PORT AUTHORITY
Tonya Judy

There is a constant marathon of ideas and dialogue running through my head. The context is loosely formed around perception—little synapses with jogging shorts panting and sweating in the race to connect. My perception runs paramount and the remainder of my brain is either in the stands cheering or off somewhere indulging in delirium—this usually means drinking.

Recently, I decided to cheer my perception, and to get drunk somewhat simultaneously, in one long, New York weekend, so I drove my seasoned GMC truck to Warwick, NY (about an hour outside of Manhattan). Destination: my buddy, Susan, and the Warwick Valley Winery. The winery, situated between Mt. Eve and Mt. Adam in the Hudson Valley, was hosting Greg Brown at its Harvest Moon Folk Festival—I do really dig Greg.

Susan dropped his name as a further incentive (beyond seeing her and drinking great wine) for getting my broke ass on the road and on my way to see her at the winery. The girl knows the art of persuasion—she’s Southern, by way of Jersey. I had no sooner stepped out of my truck, in which I’d been practicing run-downs of what I had been up to since I’d last seen Susan—revamping sex stories for added shock value and humor; re-recalling details of hilarious drinking stories; prioritizing tidbits about my family to share while the odd lost poem or song lyric merged with obscenities flung at horrible Massachusetts drivers and feigned conversation with cute guys in convertibles from New Jersey—than I was treated to a tasting at the winery.

The Pinot Noir, Cabernet Franc, Black Dirt Red, Chardonnay, Riesling, Black Dirt Blush, apple, raspberry and pear ciders and Tanti Bacini were works of art. My tasting guide, Melissa, knew her wares sublimely well and we chatted about the subtleties and wonders of all—and then she presented the final taste treat—the port.

The bright red of this gem baffled me at first as I’d always associated the hue of port to grandmotherly hooked rugs or antique car upholstery. This previously held conception of the dark and old was soon shattered. Port nouveau slid down the glass with an apricot essence clinging to the air and bending softly around my nose like a champagne tickle. It was so concentrated it stuck like half-dried paint to the glass as I swirled the ruby liquid in the sunlight. Time sort of stops there because I had already drunk enough to the sufficiently buzzbuzzed and the port had cleanly finished me off.

Next thing I know, I’m bringing out extra wine glasses from the barn, moving tables, collecting trash, recycling and, finally, spending all day Sunday at the gate taking money for the Harvest Moon Wine and Folk Festival with the lovely Ms. Lily. I felt like one of the regular crew. While we chatted and sweated our butts off in the hot, September sun (we’d both oddly chosen to wear all-black) the crowds kept coming.

The host, Joseph Grizzanti, walked serenely through the crowd at his winery and his open smile beamed gently on everyone. His son, Jasen, saw to the employees and guests of the winery like an old pro and the music floated around us all.

The last person to arrive at the gate was the guest of honor. I had been so looking forward to hearing him play and sing that when the haggard, grizzly traveler finally got to the winery and half-wearily said, “I’m Greg Brown”, it was almost an anticlimax for me. The real Greg Brown wasn’t like his promo picture. The real Greg Brown just needed to park his car near the stage and get his Jack and Coke going.

Susan, still nursing her freshly broken nose [that's another story], joined me out on the grass with Jasen, Brian, Matt, Phil, Matt’s brother and some more cider as Greg played and sang and mumbled in his beautiful voice for the next hour and a half or so. I felt transported out of time and place with Susan, listening to Greg Brown and drinking in the warmth of September

And Joseph, sorry about beating you so soundly at bocce, man—beginner’s luck?

© Tonya Judy 2004

Teejay (tonyaj@howardcenter.org) is currently bending her craft to more closely hem absurdity as a concept and existentialism as fact.

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