In these times of personal and national worry, anger, and fear, I thought I should tell you the story of Evins and Dorothy. I love Evins. I have always considered him a father figure. His career in the wine business had ended when we met. Mine was just beginning. We had wine, grapes, and love of food, wineries, and laughing in common. I think Evins had also been a little wild in his day…and well, these were my days.

Evins was in his late 60’s and retired, except that he was still the secretary of the San Joaquin Valley Wine Makers Association. I was in my early twenties. He had a large, beautiful ranch style home in the wealthiest area of Fresno in Van Ness Extension. He threw small, wonderful dinner parties where I met many of the leading figures in the San Joaquin Valley. Remember, in those days the seat of power in the wine business was the San Joaquin Valley.

For most of his career, Evins owned a winery in the San Joaquin Valley. There is nothing really pretty about a San Joaquin Valley winery. Oddly, they all looked exactly like each other. Perhaps they were beautiful by the standards of the 20’s and 30’s when they were built. Or maybe in the years surrounding prohibition there was only one architect who designed wineries. Whatever the reason, they all were made of giant concrete walls, contained square cement tanks, redwood tanks, one large metal bank safe in the lobby and all wood furniture from the thirties, highlighted by a giant conference table to meet with growers and wine buyers. Names like Gallo, Italian Swiss Colony, Almaden, and Paul Masson controlled everything. The name Mondavi meant very little.

We were sitting in Evins’ office. This is where we would retreat to raid his wine cellar and tell each other stories. His stories were always about things he had done. Mine were always about what I was going to do. “Look Richard,” he said. “You have it made right now. Everything is going your way. But, you have no one to share that success with.” I must have been looking at him rather blankly because he shifted in his seat, glared at me, then sighed and said, “I am going to tell you a story. But, first I am going to open this wine.”

In those days, we loved California Zinfandels. It was about all we drank. I miss those Zinfandels that were loaded with rich raspberry aromas, minimal oak and average alcohols. He took a long sip, seemed pleased and then began his story.

“It was just after World War II. Wineries that had been devastated by Prohibition were barely surviving. Most were selling the government grape alcohol. I had been lucky through the war. I was able to supplement my income by packing Muscat raisins in tins for the troops. But, when the war was over, the demand for Muscat raisins was over. Wine, grape and alcohol sales were not paying the bills. I was bleeding to death financially. I hated every day I had to go to work. Something expensive was always breaking. There was no money. Worse, every night I would go home to Dorothy and lie to her. ‘Everything was just great,’ I would tell her. She was so beautiful. I didn’t want anything to hurt her. What good would it be for her to worry? But, my constant worrying wasn’t easy to hide. Things were beginning to deteriorate at home.

Then one afternoon it looked like everything was over. The grape crusher went down for good. I lost a major sale and now something was wrong with the still. On top of all of that one of the still waste lines was leaking. There was nothing I could do on my own but fix the waste line. So I took a shovel, walked to the source of the leak about 100 yards away from the winery and started digging. I dug frantically as if I were possessed. I dug until my arms could no longer lift the shovel. I sat down in the dirt, tucked my knees up to my chest, put my head down and cried. When I finally looked up it was dark and late. I started to get up when I felt a hand hold me down. It was Dorothy.

‘Things aren’t good,’ I said. ‘I am in big trouble. I don’t know if I can keep all this going. We may lose everything.’ She sat down next to me not saying a word. It was dark, but there was a pretty half moon which gave us an amazing amount of light. ‘What are you doing’, she asked. ‘Digging a ditch?’ I could see her outline perfectly in the moonlight. ‘The line is broken down there somewhere,’ I mumbled. ‘I brought you dinner’, she said. She handed me a bag, then grabbed the shovel and slid into the ditch and started digging. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I asked. ‘You just don’t get it,’ she answered. ‘I would rather dig ditches with you than have all the money in the world.’”

Dorothy and Evins survived many more wonderful and sad days. Together they became very successful. They sold the winery, and purchased two square blocks of prime downtown property in a then sleepy little town named San Luis Obispo. San Luis Obispo is no longer sleepy. Any one who has been to SLO has walked on Evins block. Dorothy went to school and became a Doctor. Evins always thought it was funny to get letters addressed to Doctor and Mr. Evins Naman. Evins went first. Dorothy passed away a few years after. I think about them often. I miss his laugh.