Baby Bacchus

California is and has always been a premier wine region. The warm and temperate climate and sandy, loamy soils are perfect for grapes to ripen for viticulture. However, there is one step that MUST happen for grapes to become wine. They must be picked, boxed and carried to the wine press. This is an integral step. In our small pocket vineyard on Sandridge Road, near Placerville, this integral step was short-circuited by our, then 2 year old Daniel.

We had about twenty vines of admittedly non-wine appropriate Thompson Seedless and Concord grapes. Situated right below the house, the vines we mature and bore well; in full flower they formed long, leafy avenues of shade and VERY good picking and eating. Probably more times than I can remember but one day that I particularly do remember the following scenario was played out by our son.

Probably coming back to reality from busy chores or attending to Cece and infant Rebecca, Katie realized that Daniel had disappeared from her radar. Together we searched the house with no luck and with panic rising. It was a long toddle down the driveway to Sandridge Road but not un-doable to the sturdy little boy. Our closer neighbors the Handys had several horses and it was hoped (feared?) that he had crawled or wormed under or over the wire fence to see these. Visions of dire results flooded my mind. I checked the garage (one of his favorite haunts) and all around the house under the second floor deck. Nothing!!! Gazing out to the lower six acres and the (treacherous) murky pond, did not bring a little figure into view. Panic was rising. We both were incessantly calling out his name.

With the intent of searching the long corn rows of our garden, I started out across the drive calling his name when my progress was arrested with a shout and whistle from Kate. Looking over she smilingly beckoned me in the direction of the vineyard, right below the house. Running over, the sight that met my eyes was one of hilarious and profound relief. There sitting on the ground in rubber-encased, diapered splendor was our little dark-haired boy. His little tank top was streaked with juice stains and his mouth was CRAMMED full of grapes, so full he could not speak. His chubby little fists were likewise full of semi-squashed grapes, obviously the intended for the next feast. He looked up at us intently with his large brown eyes seemingly inquiring what the problem was, why all the noise and dismay? He was having the time of his life there, among the leafy green vines, having his own grape festival for all the world like a miniature version of Bacchus. I do not doubt that the Roman God of wine and viticulture was smiling down at his dutiful little disciple.