Growing into Greatness

My father is a complicated man.

I raise a long-stemmed wineglass in my right hand, giving it another swirl. The glass’s contents match the downward spiral of my thoughts, as they beg me to ignore the task delivered to me by my mother three days ago, the one that demands I let go of the lifelong dream I’ve held for my future. I shift my gaze and instead focus on the moment. Just the wine and me.

Sunlight filters through the gossamer curtains billowing in the afternoon breeze. I rest my elbow on the desk, mesmerized by the space where the light meets the curve of the glass. The deep burgundy liquid comes to life, lingering against the bowl for a moment before descending back toward the stem.

The color is rich. I bring the rim to my lips and the scent of my latest experiment wafts up to greet me. A small sip sets my tastebuds on high alert and I can’t help but smile with satisfaction. The constant fussing and worrying have paid off. Not to mention the midnight harvest that Tino’s father, an accomplished winemaker and my landlord, suggested was one step too far.

I take another sip, savoring the Pinot Noir as it pirouettes across my tongue. Even Mr. Parisi had to agree when I offered him a sample this morning.

“Sofia,” he told me once I caught up with him in the vineyard. “You were right. This is the best one yet. Perhaps there is something to your moonlight escapade.”

He wriggled his eyebrows in jest and I knew I had made him proud. This man, who gave me a home and a bucket full of hope when none existed. To this day, I cannot look at him without missing Tino, the boy who loved the vines as much as I do.

I push the blank sheet of paper aside. The task my mother insisted I do, writing a speech for the upcoming grand opening—the weight of it drops like a stone to sit heavy on my heart.

Complicated, doesn’t even tell the half of it.

A sigh summoned from the deepest part of my soul rushes up from my lungs in a race to beat the demoralizing thoughts that are sure to accompany it.

I tug the flyer from beneath a stack of books resting on the corner of my desk. Doing my best to maintain my composure, I shrug off the awareness that the flyer’s buried location might be an unconscious attempt to ignore the truth that is soon to become my reality. My eyes slide over the Russo Family Vineyard logo and, without fail, the word family hits me like a punch to my stomach.

I’ve been kidding myself for years. Forty of them to be exact, though I imagine I can subtract the first five years of my life when I lived blissfully unaware of all that I was to be cut out of. My brother’s name, Alonso Russo, is printed in a bold script that seems to point a finger, mocking my hope that I could have ever believed I would become the future of the vineyard.

I stand abruptly, wooden chair screeching against the old floorboards of my cottage and begin to pace. Women are supposed to be supportive only, certainly not leaders in an industry dominated by male mindsets. My fury is fueled by the practice of old European lineage that promotes the continuation of male heirs, at least where my father is concerned.

As a child, being first born, albeit by minutes rather than years, I foolishly waved the flag of oldest sibling over my twin brother’s head whenever the opportunity presented itself. Sadly, in the end, it is his gender and not his age, that has bested me, stealing my dreams and any hope of reconciliation with my father.

I walk circles around the quaint-sized living room, the swish of polyester from my orange pedal pushers accompanies every stride. My oversized desk and Nonno’s battered but sturdy steamer trunk have been the only pieces of furniture filling the space since I moved in fifteen years ago. With little need to entertain the infrequent visitors I receive, I positioned the desk in front of the window so the Parisi Vineyard is never far from sight. The old trunk, though less hospitable than a sofa, serves as an extra seat with its robust structure and flat lid. Countless hours have been spent in this room, reading, planning, sipping, and dreaming. All of it for naught now, it seems.

A bubble of frustration bursts out of me. I plunk the wineglass on the desk, my heavy hand eliciting a thud as glass connects with wood. Examining the flyer, I continue to pace as I scan the details, my gaze getting stuck on the section that upends my future with only a handful of words.

Alonso Russo invites you to the Grand Opening of the new Russo Family Vineyard tasting room!

Now in its third generation, Russo Wines is proud to be one of Napa Valley’s premiere wineries.

Join us as we celebrate wine, family, and tradition.

Fury burns behind my eyes, sprouting renewed contempt for a father who has nurtured this outcome. I crumple the flyer into a tight ball and toss it in the bin beside the desk, giving it what for with a look spiked with daggers.

Even if I wanted to, I can’t blame Al. If there was ever a person who wanted to hand over a vineyard in its entirety, it is my brother. He never asked for the ready-made, back-breaking, forever on the verge of collapse, vineyard. In all of his actions, he has quietly declined the role of winemaker for as long as I can remember. His passion lies elsewhere.

“Oh Al.” The words emerge as a sigh. “If only we could switch places, then our worlds would be set straight.”

Can Papa even see how both of his children are living lives they do not desire? I find it easy to think of him as Papa when my childhood memories rise to the top of my mind, our past overshadowing the strain of the relationship existing between us now.

I can’t imagine a future where my brother’s lack of interest in running the family business will result in its success. My decision is a difficult one but simple, nonetheless. In order to cause no more harm, no more arguments, no more discord, and save what remains of my relationship with my father, I must concede the vineyard, and in-turn, Al must step up.

Defeat smells rotten as I slump into the desk’s chair. My nose crinkles with displeasure at the task before me. I never intend to cause friction in my family and yet the vibration of discord seems to line the very fabric of connection we hold with one another.

Nonno’s stoic and frequently spoken reminder bounces through my mind. Whenever a disagreement reared its head, whether it was over whose turn it was to wash dishes or dry or something far more impactful, like who will be the next in line as Russo vintner, his words were always the same. La famiglia è tutto. Family is everything.

I bend at the waist, heeding his wisdom, and pull the flyer from the bin. Unfurling its edges, I press it flat against the desk’s hard surface and stare at it. A small picture of the vineyard, tucked into the flyer’s upper right corner, catches my eye. In an instant, the photograph takes me back to one hot summer day when I was young enough to still play with dolls.

The memory is vivid, and I swear I can feel the hard porch beneath my bottom. Playing on the front porch steps, as was usual, I would straddle the divide between sun and shade and with it the vastly different worlds of Mama’s household chores and Papa’s glorious field of grapes.

My eyes squinted against the sun when I saw him striding toward the house, his broad frame convincing me he was capable of anything and to his little girl that meant everything. A smile stretched across his lips when he spotted me. I was eager to ask him something, but Mama’s voice, calling from the direction of the road where she had been retrieving the mail, changed the course of that moment, that day, perhaps, even the rest of our lives.

Waving her arm overhead, letter fluttering above her brunette curls, she broke into a run to meet him before he reached me at the porch steps.

“It’s here!” Mama shouted, an eruption of excitement lifting her voice.

Wrapping her up, Papa lifted her off her feet and spun in circles. Mama’s left shoe sailed off her foot, landing with a soft thud on the dusty ground as they celebrated something, at the time, I couldn’t understand.

“Open it.” Mama encouraged him as he put her down and retrieved the shoe for her.

Papa’s thick finger sliced through the envelope’s flap like a hot knife through butter. With Mama wedged tight beside him, he unfolded the piece of paper and began to read out loud. I can’t recall how far he read, or even what the letter said. The only thing I remember is feeling as though a dark, thunderous cloud had suddenly blocked out the summer sun. Even then, at the age of six, I had a feeling the sun wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

Mama’s hand flew to her mouth while Papa’s strong shoulders folded in on him. That was the day Papa learned his wine would not be saved by a sacramental wine permit. I learned years later the permit had already been approved by the Bureau of Prohibition, a feat in itself in 1926, given the many vineyards clamoring for the financial salvation the permit provided. Yet, the problem was with the church and its leader who Papa had arranged to manage the duties of production and distribution, as they had become embroiled in an investigation by Prohibition authorities. Nearly three million gallons of wine labeled for sacramental use had already been seized.

Papa had been assured of his good standing by both the federal government and the church, but his already bottled and cellared Zinfandel was, with the arrival of that fated letter, worth far less than the glass bottles the wine rested in. Years of his hard work, dedication, and persistence became contraband in the blink of an eye.

Yes, defeat is a nasty business.

All those years ago, the joy of being a winemaker became a noose around Papa’s neck.

My focus is tugged back to the blank sheet in front of me. “Surely, I can come up with something about perseverance and hard work.” I mutter to myself as I pull my chair closer to the desk, serious about getting on with the dreaded task. I have never argued against Papa’s work ethic. In that way, we are alike and that has to be worth something, if only to write a speech that makes him proud.

An hour later, I toss the pen across the desk and whirl out of my chair, almost toppling it in the process. Save for the scribble of ink to ensure my pen’s usability, the page that is to hold what my mother suggested be “poetic” and “inspiring” words to highlight my father’s lifetime as a vintner, remains blank.

“Proud. Who am I kidding?” The scoff leaves my lips as the pen finally comes to a standstill after a final spin on the far corner of the desk. Though I would love nothing more than to feel Papa’s pride in me once more, I can’t hide from the fact that I haven’t felt the genuine shine of his adoration of me in decades. Running my fingers through my hair, I tug at the roots, needing something, anything, to shock me from this merry-go-round of disappointment. I catch a glimpse of the afternoon sun as it dips lower, casting a fresh slice of shade over the vines while reminding me the clock is ticking.

Tomorrow begins another week and like every week of the year, my vines require my attention before heading into the office at nine. Each morning I walk my small plot of land, grateful for the gift of three-quarters of an acre for my use, from Tino’s father. The deal I struck with Mr. Parisi began out of necessity—mine, not his—but, has transformed into a friendship I hadn’t known I was missing until it bloomed.

I give him my time on weekends and holidays, working his land and with his grapes, wherever he needs a helping hand. In exchange, I reside in what was originally the winemaker’s cottage at a reduced rent with access to the land beyond the cottage’s window to plant my own vines. Along with equipment, supplies, and the occasional pep talk over dinner with Tino’s parents, I’ve gained more than I could ever offer in return.

A quick glance at the stack of wine reference books resting on top of my desk reminds me the weekend is coming to a close and I have yet to crack open a single one. The books, research for the Wine Library project scheduled to open in the St. Helena Public Library next year, slotted in under my job description when I showed a keen interest in the project. Having little time to read between my secretarial and meeting minute-taking duties while at the Napa Valley Vintner offices, I have been lugging books home every weekend for months, determined not to be the reason for a delay with the project. Knowing my input is valued by a few in the organization keeps me returning week after week despite some of the less than stimulating tasks associated with the job.

I can even tolerate the dismissive looks, being called “little lady,” and the occasional inquiry as to why I have yet to snag myself a husband, when surrounded by those who dominate the business of winemaking. To them, I’m a lowly secretary. The wheels of equality for women may turn slowly in the big world of wine, but at least I can say I am in the room, paying attention, embracing innovative ideas, and helping to shape the industry from the inside out.

I hold my glass up and examine the Pinot Noir in the new hue of late afternoon. “It’s lovely,” I whisper to nobody.

The crunch of his shoes on the gravel announces his arrival ahead of the knock on the door. I am within reach of the door’s handle, but since he is the only one to seek me out here, I take a sip of wine and call out, “It’s open.”