Chapter 20 Land Sharks and the Wrong Bull
Land Sharks and the Wrong Bull
Otis and his team didn’t pick one grape the previous harvest. All he’d done was tend to the wines already in bottle.
He continued to take care of his body and mind while also repairing some of the relationships he’d let fall to the wayside, including that of Paul, Sparrow, and Carmine.
He still put most of his effort into his family.
The boys were headbanging to Nirvana and Folkwhore.
They even got Otis to thrash his head up and down on occasion.
Otis figured Kurt Cobain would make a heck of a winegrower.
Meanwhile, Rebecca was going through a tough time and exhibited a tremendous lack of patience, which didn’t bode well for anyone in near proximity, especially Otis Till.
For once, though, she wasn’t worried about him.
It was Jed, who was using again. Mike, who still faced his struggles.
Cam, who would soon fly the coop for CU Boulder.
Her parents, who were ... well, her parents.
With her impatience, her troubles with sleep, and her glum demeanor, Otis had to be the strong one.
Otis and Rebecca engaged a lawyer from San Francisco.
It was a long few months of back-and-forth.
They kept requesting that it all be delayed, as Otis and Rebecca wanted to focus on family.
Inspired by Otis’s early departure to San Francisco before college, Cam had asked to go to Colorado early so that he could get to know the surroundings.
Everyone knew what that meant: He wanted to rock climb, find all the good fishing spots, and check out the girls before the semester began.
At least there was no Woodstock to attend.
Otis didn’t want to say it out loud, but he suspected Cam would never make it to his second semester.
His extracurriculars paired with his good looks might prove to be his undoing.
By spring, Lloyd started pushing harder, and the reality of what might happen began to settle.
On the day of their departure to Boulder, all of them crammed into the station wagon with Cam’s trunk and outdoor equipment, their lawyer called.
“He’s got too much money. He’ll keep going and going until you relent.
As much as I like your money, I don’t want to take all of it.
It’s our advice that you accept the offer and wash your hands of the whole thing. ”
Otis hung up the phone and let the news settle.
He’d decide later. What mattered most was Cam right now.
They drove up as a family and spent two weeks in Boulder.
Otis and the boys fly-fished. Bec did the spa thing.
The four of them hiked and shared meals, and Otis knew that this mattered so much more than what could become of the ranch.
Still, the idea of losing what they’d built hurt, and he didn’t want to go out without a fight.
“You’re doing what?” Scooter asked. “Otis, you’re the pro, but it’s early. Late July? Earliest I’ve ever heard of in the valley.”
“For sure. I’m talking the reds too.”
Scooter removed his hat, showing off his bald head. “You’re the boss.”
It felt right in Otis’s bones. Not only because he wanted to shove a big cedar stake up Lloyd’s tight bum, but because it was the right time to pick this year.
It had been unbearably hot. The grapes were behaving like stubborn jerks, an insult as Otis took it, as he’d given them a year off.
Now they seemed to feel as if they didn’t need to work at all.
Why couldn’t he pick grapes in July? Because no one else did it?
Otis couldn’t handle the homogeny taking over the wines in the valley.
Everyone was trying to make the same thing, grocery store wine that tasted no different from the one next to it.
If Otis were to pinpoint the culprit, it would be the critics who had decided that they had the final say in what was worthy of being consumed in America.
Robert Parker had a lot to do with it. Even Parker would admit that his scoring system had become too powerful.
Nearly every critic used the number system to define a wine, and countless winemakers did what they could to cater to the most powerful critics’ palates, making the wines bigger, bolder, and darker, with more alcohol and less acidity.
Otis could only judge so much, as he had sent his fair share of wines in to be scored, and he’d even manipulated a few along the way to make sure he’d get high scores for the year.
Now, though, as he entered this new phase of life, as he stepped deeper into the relationship with his vines, he saw the truth in new ways.
No longer could he sacrifice his art for fame and fortune.
Could art be defined by a number anyway? Could any art be objectified in such a way?
The answer was a giant fucking No .
Also, who said Robert Parker had the right palate?
When he put a high number on a wine—and he had with Otis’s on occasion—it just meant that he, one person, liked it.
The wines that typically claimed the high scores were the over-extracted beasts that stood out in a lineup.
If Parker sat down to taste through one hundred wines, which ones would he remember?
Naturally, the ditzy blondes with the giant knockers and hourglass hips.
Those kinds of wines that screamed at you.
Not the subtle intellectual efforts that made you seek them out, made you cuddle up next to them and get to know them, made you ask questions.
Forget what was supposed to be good. Forget a high score.
Otis wanted to make something different.
It had been the hottest year in the valley that he’d ever known, and these grapes would make a fine wine.
Sure, they might pucker up a mouth or two, but it wouldn’t be like drinking lemon juice.
It would be like biting into a blackberry that wasn’t quite ripe.
This would be a year to make sessionable wines, low-alcohol beauties that had an acidic cut to them.
Perhaps more than all this, Otis wanted to show himself and others that wine wasn’t life or death. Yes, they were making art, but they had to stop taking it so seriously. Wasn’t that exactly what Carmine had said?
For Lloyd and the critics and Otis’s sons, who needed to know that you didn’t have to follow the rules, and for Otis himself, he said, “Let’s pick it all this week. Get ready for an interesting year.”
Scooter rested his hat back on top of his head. “You know they’ll never let you live this down, right?”
“Scooter, if you ever again find me making wines while worrying about what others think, hit me over the head with a rake.”
“Aye, aye, boss.” Scooter broke into a smile that showed a flicker of the metal in the back of his mouth.
An hour later, Scooter’s team was out there plucking grapes that seemed slightly angry about leaving their mama vines so soon. Otis was right there with the fellas, a basket around his neck, shears in his hand.
As the sun poked through the clouds, Otis tromped to the end of a row and dumped his basket of grapes into a half-full bin.
Had the grapes been human, they’d scream, We’re not ready!
However, Otis would offer fatherly assurance with: Trust your papa, my children.
Besides, I’m the one with the opposable thumbs.
“What’s going on?” came Bec’s voice as she strode down a row barefooted.
This early pick was an ask-forgiveness-later situation, and he knew he was in trouble. Had he a tail, it would have curled up under him.
“It’s picking time,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Late July?” Not counting the year prior, they typically picked in early October, so she was rightfully surprised. “They’re barely purple; you’re too early.”
Otis held up a finger. “Early on what scale? You know, Bec, we always follow those that came before us. We make wines that we’re familiar with. Not this year. I think the fruit’s ready. Brix are a little low, but—”
“What are the Brix, Otis?”
“Around sixteen.”
“So you’re making ver jus ?” She was jokingly referring to “green juice,” an early-picked, unfermented product that had a milder bite than vinegar and did wonders for salad dressings.
“No, it’s far too ripe for ver jus , though I admire your humor. Veraison started. Who defines drinkable anyway? No one owns that definition. Besides, I want to finish early. Let’s wrap this thing up and go on a trip. Nothing like Barolo this time of year.”
She sighed. “I know what you’re doing, Otis. I know you better than anyone. It’s obvious.”
“What’s obvious?”
“Don’t play dumb. This is you hitting Lloyd’s bow with a torpedo.”
Otis couldn’t stop himself from smirking. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Don’t mess with him.”
He raised his hands defensively. “I’m trying something new. Let’s have a year of tart wines. They’ll age forever. You wait till you taste the juice ... loaded with flavor. These guys who stick to the rules, always waiting until the fall, they’re going to have a bad year.”
Bec peered up the hillside to the other pickers. “I’m not going to fight you over it, but I know that Lloyd won’t take this well. This is nothing more than a protest, and you and I both know it.”
“Other than making something interesting, I suppose it’s also a way to play my hand.
I’ll admit that. He needs to see he can’t push me around.
If he’d like, he can sell to us and we go on doing what we do.
” Otis raised a finger. “ Or , he can sit back and watch me pick in July—if I pick at all. He can watch our bottom line dwindle.”
“That’s your play?”
“That’s all we got, Bec.”
Far more important than the wines, Mike acquired a girlfriend. Or perhaps she acquired him. Sure, they were young and weren’t likely getting married, but the glow in Mike’s eyes was so welcome in the Till household. Or Chateau Till, as Otis had started calling it.