that they treated women differently, but no differently than the way men treat women in every other role.
They had their final blowout – the big fight over her future endeavors with the Isle of Lewis pieces – when she was seventeen. It was an October day, and they waited around for the first fruit to come in, itching impatiently, static electricity in the air. Harvest was weeks late and impending poor weather loomed in the minds of everyone deeply dependent on weather and seasons. Clarence was in a rare state of anxiety. Syd goaded her uncle into a conversation about the virtues of harvesting based on pH and the phenolic sweet point relatively independent of Brix, or grape sugars. She had taken to reading all the back journals of the American Society of Enology and Viticulture and she craved some kind of discussion about harvest parameters. She hounded all of the local growers, begging to get her hands on clippers and discuss every aspect of vineyard management. But they grew tired of her questions and felt secretly threatened by her insatiable curiosity. In the end she made friends with the vineyard crews and slipped in the lineup of workers who pruned, hoed, and harvested fruit. She found that the pickers knew far more about the vines anyway. The view is always closer from the ground than from the seat of a tractor, or behind a desk.
Clarence stroked his beard while she prattled on about mid-season leaf stripping for pyrazine management. He tried to change the subject.
“Did you talk to the counselor about your trip to Harvard?” he asked.
Syd stopped mid-sentence and mumbled no .
“I thought he might be interested in helping you with your essay.”
“Actually, he said I should have at least five schools picked out,” she said. Clarence scowled at his knight on D3, pursing his lips. “I'm thinking about Harvard, Wesleyan, Cornell, WSU, and Davis.” She moved a pawn in a stupid but appeasing move, exposing her bishop. She wanted to stall the game, anyway.
Clarence looked up at her and glared with dark eyes. “Why Cornell, WSU or Davis?” he asked in low gravelly voice.
“You know why,” she said through gritted teeth. “They all have excellent Enology programs.”
“Well, I won’t pay for it,” he said. He moved his queen out, ready to take her bishop.
“I have my own money. From Mom.” She took his knight on D3 with her rook. Clarence scowled at the board.
“Not enough for an Ivy league school.” He shook his head angrily.
“I'll get loans, and my grades are good enough for scholarships,” she replied through a sigh, drumming her hands on the board in feigned concentration.
“What you’ll get is disappointment,” he roared. Syd sat up with mouth and eyes wide open. “Why not be a secretary? Or a stripper? Why not squander all your talent!” He pushed over the chessboard and stood up, knocking pieces on the ground. She stared at the man who never showed emotion while he paced in front of her. He held his hands on his head as if to keep his head from exploding. After a torturous moment he stopped pacing and jabbed a finger toward her. “ You are brilliant. You have so much to offer to the world. You can do whatever you put your mind to, Sydney. Very few people can say that. Your natural talents, your IQ, your privilege of living in North America, of being white, for God's sake! You have a great responsibility. And you want to squander it all and be like me! ”
He sat down in the chair opposite her again, his fury melting into disappointment. They sat in silence for an eternity. Clarence fumed as Sydney put the chessboard back together.
“What's wrong with wanting to do what you do? What Mom did?” she asked timidly, tears streaming down her face.
He threw up his hands. “What I do is meaningless, Sydney. Ultimately unimportant.”
“You’re an artist and you give people joy.”
“In the end I produce piss, Sydney. Any greatness attributed to wine is a function of
They had their final blowout – the big fight over her future endeavors with the Isle of Lewis pieces – when she was seventeen. It was an October day, and they waited around for the first fruit to come in, itching impatiently, static electricity in the air. Harvest was weeks late and impending poor weather loomed in the minds of everyone deeply dependent on weather and seasons. Clarence was in a rare state of anxiety. Syd goaded her uncle into a conversation about the virtues of harvesting based on pH and the phenolic sweet point relatively independent of Brix, or grape sugars. She had taken to reading all the back journals of the American Society of Enology and Viticulture and she craved some kind of discussion about harvest parameters. She hounded all of the local growers, begging to get her hands on clippers and discuss every aspect of vineyard management. But they grew tired of her questions and felt secretly threatened by her insatiable curiosity. In the end she made friends with the vineyard crews and slipped in the lineup of workers who pruned, hoed, and harvested fruit. She found that the pickers knew far more about the vines anyway. The view is always closer from the ground than from the seat of a tractor, or behind a desk.
Clarence stroked his beard while she prattled on about mid-season leaf stripping for pyrazine management. He tried to change the subject.
“Did you talk to the counselor about your trip to Harvard?” he asked.
Syd stopped mid-sentence and mumbled no .
“I thought he might be interested in helping you with your essay.”
“Actually, he said I should have at least five schools picked out,” she said. Clarence scowled at his knight on D3, pursing his lips. “I'm thinking about Harvard, Wesleyan, Cornell, WSU, and Davis.” She moved a pawn in a stupid but appeasing move, exposing her bishop. She wanted to stall the game, anyway.
Clarence looked up at her and glared with dark eyes. “Why Cornell, WSU or Davis?” he asked in low gravelly voice.
“You know why,” she said through gritted teeth. “They all have excellent Enology programs.”
“Well, I won’t pay for it,” he said. He moved his queen out, ready to take her bishop.
“I have my own money. From Mom.” She took his knight on D3 with her rook. Clarence scowled at the board.
“Not enough for an Ivy league school.” He shook his head angrily.
“I'll get loans, and my grades are good enough for scholarships,” she replied through a sigh, drumming her hands on the board in feigned concentration.
“What you’ll get is disappointment,” he roared. Syd sat up with mouth and eyes wide open. “Why not be a secretary? Or a stripper? Why not squander all your talent!” He pushed over the chessboard and stood up, knocking pieces on the ground. She stared at the man who never showed emotion while he paced in front of her. He held his hands on his head as if to keep his head from exploding. After a torturous moment he stopped pacing and jabbed a finger toward her. “ You are brilliant. You have so much to offer to the world. You can do whatever you put your mind to, Sydney. Very few people can say that. Your natural talents, your IQ, your privilege of living in North America, of being white, for God's sake! You have a great responsibility. And you want to squander it all and be like me! ”
He sat down in the chair opposite her again, his fury melting into disappointment. They sat in silence for an eternity. Clarence fumed as Sydney put the chessboard back together.
“What's wrong with wanting to do what you do? What Mom did?” she asked timidly, tears streaming down her face.
He threw up his hands. “What I do is meaningless, Sydney. Ultimately unimportant.”
“You’re an artist and you give people joy.”
“In the end I produce piss, Sydney. Any greatness attributed to wine is a function of
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