Young Writers Society

“When I was young I used to believe that the world was open. Open to ideas and to concepts never before thought up. I used to have the misconception that the world was a decent place where one could live according to his wants, wishes, and expectations. I expected a lot of this world. I expected it to allow me to reach my highest highs, soar through the years in a strong willful gust. I lived by the principal of only the best will do. Only the best house, the best job, the best wife, the best car, the best children.

“Through this mind set I led myself into the deepest holes and the darkest corners. I fought for everything, my business, my wife, my children. I wanted to be the most powerful man in the world. Wishful thinking, I know.

“I had this aspiration as a child to leap over any and all obstacles that were bold enough to stand en el camino, as the Spanish say. I wanted it all. And now look, I sold my billion dollar company, I sold my restaurants, I sold my cars, my houses, my timeshares, my stocks. I am an eighty year old man who sold his life for a vineyard. With my money locked away, I have discovered a new life. A life filled with living rather than the daily hassles Americans are predisposed to.

“The fluctuations of the New York Stock Exchange no longer ring in my ear and haunt my dreams. The terrors of the daily news cannot broadcast where there is no TV. Politics no longer interest me as they once had. I sold it all for a quiet life on a vineyard—my only company being Paco, and his family of seven who live and work here.

“I have stopped being concerned with the outside world. Ha ha. That is strange to say, the OUTSIDE world, as if I am on the INSIDE of a burning hell—a retreat from the exterior of society. Inside this retreat is a dirt road, leading to an old Spanish Villa with the doors poorly hinged to allow the house talk through infinitesimal squeaks. Along this three mile road on either side, there are grapes. These vines cover the hills of Santa Cruz with such delicacy, gently riding atop the slopes in a brilliant wave of green foliage and purple fruit. Past the house and the vines are more hills and more vines. The water from the rain drips to a small pond in the center of my retreat. Past the pond is the acropolis and it holds a structure worth praise. It is my winery where the grapes are crushed, fermented, barreled, bottled, and sold. I make my life here—I make my wine.

“The vines must proud; they bear the most coveted fruit in the world. They have been harvested for hundreds of years; and yet, somehow the vines aren’t proud. I have never seen or heard a vine gloat. I have never seen two rows of vines fight and compete against each other. They live in harmony—we are the gloaters. And we are the proud. But, I cannot think of a reason why we have the right to be so. We did not create the vines. We did not create the dirt. All we have done is harvest the fruit of which the vines give us, and yet we are proud. We are proud of our miniscule degree of knowledge and understanding of this world. In the time I have been alive the internet has been born, cell phones have become a necessity, cars now fly the streets at 200 mph, and hydrogen has replaced gasoline as the major source of fuel. All of these advancements in technology have estranged our society from its true nature; we see concrete as beautiful instead of flora. We see metal framework as stunning rather than Giant Red Woods. From the year you were born to now, 2072, the world has turned into a dark place.

“I tell you, that I have failed you as a father. I have failed you miserably.

“I told you that the world is in the palm of your hand, you just have to squeeze to get the juice. Now I tell you that happiness and fulfillment are not achieved through the juice you squeeze or the effort given. Happiness is only achieved through being content with the empty glass you have. Before I owned this winery, I squeezed and pressed the citizens of America for every last dollar, I cheated people. I forced them into unfair contracts and used blackmail quiet often. How I wish I was like the vine Claire, how I wish.

“Now as I see your brother who is far too indulged with his own life that he has forgotten how to be a human being. I see myself in him. It scares me to think he will work through his years trying to wrap his hand around the circumference of life just to get a small bit of sour juice. He doesn’t realize that he is traveling down the same road as I traveled years ago. He does not realize that I was lucky, I stopped. Most people don’t. Claire, he is going to kill himself trying to attain happiness, happiness he thought I had.

“I put a façade out there; it was nothing but as mask. Your mother and I did not have the perfect life that he thinks we had. We were troubled and we hid it from him because he was much younger but you knew the truth. You knew that we had more problems than normal, I don’t know how you knew but you did. I remember you were always a perceptive child. From the first day you spoke I knew that you were extraordinary. I remember it clearly because it made me cry for days. Your first words were, “Hate you”. Your mother and I were arguing in the next room about something futile, but it seemed justifiable at the time and you pushed the door ajar and stared. You look right through me and when your mother came to pick you up you said in the softest voice with such dexterity, “Hate you.” Your words pierced our hearts and it was because of you that we stayed together. A 13 month old child held together a marriage for 49 years and only then to be parted by death.

“You grew up in a home that was full of resentment and frustration. It was unfair to you and your brother, to see anger that profuse in a relationship. We thought by staying together we were helping you, giving you a proper chance at the American Dream. An ideal that continues to eluded the poorest and wealthiest families in America.”

But this story goes much deeper than a rocky marriage. The layers that compose this story, the depths of emotions, and the root of my motives are all so complex that this story may seem exaggerated. But I assure you there is no exaggeration needed when talking of my past—our past. I suppose my story began in high school. Did I ever tell you that Sarah—your mother—was my High School Sweetheart?”

“Of course dad…” She chuckled through her tears, wiping them with a fresh tissue.

“There are secrets, issues that your mother and I never spoke of past your birth. I love you Claire.”

She didn’t speak—her eyes reflected concern rather than anger or resentment.

“I am growing old, my memory is questionable but I will tell you the truths, the secrets, and the lies.”