sisters, Nebbiolo and Sangiovese.

Nebbiolo was the first born to the family. She was the first great hope of the family. Her way is to do rather than to be. From my very first encounters with her, she was not one that was easy to get to know. Part of it has to do with her mystery. She conceals herself from family members, preferring to work in the background, helping but not taking the bows. Not that she couldn’t. Her talent is that of a renaissance artisan. All the while she presents herself as this delicate and slightly difficult grape-being.

I don’t know where she really came from, she doesn’t appear to look like much of the family. Not that she isn’t, it’s just that she came from the recesses of nature, to appear like this apparition of greatness.

She has aged well but not without the changes many of us have witnessed in the past 40 or so years. She has been many things to many people. She has mothered many a Barbera and a Dolcetto, sheltered a Grignolino and a Freisa, and welcomed a Moscato and an Arneis. Her children and her grandchildren have multiplied and many have prospered. Some have languished and some have strayed, but the tenacity of her nature has safeguarded the nobility and grace of her domain. Misunderstood at times, loved and then not loved, and then taken on new love, my sister Nebbiolo has had an interesting life in that last 60 or so years. But she is not over, in fact her strength and her wisdom is more needed on the scene now than ever before. So we won’t be replanting the vineyards with Merlot or Pinot Noir. Not now. Not ever. She is an original, there is only one place to be found where she will prosper and reach her potential. She is not an easy one to get to know, but hers is greatness at the highest mark on the castle wall.

My second sister, Sangiovese, is another story. She is a bit more fiery and conflicted at this time. Her realm is in a bit of a crisis in these days, partially due to the success of her popularity, no doubt from her youthful energy and her giving nature. But she has been misused and misdirected and now the realm is in need of readjustment.
Not that she isn’t up for the challenge. The energy of sister Sangiovese is one of a great well of endurance. Sangiovese can bear much, trapped in fine French wood and blended in with other creatures not normally akin to her original nature. She might be more at home with Nero d’Avola or Aglianico, but Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon have scaled the walls of her domain. Syrah has made attempts too.

Her children, Colorino and Canaiolo, are as different as night and day, one being mellow and easygoing, the other a tropical storm of emotion and inner conflict. Sometimes they blend well together, but lately they are not seen as much. Sister Sangiovese really needs a strong match to temper her fiery nature, something to hold up to her, to challenge her. Part of Sangiovese’s confusion is to where she resides best for her inner growth. She will be planted in the hillsides at the higher elevations and will thrive, and then she will be moved to the seaside and be challenged to complete her destiny in a new place with new challenges. And then she will be sent out to the arid, almost desert, climes of Tuscany, only to find she has to struggle and be beautiful there too. Sangiovese is the preferred grape of the new ruling class but she is a school girl who wants to run in the fields with her hair loose and her feet unshod.

Sangiovese has one true love, and that is Tuscany. She really only has known that one love and it appears that has been good for Italy. I hope it has been good for her too.

To my two sisters, I salute you and love you and hope your every expression of grace and greatness will be achieved in history.

Calabria: The Legacy of Local

”What was it like?” I remember my aunt asking me later, about walking into the village where her mother was born. Old Calabria, a little village clinging to a hillside like a vine that wrapped itself around a sycamore tree and hung on through time and the elements.

Right now I am sitting in a room at midnight and it’s 85 degrees F. It’s the middle of June and we have at least 3 months of this inferno to go. We’re in a drought, the wind is blowing from the west, range fires crop up and clear cotton fields, threaten livestock. We’re living in a harsh environment and that’s before you take into account the social aspect that we’ve found ourselves in. What was it like?

I can only imagine what they were thinking 100 years ago, when where they were, in Calabria, looked as inviting as that West Texas dust storm raging on the plains. Devastating earthquake, utter breakdown in civilization, a civilization that had been established in the 6th Century B.C. Desperation, hope,a clean slate, away, just far,far away.

The train took us from Brindisi to Cosenza and we followed Merlin back in time, the pine tree forest through the mountains over the hill. Back to grandmothers house. It was the harvest season, September, in a year that would be remembered, by some, as a better than average harvest. 1977.


Cosenza was as it might have been 30 years before. Ten years later a taste of the outside would plant itself in that sleepy little southern town. For now, all we had was a name, Bucita. Somewhere in the hills we would find our cousins and uncles and aunts. And the legacy of their love of the land, and the grape.

Walking into the village, an overwhelming balm infused the air. Ripe figs, roasting inside their leaves in stone ovens. Honey, bay leaf, chestnut-like complex aromas. Unforgettable.

An older man on a donkey approaches us. Yes he thinks he knows who we are looking for. This man, Giuseppe takes me to his house where his wife Teodalinda is standing on a stone floor. My grandfather put that floor in. In his wine cellar Giuseppe would later initiate me into a world where wine held secrets and mysteries inside bottles and barrels. He was a winemaker and the harvest was in full swing.

On the same train, another cousin, Luigi, traveled home. We followed Giuseppe and our interpreter, Antonio (Tony), to a small ancient home. On the table, with a demijohn of red wine and some fresh cookies, and the figs, were pictures of my parents on their wedding day. Connection.

We were just in time, the family needed hands in the fields, a storm front was threatening the harvest. Grape harvest reports supplanted the soccer games on the local TV, people were more interested in the price of Greco or Gaglioppo than Rossi or Zaccarelli. Time was contracting.
The elements here dominate the environment, the sun, the rain, lightning, thunder. Earth, alive and moving. Here comes the sun. Luigi, finding some of his vines have been washed away, clears out a creek bed for water flow. After two nights of Olympian pyrotechnics, the people of the land were given back the hill. Like goats we swarmed the vineyards, competing with the bees for the nectar. His wine vats await the harvest.

Another cousin, Giovanni, has been in his olive groves, they seem to have survived. Tonight his wife Elvira, will be making home made pasta, casalinga, and eggplant, melanzane I segreti della nonna.

Sitting in Giovanni’s home with Luigi and Tony, Elvira and Francesco the weaver, drinking Giovanni’s excellent wine. Below us in the basement is Giuseppe’s wine room, the hum of thousands of crushed grapes fermenting. Teodalinda’s wine flushed face as she posed for a photograph with her husband and a glass of their wine, the ever ringing bells reminding one of the presence of time even in a place like Bucita. They are all gone now.

What remains is the offspring of those days, a life devoted to the legacy of the winemakers met in those early autumn days in southern Italy, in Old Calabria. Since then I have studied wine in books and passed exams certifying me in some realm of wine specialization. But never were those books, even those vaulted chateaus in France, ever as influential and meaningful as spending long evenings in a room lit by a bare bulb with the elders, drinking their wine and talking into the early hours of the morning.

What was it like? In Bucita we found our people close to their land, eating the food they grew, drinking the wine they made, fresh air, clean, pure, sweet water. Their legacy of local. Individuals, charitable people, people whose lives hadn’t been too easy, but souls still able to give and keep on giving. My mother’s people, for so long a mystery to us, to find them was an amazing gift. To be with them and in their daily life was an experience I will never forget.

My destiny was being weaved in that place.