A Christmas Wine Story
Howdy Wine Lovers. Glad to see you. I figure it might be time for a Christmas Wine Story. It takes me back about twenty years. The story goes like this.
Out on the Sunny Slope – what folks today call the Snake River Valley Wine Region – there was a wine maker named Francis. Francis was a great vintner. He made all kinds of wines – whites, reds, sweet, dry, crisp, and spicy, port style, you name it, and he and his wife were known far and wide for their exceptional wines. Unfortunately, it had been a bad couple of years. Even the best fruit growers can’t control the weather. Two solid years of late frosts in the spring and early frosts in the fall, as well as deep freezes in the winter had done severe damage to his beautiful vines. Without wine to sell at market he would have to sell the land to some out of state outfit that wanted to turn the land into dairy feed lot. Now there’s nothing wrong with cows or milk, but poor Francis hated the idea of those beautiful vines being torn out and used for firewood. They had produced so beautifully, and he would miss the beauty of the fruit hanging in the fall. He could almost hear them getting sweeter. His wife, June, said, “Francis, you are the best damn fruit grower and wine maker in the state. Everyone loves your wine, and the kids (interpreted as adults) will dearly miss your Rieslings and Cabernets at Christmas dinner and in their stockings.” (Every good Christmas story has kids that will go without).
Praying for Santa
Francis said, ” Well, Juney,” That’s what he called her. “Juney, I’m not giving up yet. Perhaps Santa is a wine lover too, and he’ll bring us a Christmas miracle.” When your vines are frozen to the ground, that’s about all you’ve got. But June was the one with the twinkle in her eye. So that night when Francis went to bed, after his prayers and brushing his teeth. June sneaked out of bed and got on the internet. Over the years they had build such a following that their email list was huge; well over ten thousand names. So June sat down to writing. And in that email she described the dilemma, and how Francis was about to give up and sell off to the Dairy, and how poor Francis was too proud to ask for help from all the people he had met over the years. When it was done, June sneaked back in to bed and went to sleep.
The next day was Christmas Eve. Francis sat by the fire with his trusty wine dog, Luke. and looked out the window at the dead grapes that never made it to maturity on his frozen vines. He was so distraught about what to do, he didn’t even want to open a bottle of his favorite simple Merlot. Luke whimpered to see his friend so sad. “Well Juney, it looks as though we’re going to have to sell. I don’t see any other way around it. The grapes are dead, the wine cellar is pretty much empty. Hec, this here Merlot is our last bottle.”
“Don’t worry dear. We’ve been in tougher scrapes than this. Remember the fungus of ‘89?, or the year you got that strange yeast that was so violent it blew up a couple of your tanks?”
“Yeah, those were some tough times, but nothing like this,” Francis said, giving Luke a scratch behind the ears. “Well I guess we’ll see what tomorrow brings. I’m headed for bed, you comin’?”
“Yeah, I suppose.” Juney said with a sigh. So Juney and Francis went to bed. Yes, they had done all the regular Chistmas stuff, like put up a tree and decorated it, and the house like they always do, but it just wasn’t the same; knowing that there was little hope of anything changing their circumstances. That night Francis dreamed he was a tiny man walking on the edge of a huge wine bottle. His foot slipped and in he went. He struggled to get to the edge of the wine, but there was only smooth glass there and no way to escape. The wine began to swirl and drain out from under him. Round and round he went screaming to the bottom of the bottle.
“Francis! Francis! Come and see! Come and see!” June screamed. He leapt out of bed on to the cold floor, bolted over to the frosted window and threw up the sash. In the long driveway that ran out to the main road was a line of cars that stretched all the way from Lowell to Beet Road. And in the front yard of the tasting room sat a huge pile of boxes. Wine boxes! Francis ran down to the door, and threw it open, not caring he was still in pajamas. The Parking lot was full of people and their children all carrying a box or bottle or two.
Franics was dumbstruck. “What the..”
Santa moves in mysterious ways!
“Merry Christmas Francis!” His old pal and frequent visitor George said with a wave. (That’s me) “A little bird told me you might need a hand this year, so I gathered up all the bottles I had bought from you and was saving for special occasions. Uh, turns out there are a lot fewer special occasions than I needed wine for. So, I thought I’d return these bottles. No need for a refund, mind you, I lost my receipt anyway. I just thought I should give a little back, seeing as how you’ve brought me and my guests so much joy over the years.”
Francis turned to June and with a tear in his eye said, “Santa moves in mysterious ways”
Over the next few hours all the people who had visited over the years brought bottles by the one’s and two’s and few brought a hole case. And by the end of the day, Francis and June had enough wine to make up for their lost harvests of the previous years. People brought food and more wine and shared with all the visitors, and Francis and June lived on making great wine and sharing it with all the people who stopped by, on the weekends from 12 to 5.
And that spring all the vines grew back and produced some of the finest grapes the valley had ever seen.
Cheers and Good Cheer, and to all a good night.
Merry Christmas, George.
