THE PORT // THE END // FIRST HARVEST // 24 YEAR BARREL AGED

The Last of the First Harvest
THIS TOOK ME 3 HOURS TO WRITE- I just sat there, thinking and Remembering, as Hard As I could…
Every detail, Just Letting the tears Fall. - Damn, I miss him...
Not because i have one regret…. I don't- not one…..
Just because I know how much he would love to see today….
I think I will open a bottle of this tonight and pour an extra glass….
Here's to you, Dad…. It Worked…
He wouldn't believe it…
Promise Kept..

Twenty-four years ago, we were farmers growing grapes for other wineries. There was my dad. There was me. And there was a ton or two of grapes still hanging in the field.

When you’ve worked all year to grow something, you don’t just leave it there.

I called one of our customers and brought them a sample. They tasted it and said, “WOW, this would make an awesome Port.”

I asked if they knew how to make it.

“I’ll show you.”

That was the plan. Really. That was the whole plan.

THIS IS THAT PORT.

I’m fifty now. Twenty-four years is almost half my life. That’s a strange thing to hold in your hands. A bottle from before my kids were born. From when I could work beside my dad and assume there would always be another harvest together.

You don’t think about that while you’re picking. You think about getting the fruit in. Then one day you’re holding a bottle, and you’d give anything to go back and work one more day beside him.

MY DAD HAD THESE LITTLE GLASSES.

They belonged to my great-grandmother. At family gatherings, he’d bring them out, pour Port, and pass them around.

“Lordy, that’s too good.”

I can still hear him say it.

Everybody together. Something good in their glass. Nobody quite ready to leave.

THIS IS THE END.

What remains of the harvest that started all of this.

We’ve kept it at $50 because I want you to open it. Pour another glass. Stay for another story.

Maybe you’ll tell them about your dad. Maybe your kids will hear something they’ve never heard before. Maybe it’s just a good night with people you love.

That’s plenty.

WE CAN GROW ANOTHER HARVEST.
WE CAN NEVER GROW OUR FIRST ONE AGAIN.

Bring home a little of ours.

Here’s to you, Dad.
Look what grew.

Keith

Typos are part of my Charm…

TWENTY-FOUR YEARS.
TAKE A MINUTE.

Before you take a sip, give it a smell.

Fig. Walnut. Caramel. Leather. That deep, quiet aroma of old wood—the kind you get when you walk into a barrel room and instinctively lower your voice.

Then taste it.

Black plum and dried fig arrive first, followed by caramelized sugar and toasted walnut. A faint thread of smoke runs underneath. It’s dark, rich, and sweet, with enough weight to make you stop talking for a second.

Let it sit in the glass. Go back to it. There’s more there.

WE PICKED THESE GRAPES WHEN MY KIDS WEREN’T EVEN HERE YET.

Now I get to pour this wine and think about everything that happened between that harvest and this glass.

You can describe the fruit. You can talk about the texture, the oak, the long finish.

But try explaining what it feels like to taste something you started with your father twenty-four years ago.

I’m still working on that part.

BRING OUT THE LITTLE GLASSES.

Dark chocolate. Toasted walnuts. A piece of blue cheese. Something good at the end of dinner.

Pour a little. Leave the bottle on the table.

Let somebody tell the long version of the story.

That’s how I want you to enjoy THE END.

WE SPENT TWENTY-FOUR YEARS GETTING TO THIS MOMENT.
YOU CAN SPEND ANOTHER HOUR AT THE TABLE.