Love Sonnet

Orson Welles pitching Paul Masson wine

“We’ll Sell No Wine”

“We’ll sell no wine before its time,” we’re told.
The fat and famous spokesman made it clear,
Each vintage has its period of gold.
(You must assess the pressing and the year.)

So, likewise, for each vintage comes a time
The point past which there’s no return at all.
Decay and oxidation work their crime,
And turn your sweetest nectar into gall.

So come, my dear, what are we waiting for?
Our cellar holds a few more bottles still.
Pick one and brush away the dust before
Time turns its contents back to must — time will.
Cast off our caution and our clothes and pour,
And drink with joy until we’ve had our fill.


Notes:  The news lately has been filled with dreadful reports:  mass shootings in Las Vegas, bombings in far-away lands, vile behavior by the powerful of Hollywood.

Because I know that mankind is fallen, I have no confidence in “human nature.”  But my innate positive outlook this week has been shaken.

When the week began, I learned that the son of a friend and former colleague had been one of the wounded in the Las Vegas mass shooting.  He had been a law enforcement officer for over 20 years and had never been shot, nor shot anyone in the line of duty.

And then he was shot in the neck and shoulder while he was attending a country music concert.

Thankfully, he survived and is on the mend today, and should be okay.

Then, the news about the Hollywood sexual abuse scandal broke.  My Facebook feed has been filled not only lurid stories of the rich and famous, but heartbreaking firsthand accounts from women I know who have suffered in silence from heinous actions of abusers.

The sheer amount of #me too is overwhelming.

Evil is real and more common than we want to admit.

One particularly poignant series of posts has made me reassess my own hometown experience.

I’ve written glowingly about my childhood and my hometown and my education.

As I have processed the new information, I must admit that — depending on where you stood — my hometown could have been more Twin Peaks than Mayberry RFD.

There was stuff going on back there that I had no idea about.

So, in the face of horror and dread, I will resort to a place of solace and peace.

I will celebrate love, and marriage, and monogamy.

I will seek to find meaning and comfort in order and rhyme and meter.

When the society and the culture seems to be disintegrating, I will look to the good examples I have in my life and celebrate faithfulness and honor and love.

I really don’t know what else to do.

Historical note:

I’m old enough to remember when Orson Welles became a television pitchman for a sort-of-good American wine.

Welles had been the genius who panicked the nation in 1938 with his faux-documentary radio broadcast, “War of the Worlds.” In 1941, he directed and starred in “Citizen Kane,” considered to be among the best — if not the best film of all time.

By the late 1970s, Welles was making commercials. His Paul Masson spots are still classics.

“We will sell no wine before its time,” was a magnificent slogan.

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23andMe Haiku

Jan on her triathalon day

So the gene results
are in. Your ancestors did
rape and pillage mine.


NOTES:  At my house, we recently took advantage of the Amazon Prime sale to buy a couple of genetic testing kits.

When the results came back, they pretty much confirmed what we thought we knew about our ethnic backgrounds. My wife is pretty much pure Scandinavian Viking.  Which makes sense, because she can trace her line back a couple of generations to when the Norwegians came to this country.  (There was that scandalous mixed marriage between a Norwegian and a Swede, a couple of steps back. But that was just a slight detour.)

She manifests the Viking traditions of loving the ocean, and attacking physical challenges like a berserker.  (The photo above is from her foray into triathlon competition a few years ago.)

I’m pretty much mostly British, with a little German and French thrown in.  (Think Hobbit.)  Which is pretty normal due to the various influxes of Normans and Anglo-Saxons to the British Isles.

Because we knew my wife was descended from Vikings, we had long joked about her ancestors invading my ancestors’ homeland.  And sure enough, there is a tiny percentage in my genetic report that shows up “Scandinavian.”

As I’ve told her all along.  “Your ancestors raped and pillaged mine.”

As our friend Tom, who was born in Norway, says, “Of course, the Vikings made many romantic adventures to England.”

Romantic to him, maybe.