The Woods Winery Adventure:
It’s not often that I am without a story to tell. It is more often that I withhold a story
because it seems to lack purpose beyond entertainment. The story on my mind tonight is exactly that
story. It’s one I have told a few times with
over animated arm motions and twisted facial expressions in pursuit of a laugh.
It serves no purpose. It has no plot, no villain, no conflict, and no
hero.
Before I disappoint you with this story I must clear this
up. I do not know the dog’s name but I choose
to call him Rugby. He was a short dog with spots. He was a beagle type dog
which adds no real value to the story. I
do know the name of the winery but I choose not to call it by name. I will call
it The Woods Winery. It is my understanding
that among those in the Texas wine community The Woods Winery has a reputation of
providing a quality product and has received recognition in many product categories. And lastly, it’s a story. I no longer consume or promote the drinking
of alcohol but I do not criticize those who do. At the time of this adventure I
had romanticized the swirling of wine in cheap stemware at a sidewalk beach town
bistro on a Sunday afternoon amongst the locals. If at that time I had had a Facebook I likely
would have checked in with a creative one liner promoting the one-dimensional value
that converted a fifteen-minute outing into a click-like worthy lifestyle.
Once upon a time in the pursuit of adventure and lack of
time restrictions we were steaming down the highway of East Texas. Pine trees were thick and tall along the two-lane
state highway. The sun was bright
through the cracked windshield of the 1995 motorhome. My fuzzy little dog, Liberty Anne laid cozy
on the dash in the sun as the motorhome rattled slowly up the long hills. We had driven this road many times prior to
this day and many times since but we had never stopped at the winery. For whatever reason on this day we decided to
turn the 32-foot motorhome from the highway onto a dirt path. Understand that before deciding to detour from
the main road the driver should know there will be a place to turn around or be
prepared to back slowly out of the narrow path that you have since determined not
to be passable in forward.
The dirt path curved sharply to the left before crossing a
railroad track packed with black asphalt.
Just beyond the tracks in a yard of knee deep Bahia grass was a wooden
banner that read “The Woods Winery”.
Behind the sign and to the right was a doublewide trailer that appeared
to be a residence. Beyond the sign and
to the left was a small tin building and an old yellow railroad car. We had arrived at the tasting room we had set
out to enjoy. There was not a parking lot or even a defined
parking area so we turned the motorhome into the tall grass hopeful we were
going to be able to maneuver a turnaround.
Let me pause here and say this. If there had been a sign at the beginning of
this dirt path indicating a garage sale we probably would have kept going. However, if I had followed sale signage to
this house and building configuration I probably would not have stopped to shop. I am not saying it is right but sometimes I exercise
my right to bypass a yard littered with treasures of others if certain
conditions are present or if they have an excessive number of cats.
The option to bypass in this case was hindered by the
location and the vehicle we were driving.
You simply do not sneak out of someone’s driveway in a rattling old
motorhome. Other considerations: the
boys, shook awake from the railroad crossing, were piled up in the windshield
anxious to see the winery and Rugby had made a verbal announcement of our existence
and now Liberty Anne was standing boldly like a hood ornament on the dash. We had three choices. We could stop to enjoy the tasting room and
tour the facilities, awkwardly turn the coach around pretending we were not
seen, or continue the dirt path across a cattle guard passing a hand painted
sign that read “beyond here be banjos”.
I turned to that guy I live with and said, “we are not
buying anything here.”
He put the motorhome in park and turned off the ignition as
the boys piled out the side door. The
resident vintner seemed shocked to see us move enthusiastically toward the ramp
that led in the box car. Let’s call her
Peggy. She was not in charge of guest
relations and tourism. She looked like I
look when you walk up in my yard when I am on my knees pulling weeds from the
lantana flower beds. She had a small
amount of sweat on her forehead that she wiped away with the back of her wrist
as I do when my hands are soiled. Her hair was hanging around her face which
was smiling and questioning yet welcoming.
Peggy was not preened to receive company but without much conversation
she eagerly invited us into the box car.
She made a couple of excuses for the condition of the yard and some
visibly incomplete projects that we passed as we walked.
The inside of the box car had potential and I could see her
vision. She quickly read the room and
invited the boys for a root beer which she had on tap. She pulled out two stemmed glasses with The
Woods Winery logo etched on the side and glanced around for the bottle to pour
from. As she poured the first glass she
mentioned the category of wine, the awards and accomplishments they had
received, and availability of this variety in Texas. It was a citrus wine. Because I am not a winery connoisseur and I refuse
to google the right terminology for this story I will only describe it as
sweet. It had a hint of orange favor
like the ice that remains after you have finished a Fanta Orange Soda. I liked it.
She pulled another bottle out and repeated the steps as she poured. We were being won over by the pride she had in
her products. She stood behind the bar
across from us and in contrast to the first moments in her yard, she proudly showed
her wares.
She spoke confidently educated as she asked if we would like
to see the work area. I am by this time
on the third ‘taste’ and agreed that I would indeed like to see the
process. She led us out the end of the
box car as if we were jumping from railcar to railcar of a New York City
Subway. We entered the tin building and an open area without obvious purpose
before she shuffled us out the sliding tin doors and into another building. It was there we met her husband and business
partner. We will call him Buddy.
As I said before I am not a wine connoisseur. I am just gathering facts that I can tweak
slightly toward humor so that I can at any given opportunity steal the
metaphoric microphone and make the crowd roll in laughter.
There was Buddy. He
was sitting on a white 5-gallon bucket with his elbows on his knees. It was hot and he too had beaded sweat on his
forehead. In his right hand he had a
paring knife and in his left, he had a peach.
Peggy, in the background was making introductions and explaining the
large stainless-steel vat in this building.
She noted the origin of the peaches and then gave a skinny explanation
of the process of fermentation.
Periodically Buddy tossed the peach from his left hand into the vat and
reached into a heap around his ankles to grab another.
Again, let me stop here for a sidebar. I know that traditionally the process of
making wine has been pictorially represented with Lucy and Ethel stomping
around a circular trough with their dresses pulled up, the fruit squishing
between their toes, and Lucy distorting her face in disgust. Also, I have read that the germs of the toes are
beneficial to the process of fruit fermentation and that any pathogen on the
human foot is not able to survive the winemaking process. Other than staining the stomper’s toenails
this is a completely sanitary practice. It’s
because I know this that I find it hard to poetically describe and retell this
portion of the story. I simply cannot
say it any other way. Buddy was
barefoot. His dirty toes were buried
below bushels and bushels of overripe Texas grown peaches. The peach juice seeped into puddles like
sweat around his feet and splashed as he shuffled his feet and wiggled his toes. It was too much. Peggy talked but I failed to hear anything
that she said. I saw toes that walked
unprotected in the sand to the mailbox earlier in the day. I saw toes that stood in the bathroom only
inches from the toilet periodically. I saw
toes that sweated in leather steal toe boots and tube socks while pushing a
lawn mower or stomping a shovel into the dirt.
I glanced down to see Buddy’s toes next to Rugby’s toes all in the same
pile of peaches. All I saw were toes but
the tour continued.
Buddy continued his task as Peggy and Rugby led us back to
the tin building to explain the corking station. I refocused to see that each bottle was
corked individually. One bottle at a
time was put in place and using a lever the wet cork was pushed into the bottle
to form the necessary seal. This is a
slow process but I appreciated the amount of time the vintner had to inspect
each bottle just before it was placed into a crate for distribution or
storage. It was at this point that
Rugby, standing at eye level with the corking plunger, was a part of the
process. As Peggy placed a labeled
bottle of sparkling citrus wine onto the target and pulled the lever, the cork
squeezed into the neck of the bottle expelling just the slightest amount of
liquid. It rolled down the long bottle
neck like a tear until wiped away by the spotted dog’s waiting tongue.
Winemaking is a lengthy process. It takes a commitment to the process that not
everyone can appreciate. That is why we climbed back into that motorhome and
plowed back down that dirt path with two bottles labeled The Woods Winery both licked
by Rugby the bottle high vintner.
