Page 103 of Before We Say Goodbye
They planned to keep the wine production small and to eventually go mailing-list only, but they wanted people to know that they could visit Red Mountain to taste the latest vintages. This was how a growing region was built, with an invitation for drinkers to come walk the land and see what they’d tasted in the bottle. One day there would be bed-and-breakfasts, dinner spots, performances, cultural celebrations. Rebecca and Otis would host their own events at the winery: harvest parties, concerts, book readings. For Otis, the definition ofterroircontinued to evolve. It wasn’t only about the climate and soil; it was composed of the people and the culture, the energy buzzing around.
A stunning and well-over-budget underground cellar accommodated their growing wine collection. Beyond a thick wooden door and down a set of stone steps, large columns propped up arched brick ceilings. Wall sconces and candles were the only source of light. Concrete shelves held thousands of bottles of wines from all over the world, dating back to the 1940s, including several special bottles of Burgundy that had been hidden behind false walls by winemakers who refused to let the Nazis take their wines from them.
In the climate-controlled barrel room, a fancy bottling machine took over one corner. A new forklift waited to move barrels and bins. For fun, they’d imported some clay amphorae, which were alternative fermenting and aging vessels that had been used in other parts of the world since ancient times.
The garage doors opened to the crush pad, where a new crusher/destemmer and fancy bladder press waited. He’d decided he’d buy some fruit from the older vineyards on Red Mountain this year, to test the equipment and begin to understand this new frontier.
With careful water management, their baby vines took root. Otis said it was the Puccini and Ravel he’d been playing for them in the mornings. The animals seemed happy too. Chickens were easy, but sheep could be finicky. They seemed to take to the new land and had grown extra wool to get through the more aggressive eastern Washington State winters. Though they let Rosco come inside on occasion, he spent most of his time out with the animals and seemed perfectly content.
Mike excelled in this new community and his new school, nearly claiming valedictorian senior year, an impressive feat despite it being a small-town school. Otis elicited countless eye rolls when he’d say, “Thank God he got his mother’s looks, but he did get my brains.”
Several schools offered Michael a full ride; he chose UW in Seattle. Otis and Rebecca would sit out on their new deck looking west and clink their glasses and agree that it had all worked out. They were grateful to have found a medicine that helped Michael get out of his own way. Sure, he still had some bumps, but that was life.
A few days after graduation, Otis and Mike were changing the oil in the new Kubota tractor, both covered in grease, when Mike said timidly, “I don’t know if I want to come back and farm, make wine.” He still wore black jeans and a white T-shirt, only these were his more raggedy ones. His arms finally had some muscle to them, and all the Washington sun had tanned his pale skin. What’s more, a certain confidence had sunk into him since moving.
Otis pulled his head up from the engine and wiped the grease off his fingers with a rag. An involuntary tightness twisted his insides, the leftovers of an overbearing father. “No?”
“I’ve been thinking about law school.”
Right then, Otis let go of his hopes of passing the torch to his sons, but he told himself it was okay. He would not be his father. “You’re telling me like you’re worried I’ll get mad at you.”
“I know you want someone to take this place over, to carry on the tradition. I wish that it was me, but I don’t feel the call.”
Otis took his arm. “Hey, you have to find your own destiny. If this isn’t it, so be it. Find your true north, son. That’s all that matters.”
It was the best gift Otis could have ever given his son, a far cry from the expectations Addison had held over him, and he knew bone deep that he’d done something good. As if getting confirmation from on high, the same coyote who’d been showing up appeared atop a rocky perch.
Otis pointed. “You see him, Mike? He’s part of the pack that howled with us that night we all howled together. He’s my good luck charm.”
Mike cracked a grin as they both looked to the curious desert dog. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
Otis turned to his son. “For better or worse. Don’t lose your connection to the magic out there, Mike. Whatever you do, open yourself up to the signs. Once you see them, you’ll find they’re enough to guide the way. Throughout your whole life. No matter where you go, what you do, find your coyote.”
“Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ll find it.”
He pulled him into a hug. “I know you will.”
Gifting Rebecca a break from her husband, Otis took his boys on a father-son trip to Germany, and they hit the sites of Munich, including a day trip to Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest, then shot up to Berlin to experience the amazing cultural renaissance that was washing away its ugly past. They’d ended the trip staying in Bernkastel-Kues on the Mosel River. He’d never taken the boys, and as they sat in a German beer hall over grand steins of pilsner, he reminded them to find their compasses and not to compromise.
Cam was taller than Otis and had grown his shaggy blond hair long. Having spent the last four years skiing and hiking in Boulder, hewas in the best shape of his life. He was currently waiting to hear about a job with the National Park Service.
Mike glowed when he spoke about his future in Seattle and figuring out law school. He’d always been the sheriff of the family, always stood up for what was right, and Otis knew he would one day make a great difference once he found a cause that struck his heart.
Then, just like that, Otis and Rebecca had an empty nest. You can prepare for it all you like, but you can’t know how it will feel until you’re in the thick of it.
Even though Mike wasn’t far away, his absence screamed into the quiet space of Rebecca’s and Otis’s lives. A few weeks after saying goodbye, Bec repeated something that she’d read: “By the time your kids leave for college, you will have spent 90 percent of your time with them.”
The idea crushed Otis, and he cried on and off for two days. It was hard not to think about all the times he’d left Cam and Mike to go sell wine, all the times he’d been absent in mind even when his body was present. He wished he could do it differently, that he could have learned his lessons earlier, but all he could do was promise that he would spend the rest of his life making up for it, living a life that would allow him to pursue his passion in a way that afforded him plenty of time for family and friends.
Of course, that was an easy promise to make before his new neighbors came to town.
Ninety-five was an exceptional vintage, nice and cool, making for grapes that weren’t ready to pick till well into October. Otis made wines from several tons of purchased fruit and also picked what he could from their virgin vines and made twenty cases of a fruity Beaujolais-style quaffer, for fun. He even bottled it before it had finished secondary, so that it had a bit ofpétillance. The new guard years later would tell himexcitedly that he was one of the first to make natural wine. He’d respond: “Natural wine was the original way, kids. Only in the last century did we muck up the tradition with our pesticides and insecticides and our homogeneous factory-farmed mentality.”
An early evening in November they cracked the first bottle of their sessionable field blend, the inaugural effort under the new label of Till Vineyards. The nights had turned chilly, and Bec and Otis both wore sweaters as they enjoyed the warmth of the falling sun on the back deck overlooking Mount Adams, that dominant beast of a peak that watched over this side of the world. A Stephen Stills solo record played on the turntable inside. Down below, Rosco chased the sheep, making them scatter. The baby vines had shed their leaves and started to move toward hibernation, preparing themselves for winter.
“You know, Bec, I suppose I might admit that life is not that bad.” He pulled out the cork and poured them each a glass. “How nice to have figured this thing out. We’re here. The vines are in the ground. The boys are taking over the world. You and me, we have a whole new journey ahead of us.”
Otis took in the woman who meant everything to him. She’d entered her mid-forties with all the grace in the world. A part of her was still that young hippie princess he’d met on the purple bus. Certainly the same warm eyes, though more wisdom shone through them now. Her jewelry was of a more sophisticated nature, as was her attire. She smelled of the rosemary mint soap she’d recently made from their sheep’s milk. Her curly hair was still the same sandy blond with golden hues.
