Going Our Own Way (S) | part 3 of 3

You know how when you meet someone and you immediately bristle with dislike? The very next morning after our Ireland return, greatly jetlagged yet fresh-faced, we would drive out to meet the person potentially interested in selling us some land, Old Wise All. At that time, he would be our only chance because from all the ground Scott had identified as prime for our venture, he was the only landowner who would show any interest in letting some go. Scott would have the vineyard fever in him, and somehow it would feel like we had crossed a now-or-never threshold. Whatever it took.

Of course our budget would determine just how far we could go. And Old Wise All would be privy to the numbers; his interest in our budget and Scott’s willingness to hand it over land (physically) unseen, man unmet, would put me on high alert towards the whole deal from the get go: why would someone just interested in selling land want to know our entire budget for the endeavor? And why would Scott hand that over to a stranger?

What happens when someone knows your budget is that someone knows your financial sweet spot, knows where you might draw the line, knows where you will not. Old Wise All may have known our numbers, but first we would have to find water; that’s what the sale would be predicated on, digging a well on the adjoining 160 also owned by Old Wise All. No water, no deal. We would take that risk. Suddenly bare wheat ground—Old Wise All’s included—would have water rights on our dime. And in what our banker would later refer to as a “deal a father would only make with his son,” the land sale would take place. With Old Wise All carrying the note, and us with a senior water-use position, suddenly the project would begin picking up speed. Wouldn’t we all be thrilled.

Except me. Call it female intuition, call it my undying pessism rearing its head, call it my advanced linguistic training and the insight into communication it has provided me, call it events happening way too quickly than what I would have liked. Call it what you will, but something would not sit right with me, with Old Wise All, with the venture, and as time unraveled my feelings, with Scott.

Believe what “they” say: if it feels too good to be true, it most likely is. Consider: a land deal like one a father would only make with his son. A welcome reception into house and home with inclusions in family holiday gatherings. Shared meals and dinners out. Introductions to Old Wise All’s city folk friends. A joint business, separate from our vineyard, which would greatly ease the financial burden of our own plans. And above all, help and assistance from someone who would know the land, the farming, and would have the willingness to lend a hand. Whatever it took.

Scott would be elated to have Old Wise All as a friend and project confidant. Even I at martini moments would feel thankful for his help, and would tell him. “True blue” Scott would think. At times I would be able to put aside my personal dislike momentarily, my feelings of distrust, because I honestly knew what he meant to Scott, what he meant to The Grande Dalles, and  we would plan how we would honor Old Wise All one day: maybe naming a road up our hill after him, at the minimum a yearly celebratory Old Wise All Day. Yet far outside of any martini blurs, I wouldn’t be able to see past the cracks, let the slips in speech go, that later—in (well documented) behaviour that would even be surprising to me, and greatly distressing to Scott—would disclose another truth. The psychological and emotional toll would become enormous on me, and later, on the both of us. It would take almost two years before the whole thing would unravel.

Before that time, though, apart (and away) from Old Wise All, I really would have great belief in our endeavor. The hard work and excitement of working the land, laying out the vineyard, even at times hoeing those ridiculous weeds, would keep my spirits and energy up; the wide open ground and infinite sky, the quiet pierced in the early morning by the meadow lark’s warbled song, would lift my heart as we toiled alone on our hillside. Yet slowly all that would come to be replaced: by anger, by resentment, and by fear.

It wouldn’t be so much a fear of failing, but of losing track of who I was during this endeavor—of having to put my own dreams on hold while we undertook Scott’s. Of getting sucked into what felt like to me was a 1950s farming community where the gals sat in the kitchen and the men were out working. Fear of our association with Old Wise All who I would always believe to be a liability. And fear that my voice would go unheard as I expressed my feelings to Scott. For the farm would keep marching on, and I would be told to deal with it. So I would bail mentally and physically. It wouldn’t be fun anymore, and I’d lose the nerve and stamina to endure. Oh, it would be terribly tense in our home for months. And poor Scott would be left farming on his own. Luckily, Big Fish would come along and set in motion the events that would cause the great divide from Old Wise All (and someone else we’ll Don Fagiano (Mr. Pheasant)) and my return to the project.

So much would be waiting to happen, and so many characters we’d encounter. I guess that’s to expect if you’re going to go your own way and try to carve out your own path on unfamiliar ground, like us. To make a go of a vineyard surrounded by a sea of wheat and old-time wheat farm families, to try and build our own lighthouse in that roiling ocean of wine and keep our heads above the throes of those trying to pull us under, or along with them. But that’s exactly what we would be doing: going our own way. All of us. Even the dog. If we just knew where he was.

Keeping my forehead to the glass, I soon saw Scott outside gesturing with the baggage handlers, red-faced younger men, sweating in Germany’s hazy October sun. We hadn’t  flown Dublin-USA direct because a major German airline was the only airline that allowed a pet in cabin on transatlantic flights, and that one, Georgina, the cat, was already unceremoniously tucked under the seat in front of me. I didn’t want to have to put her through another cargo flight, since the previous one, on our trip from the USA to Ireland via Great Britain one-and-one-half years earlier, had been rather taxing for both of us, and with its own story, complete with an emergency plane-landing on the plains of Montana with flashing rescue vehicles. So, it was the dog’s turn, Jack’s, the stray we had found in Ireland, living in our backyard out in the countryside, all skin and bones, wonky back broken leg flailing around. After a whole bunch of tears (never underestimate the power of a woman and her crying), we had had his leg fixed and we were hauling him home. Our Jack. Where was our Jack now?

While I watched, one of the baggage handlers laughed and slapped Scott on the back, pointing at the same time up into the plane’s belly. Next thing I know, he’s leading Scott up the conveyor belt where they both disappear from my view, only to reemerge what seemed like hours later, Scott waving a “Thanks” to those big-bellied fellas in their blue suits as he headed back toward the rear of the plane and the stairs we had entered on.

“He’s there, in another crate,”

he told me, as he slid back into his seat.

“How?…”

“I have no idea. I really couldn’t understand what they were saying.”

So, our Jack was safe, but it didn’t matter – I was a nervous wreck. There was still a 14-hour flight to go before we reached Portland, Oregon, then we had to find the little house I had rented for us, sight unseen from the Internet (later known as The Hunchy House) and then less than 12 hours later, the very next morning after we hopefully ALL arrived safely, we would have to wash the jetlag out of our eyes, freshen up our little faces, and pull ourselves together for the meeting with the wheat farmer in The Dalles who we hoped would sell us his family’s land for our winery and vineyard. Going our own way, at least for me, wasn’t going to be easy. And looking back, that airplane window was like my little crystal ball, the uncertainty and anxiety I had just witnessed with Jack seemed like a glimpse into what was to come. As the plane taxied out to the runway, I watched the familiar ground begin to fade. We were heading into the wild blue yonder, the great unknown. And as we did, the cat began to wail.