April 16, 2011.
The almost twilight grayness of this April day whose light and warmth were lost to the last gasp of winter’s offensive. A strong cold cutting northwest wind challenges the right of spring to set new growth in motion, to keep one’s hat on one’s head, it even has the ability to commit a crow to horizontal flight upon spreading its wings, regardless of the crows intentions, and to its utter dismay.
I decided to make a “wine run” by walking to my favorite spirits emporium in spite of this wind…or maybe because of it. As I moved away from pondering the crow’s open field dilemma, I became witness to silent political debates raging in this small Wisconsin town, raging silently on car windows and bumpers, with everything from plastic fish outlines to not-so-subtle threats of violence, words on paper glued to the surfaces of cars and pick-ups. The world debate in sound bite mode…again.
A college student, choosing to face this weather in the hooded sweatshirt, shorts and flip-flops, the traditional garb of this subculture, nearly blue form the cold as my mind raced through time having witnessed what was once neat become cool, then hip, then groovy, then trippy, then organic, then radical, and eventually back to the simple fact that I just don’t care; a condition my therapist assures me is caused by my not giving a damn.
Then there’s this guy with this sign, “For Sale – by owner”…he started building his house, his dream house, himself after he got a job at the paper mill…but he lost his job when the paper mill closed and lost his wife when the paper mill closed so he’s selling his house that he built himself by himself because the paper mill closed.
Suddenly the wind gusts harshly, animating the at one time peaceful litter. Once lying there, decomposing to its own beat now stirred to action. A plastic bag offers an awe inspiring display of aerobatic daring until snagged by a low hanging fate. Not too far from this bag is another that tried to fly, mercilessly entangled in shrubbery. And there, another…drowned…weighted down by contents it tried to fly but could only slide across the surface and into a watery fate, facing a murky death in this black sea known as that huge mud puddle next to Thomson Hall. Still, it did not forsake its mission: to contain.
As I emerge on the other side from cutting through campus, the wind has eased as it considers its next assault. There is no more vegetation to speak of from here to my final destination. It is only strip malls, parking lots, a four lane highway and side road from here on. This is the most trying time of this journey for me as I am exposed to the general public, not just college students who don’t really care. Now I have to pretend that I’m not an alien life force, but an entity…just like everyone else…nothing to see here, folks, just a guy making a wine run.
From my past experiences I knew that once there, I wouldn’t have far to go. Sure enough, I was right again. But would I find what I was looking for?
I only had a zillion wines from which to choose...from all over the place. The wine sections include Italy, France, Germany, Hungary, Argentina, Chili...this is going to go on for a while...anyway, there is also a row (like one of those in the photo) dedicated to Wisconsin wines: http://www.wiswine.com/
As my culinary influence was first Chinese, then heavily French, now alternating with Italian, I didn’t pay much attention to anything called a fruit wine unless the fruit was a grape. It wasn’t because I was trippin’, but because of my earlier exposure to stuff like Boone’s Farm Apple wine, and the like, which was little more than Kool-Aid with grain alcohol…well, how did you think I came to look like this? Anyway, those experiences caused me to prejudge these wines, because I’m an idiot. The latest trend in cuisine that I’ve taken to is recipes based on local, seasonal ingredients and one thing this area is known for is berries, cherries, and orchards. I’m working on a Chicken dish with a sauce featuring pistachios and dried Door County cherries…this too is going to go on for a while…
Anyway, I made my selections:
A nice mascoto d'asti from Italy:
http://www.cupcakevineyard.com/Cupcake%20Vineyards,%20Moscato%20d'Asti
And a blueberry wine from Three Lakes WI (pronouonced "WWWI"):
http://www.cranberrywine.com/blueberrywine.html
I rigged up and began the return trip. The plastic bags were still there, so were the bumper stickers, but the crow was gone…probably somewhere near Chicago by now.
When I got home, I was blown into my house and the storm door slammed behind me by the wind, as if to say, “…and stay there!” which was okay by me because I wasn’t planning on going anywhere tonight anyway. I unpacked my wine from my uncle’s WWII radio bag…a bag that saw action in the Battle of the Bulge I might add (…well, I guess I just did). No, I’m not going anywhere tonight. Tonight is going to be just the three of us; the constant stranger, my guitar, and a glass or two of blueberry wine.
Then, with a few flicks to a corresponding number of switches, my studio comes to life. When I am strapped in, I can create “worlds” in here. Once in sync with my guitar and fueled by a glass of wine, I will cut my soul open and spill its contents into the sonic stillness of this night, disturbing that perfectly balanced silence to let out a primal scream that will stir my ancestors.
It would have been my dad’s birthday today.
I always felt that he loved me, but I always thought he saw me as, well, nuts…well, uh, yeah okay I guess…with everything being relative…yeah okay, I‘ll go with that. But when I’d come home from college, and go out to catch up with friends that also came home for whatever holiday it was, I would return to find him reading my Socrates, Aristotle, etc. He really wanted to see first hand what these famous people were actually saying. He wanted to be engaged in these debates…he wanted to be a student, damn it, I know he did. And I knew if he had kept this up he would have been as batty as I am by the end of the next war.
So goofy or not, I’m in the studio. If I hit upon a nice riff, and it goes on long and smooth, I will pour a little more wine and raise my glass toward the ceiling, which here has to serve as the heavens, and say “For you, Dad…happy birthday! I love you.”
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