MAYHEM - 2022 Grenache Noir

The Year the Boy Became a Man

There’s a moment in every father’s life when he realizes he isn’t raising a child anymore. It’s not a date on a calendar, not a birthday, not a graduation. No one hands you a certificate that says, Congratulations, your son is now a man. It just happens—quietly, almost imperceptibly. One day, you wake up, look over, and the kid who used to cling to your leg now stands eye to eye with you. He doesn’t need you to show him the way anymore—he’s already walking it.

This is that moment.

For years, I’ve watched Cash grow, stumble, fall, and rise again. I’ve watched him fight for things, push himself further, take the hits and keep going. But this year was different. This was the year he didn’t just survive—he transformed. The baby-faced kid I used to tuck in at night? He’s gone. In his place stands a young man, shoulders set, mind sharpened, ready for what’s next.

The old farmers have a saying for it: His horns are coming in. It means he’s stepping into his own. He’s no longer soft. He’s no longer waiting to be told what to do. He sees the work, he does the work. He understands the weight of responsibility, and instead of shying away, he stands taller beneath it.

I’ve spent my life farming, working the land, growing things from the dirt, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s this: growth isn’t comfortable. You don’t get stronger by taking the easy path. The vines that struggle, that fight for every ounce of water, that dig their roots deeper into the earth—those are the ones that produce the best fruit. The same is true for people.

This year, I watched my son choose the hard road. The one that tests you, breaks you down, and builds you back up stronger than before.

I saw it in the pool, watching him push his body to the limit, swimming against the weight pulling him down. I saw it in the way he kept going long after his lungs screamed for air. Not because anyone told him to. Because he wanted to. Because he understood what it takes.

I saw it in the way he carried himself—not just in the water, but in life. There was no more hesitation, no more waiting for permission. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly who he was and where he was going.

And I saw it in his eyes.

There’s something different in a man’s eyes when he’s truly stepped into himself. It’s a look of understanding, of clarity. It’s a look that says, I know what I have to do, and I’m going to do it. No excuses. No shortcuts. Just the work.

That’s what this wine is. That moment, bottled.

And if there’s any grape that understands this better than most, it’s Grenache Noir.

Grenache isn’t the loudest grape in the vineyard. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t demand attention like Cabernet or Syrah. But don’t mistake its patience for weakness. Grenache is a survivor. It thrives in the harshest conditions, where the soil is poor, where the sun is relentless, where the wind never stops blowing. It’s a grape that doesn’t just endure—it adapts. It digs in deep, anchors itself, and refuses to break. It takes the struggle, the heat, the drought, and turns it into something unmistakable: depth, character, strength.

That’s Cash.

Grenache takes its time to ripen. It can’t be rushed. It needs patience, a steady hand, an understanding that the best things come when they’re ready. It starts out bright, full of youthful energy, almost eager—then, as it matures, it deepens. The structure builds, the richness develops, and what was once wild becomes refined, bold, unshakable.

Sound familiar?

MAYHEM 2022 Grenache Noir isn’t just another vintage—it’s a turning point. It’s the bridge between what was and what is. It’s a wine born of struggle, of transition, of stepping into something greater. The vines, once young and wild, have settled. The fruit, once sharp and bright, has softened, deepened, become something more.

Just like him.

And where does this wine come from? Windmill Ranch. The home. The foundation. The dirt that has fed our family for generations, the land where we put down our own roots. This isn’t just any vineyard—it’s the vineyard. Our estate. The place where we raise our children the same way we raise our vines: with patience, with purpose, with an understanding that the best things take time.

Grenache Noir from Windmill Ranch isn’t a wine that rushes to be something. It takes its time. It lets the land shape it. The hot days and cool nights of Ballard Canyon carve it into something unmistakable—wild, yet refined. Fierce, yet balanced. A wine that holds onto its youthful fire but settles into its strength.

This is Cash’s wine because this is his place. His home. His soil. His roots.

This was the year he made the jump.

This was the year the boy became a man.

And if you ask me, that’s worth raising a glass to.