"Welcome to Vineland The Good," I heard them say


July 4th was not a good day.

I started work at a local winery (which shall remain nameless for confidentiality reasons) the day before. The managers knew that there would be a great demand during a county-wide Independence Day festival. Since they needed all hands on deck, they asked me if I could come in and fill in wherever there were gaps in personnel.

So I did, and I was immediately thrown into the maelstrom. I ran tastings almost nonstop from ten o'clock until about five or six, when the crowd began to taper off. There were live bands, a man named Paul who was marketing pasta sauces with his own self-styled "pasta tastings" next to the tasting room, and an unending flow of wine from our shelves to the picnic tables outside.

During that time, there were no pauses to stop and think or to consider what I was doing--namely, living the dream. The dream of finding a place in this world where a man can think, "This is what I was born to do." The dream of finding a place to stand alone. The dream of imagining yourself being in the same place when you've grown old--and being completely happy with that idea.

So the Fourth was not a good day.


Merely the best day.





(I'm still flying true.)