Daddy made his own wine every year. After it was made, it was kept in great barrels in our basement. Weekly, (and more frequently after Daddy retired!) my sisters or I would be sent two stories down to the garage of our house on Castro Street to draw a gallon of the red stuff. It was an "adult" responsibility we cherished.

Surprisingly, Daddy always seemed to come out even- that is- there was wine to last until it was time to start the process all over again, (even when we took my uncle in Watsonville a monthly gallon or two).

Winemaking started in October when the grape harvest reached San Francisco. The family would get into the old black Oldsmobile and drive down to Third and Townsend where the railroad freight cars were parked, row after row, filled with freshly harvested grapes. This trip always terrified me; we had a cousin who lost an arm working nights in the railroad yards while attending Boalt Hall at UC. I feared the freight cars would cut loose and crash into us.

My fears were ignored by my parents, and we , led by Daddy, walked the rows of cars as the purveyors of the grapes hawked their products from the wide-open doors of the cars. Daddy stopped frequently to sample and check price and quality. We could tell this was an important and awesome decision.

We girls did not partake of the free fruit. The grapes were small, dusty, full of pits, and had tough, bitter skins. I believe they were called "mission grapes".

Eventually, a bargain was struck between Daddy and one of the men and delivery was arranged.

A day or so later, a large truck loaded with wooden boxes of grapes arrived in our driveway. Behind the truck was a mechanical presser. The annual ritual was about to begin again.

The Annual Ritual

Daddy had prepared the barrels days before by burning long sticks of yellow sulpher in them. This was a time when I had to leave the wine-smelling basement because the sulphur guaranteed me an asthma attack.

However, on crushing day we were all enlisted to help.

We watched as the men on the truck emptied the boxes of grapes into the crusher. They came out a slush of grapes, and my old enameled baby bathtub was filled and emptied repeatedly into the waiting barrels ranged against the wall--- tops off.

Daddy and the men would enjoy a glass of last years' wine- discuss their hopes for this year, and the men would drive off to the next delivery.

The barrels of pulp were allowed to rest. I believe I remember that some sugar was added to aid in the fermentation. The pulp was time for "new wine!"

Punching It Down

Our job now was to "punch it down". This required standing on a platform high enough to be above the barrels, and punching the fermenting mass. All the way up to your elbows!

Later, when the aroma of fermenting grapes rose from the basement and permeated the three stories above, we would know that pressing day was approaching.

Daddy's wine making equipment consisted of three storage barrels with wooden spigots, three open topped barrels for fermenting, an oneology meter (I believe it was called), some huge funnels, my old enameled baby bath tub and the press.

Pressing

The press stood in the corner of the garage on a concrete platform which had been built by my father and Uncle Frank. Its body was formed of hinged wooden slats. In the center were a screw and a large weight. Stored somewhere behind the press was a serious metal rod which fit into holes in the weight and allowed the presser to turn the screw in increments.

New Wine

This was repeated about three times- by then the barrels were filled with new wine.

Because of the process, Daddy's wine usually had a lot of sediment as we got near the bottom of the barrel. It was always drunk as "bivanda"- that is, mixed with water, though Daddy said that "straight" it was a great grease-cutting agent. It also had a lot of tannin, and we kids never drank it. (That's my story, and I'm sticking to it ! ! !)

The residue was later mixed with brown sugar and cooked in a still to produce 100-proof "rakija", the "moonshine" of Croatia.

When I take wine tours now, I am surprised at the great stainless steel vats and the technology employed. The science, the money required, the marketing and all that goes into our fine wines today have, to me, grown out of the work of thousands, perhaps millions, of men like my Daddy; the men who brought the talent and desire from the old country to America.

In my memory, only the smell of wine making remains. I close my eyes and the fragrance carries me back to the basement of the house on Castro Street. To me the finest label will always be "Daddy's Wine."

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(Editor's Note: Sometimes as we view the "mighty oaks" we tend to forget the "acorns." Today's world class wine industry in California started because of the talent and vision of men who brought something as a gift to their new home, a gift from the Old World. June Fesler grew up in the WWII era on Castro Street in San Francisco. This is her personal tribute to one of those men, Roy Batistich, who ran a bakery well known in the neighborhood.)

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