Page 37 of You're So Vine
Plenty. But what did it matter? Didn’t change anything knowing what I was feeling had a label. Didn’t make it better.
“Army wanted to set me up with a counselor,” is what I tell her. “But I don’t much care for being pitied.”
“Ugh,” says Ava with feeling. “I know what that’s like.”
“I underestimated the Armstrongs, though,” I say. “They might have left me alone, but they were watching all the time. They knew I wasn’t okay, and they also knew that if they tried to help in any obvious way, I’d be out of there quicker than a blink. Like I said before, Billy wasn’t a rescuer. He was—”
“A connector.” Ava nods.
“One day, about three months in, I was walking past the storage shed and Billy called me over. Some of the wine barrels were broken, and he asked if I could fix them up as he couldn’t afford new ones. I knew nothing about barrels but how hard could it be? They’re only a bunch of wooden slats held together with metal bands. I’d seen IKEA bookcases that were more complicated. We bundled the broken barrels into the truck and offloaded them at the workshop. And that was the start of a very steep learning curve.”
“Let me guess,” says Ava. “Making barrels is hard?”
“Sofucking hard,” I say. “I found out later that in the old days, you had to apprentice to a master cooper, to learn”—I make air quotes—“‘the secrets and mysteries’ of the trade. Whereas ignorant me was convinced I could learn it all on my own. If it hadn’t been for my stubbornness, I would have quit after the first day.”
“Billy lit a fire under you.”
“There’s a literal fire in coopering called a cresset,” I tell her. “It warms the staves so you can bend them enough to tighten the last metal hoops and form the final barrel shape. That process is called trussing, in case you wanted to know.”
“I didn’t, but thanks anyway.”
We share a grin, and my memory contrasts this picture with one of Past Cam, scowling, swearing, wrestling with those first barrels. Past Cam was not a happy human…
“You learned, though.” Ava’s prodding me along again.
“Carried that first successful barrel into Billy’s storage shed myself. He looked it over and pronounced it ‘pretty good’.”
“Ouch.”
“Yep, that stung. But stubborn me was like the Incredible Hulk: I could not be stopped. I researched like a madman, got all the right equipment, like a draw-shave knife and the aforementioned cresset. Ordered all kinds of different woods to test them out. And then I made barrel after barrel. Tore my hands to shreds, wrecked my back and got burned more than once.”
“By the cresset?”
“Good guess.”
Ava smiles. I lean down for another kiss, but she puts her finger across my mouth.
“This is all very interesting,” she says. “But we need to skip to Lee.Ineed you to skip to Lee.”
Okay. I blow out a breath.
“She came down to the workshop to tell me a load of wood had arrived. American white oak, from a small supplier I’d found in the back blocks of the Appalachians. By now I’d learned how different wines work with different woods. Flora Valley makes pinot noir, and American white oak gives it a creamier flavor. French oak adds a touch of silkiness and spice.”
“Lee now,” says Ava. “Wood later.”
“No, see, the thing is, that’s exactly what I told Lee,” I explain. “I waxed all poetical about oak when I’d barely said six words to her in as many months. And for the next hour, we had an actual conversation that started with oak and roamed all over, into art, and craft, and nature, and … doing what you love.”
“No love,” says Ava. “Bad word.”
“But that’s when I realized,” I say, “that I loved making barrels. That I was good at it—finally—and would only get better. I realized I could be a master cooper and do this for the rest of my life. I almost cried.”
“Ugh,” says Ava, folding her arms. “You and she bonded. Over lumber.”
“We did,” I admit. “And Lee started coming over regularly. We’d have a beer, and we’d talk. She was patient and a good listener, and she wanted me to be happy. I opened up to her.”
“Ugh,” says Ava again.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “It goes downhill from here.”
