Mumm's The Word

I made it to the Mumm Winery out on the Napa Highway with 30 minutes to spare.  Brut Rose stands as my favorite in the sparkling wine category, and the Mumm label puts out a decently priced and 'florally' flavorful one which I've had a few times.  When I heard the vineyard was in this region and not too far from town, I was determined to at least pull into the driveway and snap a picture since I couldn't be there in time for the final 3PM tour of the day.  The drive, winding roads, sunny afternoon skies, and gloriously gorgeous terraced hills covered and dotted with grape vines from top to bottom and every conceivable space in between, was an experience in and of itself.  I couldn't keep a tally as to the number of estates which swept by.  So many styles of architecture; various sizes; simple and spectacular landscaping; textures of stucco and wood; diverse signs urging passers-by to stop for the day's tastings.  Just what one would expect of the Napa Valley.

My single glass of pink-tinged bubbly was every bit as refreshing as I'd hoped.  With the backdrop of foothills against the foreground of endless green waves of orderly vines, the location of the estate's tasting patio was sheer perfection as an oasis of rest and observation.  The umbrella-covered tables were small islands, each with their own small population of natives in the form of tourists and locals, all existing unto themselves even as their chatter joined the larger noise of the entire place.  One gentleman behind me was a bit too loud, a tad too smooth and smarmy, blathering on with too much effusiveness about his 13 years of marriage and 2 years of therapy and his vast experience which needed to be poured over the young couple at the table with him and his lady friend.  (The wife of 13 years is gone, having left him with just his vast experience.)  He lacked depth behind his words.  His airspace was filled with flat one-dimensional words which fell like stones on my innocent ears.  In order to impart meaning to his monotonous monologue, I began to take notes on him for later use.   The moment my pen hit the paper, he became fun.

Walking from my car to the courtyard upon first arriving, I scanned the horizon as I always do, searching for clouds and birds and anything of note in the expansive above and beyond.  A red-tailed hawk rode the air currents, supremely serene, drifting in and out of the line created by the meeting of blue sky with straw-colored hilltops.  He was unhurried (I have assigned a gender for the purposes of this blog).  Effortless in his motions.  His very presence seemed appropriate to the evolving languid theme of this California Friday afternoon.  It was of him that I thought as I sat in my chair, sipping tickly wine, beneath the umbrella which shaded me from the clear rays of a strong sun which was busy imparting its mellowness to crops of chardonnay and pinot noir.  More than any one thing in this day, I longed to be that suspended raptor.  To be less a being of the concrete-and-glass world and more a citizen of the wind. 

Hours and phone calls and half a grande iced soy caffe latte have passed.  The inner spring is unwinding.  Thoughts are coalescing.  The freedom to tie it all together with a common thread is upon me, and it's flippin' fantastic!  And now, here once more in 'my' corner of Starbuck's, I feel a momentary connection to the state of the hawk. 

I life my glass to such connections as those.  Here's to moments of the supremely serene, each and every one of us.