My Hat's Off to You Yet Again, Mr. Doyle

I am in the midst of Brian Doyle's great book of stories, "The Grail: A year ambling & shambling through an Oregon vineyard in pursuit of the best pinot noir wine in the whole wild world," and of course I am loving every page of it. Here is one chapter/essay/story/excursion of mind called Humming:

June. On my way to a town three towns past Dundee I stop by the vineyard and wander for a moment through the old pinot noir block, trying to sketch the new leaves in my notebook, trying to guess which canes Jesse will want to train where next year, keeping a weather eye out for hawks, and wondering if the easy breeze sifting through the vines is indeed between five and ten miles an hour like it is supposed to be.

I am supposed to give a talk in the town three towns away, but whenever I am supposed to give a talk I end up just telling stories, because I have no particular wisdom or expertise or lesson to convey, and am loathe to lecture and suspicious of sermon, and I am only a storyman anyway, absorbed by and agape at stories all the time, so I just tell stories, which is what we all are anyways, walking collections of stories, and as I amble through the fluttering rows I get to thinking of all the stories I have been told amid these vines, wet stories and dreamy stories and dusty stories, plant stories and animal stories and people stories, and for a minute I wonder if all those stories soaked not only into me but into the vines and dirt here, so that the dirt is a little deeper and redder than it used to be, having been watered with words, and this thought makes me smile because it reminds me of my sister who is a Buddhist nun who says, We tread only on the rim of things and hardly ever see how much more vast and infinite is the Gift, and her wise words remind me of my boy Billy Blake the great mad poet who says, If the doors of perception were cleansed we would see everything as it is, Infinite, and as I am chewing on this remark I come to the end of the row and notice a big hawk looming over the young chardonnay block, which makes me happy for murky reasons.

On my way back uphill to my car I remember what Jesse told me once, that each vine produces enough grapes to make about three-fourths of a bottle of wine, and I chew on the idea that three-fourths of a bottle of excellent wine is probably just the right amount necessary for two or three people to start telling stories fast and furious, so that each of the vines I pass is pregnant with stories, some of which were never born into the world before, and this idea makes me happy also, so by the time I get to the town where I am supposed to give a talk I am cheerful as a chipmunk, and start right in telling funny stories, and after a few minutes I notice an older woman with tired eyes laughing fit to bust, and I think to myself, you know, today I didn’t totally screw up like I usually do, today I brought some light to tired eyes, and I drive home humming.