SITIN SAM'S SPICE

Episode 22 – Art, Bandages, And Coal

Podcast

Podcast Summary:

“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.

Episode 22 Notes:

Determined to be an example of good, Maggie led with care, kindness, and creativity. It were these things that turned her into a Queen in her community, even if the rest of the country thought otherwise.  This is the true story of a woman who, at a time when women were not allowed to act as she did, stood up for human rights and leaned into the community she desperately wanted to support.

*This is the entire podcast episode in written form. Do not read if you want the audio version to be spoiled.

Flem didn’t want to make the call but he had no choice. The paper sat unfolded on his desk, the ink still smelling fresh and the paper crisp. He read the headline again, sighed, and picked up the phone. 

The conversation was brief. Matter of fact. The man on the other side of the line knew it was coming. He expected it, after what had happened. Everyone had. 15 minutes. That’s all the time it took to change the world forever.

In this same county, on that exact same day in May, eleven year old Maggie was dealing with struggles of her own. They were not unrelated, as this Kentucky county had always been known for its ability to spin a yarn and carried on a strong oral tradition. 

Perhaps it was due to the Native American heritage, which ran deep and old through this area. Or, perhaps because the year was 1931, that’s just the way things worked. This was working class America, coal mining country. This was a time when coal powered much of America. 

And, in the booming industrial growth of America at the time, a resource like this was rife for exploration. So, too, were the people that risked limb and life going beneath the ground, sickening themselves by inhaling coal dust, and dying in horrible conditions. 

As a thank you, coal firms slashed miner wages by 10%. Coal unions responded in kind by going on strike. They were summarily fired. Evicted. Sent into the county as refugees to the few coal towns, three of them that were still operating outside the jurisdictions of coal firms and associations, at this time. 

And when things got worse, the United Mine Workers of America, which had originally organized and supported the strikes, decided further support would be too expensive. They pulled an Irish goodbye, after having started the whole damn thing. Poverty and violence exploded. The Red Cross considered supporting the displaced workers and their families too. But, they didn’t. This was an industrial issue, not a humanitarian one, despite the rampant poverty and how many humans it affected. In truth, I’m guessing they didn’t want to upset powerful corporations. 

So, what else were these people supposed to do?  

It was this background that caused the rising up of a hardworking, industrial people in a famous part of Kentucky that resulted in that call, by Flem, months later, after 1,000 rounds of ammunition were punched through the barrels of rifles and pistols at 3 supply cars and 3 hated anti-union deputies.  

And it was Maggie six years later would employ her creativity to support four younger siblings. She, would lean into her femininity, and carve out a livelihood without guns and force. This was a novel approach and only something a woman would think of. Men, being men, would be more inclined to use their muscles and their violence to get their way…at least throughout most of America’s history. And, at this time in history, that’s why this county in Kentucky was war torn. Yet, it needed someone like Maggie to heal it.

Maggie saw this. Which is why she kept on shaping things in shiny metal. Using fire to soften and form. Relying on glass to create art. Which she sold. Over and over again. To all of her neighbors. To the government employees in town. To the judges. And the jailers. To the doctors and lawyers. And they’d take her crafts and look at them fondly, putting them on shelves in their homes. She was a small business, and she operated out of her house. 

Then she used the money to support her community. Every day she wore a print dress with an apron and she’d go into the town to nurture people, giving to those who needed it the most. She saw her purpose as helping others, and believed in community ideals, that together people could rise, if they rose with each other, aligned, in support of one another. Today, in our individualized world, this concept is often forgotten.

At this time in Harlan County, Kentucky’s history, Flem had also forgotten this. Was he wrong in bringing force against force instead of relying on more diplomatic methods to soothe the deep wounds of all the displaced and impoverished miners? 

Maybe. 

Or, maybe he didn’t have another choice.

At this point, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is the call Flem made, as he looked at the morning’s newspaper and heard of the unconfined violence. So, governor Flem picked up the phone and told the National Guard of Kentucky to mobilize against the dejected miners of Harlan County. 

Sure, they’d been run over by corporations seeking profits. Sure, his decision, instead of ending the war, would escalate the conflict and extend it another eight years. This was because Governor Flem didn’t realize how deep the corruption ran. Or, maybe he was part of the corruption.

You see, mining companies would employ a variety of tactics to…keep their expenses down. This included sneaking lines into miner contracts that prevented them from joining unions. Or, they would form unions and encourage employees to join them…only the unions would be stage pieces that were ultimately run by the companies that they were supposed to keep in check. 

Profits drive so many devilish schemes, schemes that, sometimes, only guns and bullets can stop. And that not even an organized military force can easily stop. 

Maggie was developing creative schemes of her own. And, again, they did not involve guns and bullets. That would not be her style. Her weapon of choice, was a smile. And a genuine love for the people in her community. 

Which would also lead to her arrest and over a year in federal prison. 

The disputes had ended by the time she found herself behind bars, and this part of Kentucky was still trying to patch itself together again, even as they gashes that tore open the Earth continued to spill with coal, that powered the United States. 

In Hegelian philosophy, when one ideology becomes too extreme a synthesis of the two warring ideologies merge and churn out something new, a balance. And after the fighting and deaths, and strikes that pitted the profit mongers and the miners against one another, federal law started to create a new ideology, a balance between the do anything they want, unchecked actions of coal firms and the need to treat people with human decency. 

Today, this is still an ongoing battle, and the line is always moving between the balance of the two. And, in the late 1930’s, when legislation started to come out to rebalance the scales between employees and employers, law enforcement started targeting something else. 

They turned their attention hard to people like Maggie. And, they slapped those iron bracelets on her, putting her in prison, for the first, and the last time in her life.

When she got out she went right back to doing what she’d always done. Caring for the community. Putting kids through college that couldn’t afford to go. Giving money to her neighbors so they could eat and live. And continuing her creative pursuits. 

This time, though, she got herself an education to defend against the men whole had come for her the last time. 

It was the fourth amendment she relied on the most. The guaranteed protection from unlawful search and seizure. An amendment that, during the rest of her life, would continually be honed and defined through new precedences, which she could tell you about.

Because the thing was that the majority of the United States didn’t consider her a criminal. She just happened to live in a place that did. 

It was a matter of location. 

And had she taken her print dress and her apron down the road, she would have been fine. But, she couldn’t. She was part of the community and the community was part of her. 

So she kept on with her creative pursuits. And kept on selling. Through the 40s. Into the 50’s. And the 60’s. 70s. 80s. 90s. And the 2000s. 

Never once did she end up convicted of a crime again. Even thought much of that time she was considered a criminal.

But, the funny thing about the law is that sometimes it puts people on one side of the line, only to have them on the other side in the future. 

For Maggie Bailey, she was not this person. Maggie Bailey was the line. Always. Her entire life. And, the thing about the line is that the side you fall to depends on how you wield the gray. 

If you give to the community, espouse love and care, feed others, then the gray is often overlooked. 

If you wield your gray with malice and violence, the national guard gets called. Then they drop their bombs, spill blood, and seek death. 

Like they did in the 1930’s in Harlan County, Kentucky when coal miners when on strike due to dangerous conditions and poor wages. But, only because the miners tried to use violence as a way to solve their problem. It’s what led to the famous skirmishes and the Battle of Evarts, which forced the hand of Governor Flem and led him to call the National Guard for support. 

That’s the important lesson Maggie Bailey learned. 

It’s why, despite evading taxes and selling alcohol in a dry county of Kentucky for over 70 years, Maggie Bailey only faced conviction once, despite being extremely high profile.

It’s why, Maggie Bailey, was called the Queen.

Which was short of the Queen of all Bootleggers

Because Maggie Bailey, selling into her 90s always looked more like your grandmother in older age, than a criminal. 

And who would send their own grandmother to prison.

Even if she was illegally selling moonshine.

It’s also why, after Maggie Bailey died at the age of 101, she was remembered through land preservations that were put in her name, articles from national and international publications, and memorials that would solidify her place in not only moonshine history, but history as a strong female who bucked the status quo, by leaning into all of the things that made her a woman.   

Anyway…I’ll drink to that.     

Phylloxera Meets A Revolution – Episode 21

Podcast

Podcast Summary:

“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.

Episode 21 Notes:

The story of two worlds merging. One of death and disease. The other of progress. While the two worlds existing at the same time, seems unlikely, it’s true. And makes for one heck of a tale. Follow the story of Fran, as he cuts and slices his way into history, alongside his arch nemesis Richard.

Transcript for Podcast Episode

*This is the entire podcast episode in written form. Do not read if you want the audio version to be spoiled.

They came in a stream, dying and begging to be saved. Yet, he could save none of them. Still, he tried. The slicing and cutting seemed like it would never end. Fran looked at the damage done both by him and the plague. It looked ugly. All hope seemed lost. If they didn’t find a cure, everything would be over. 

Fran left his patient on the table and exited into the waiting room, where the expectant gazes of those looking on immediately saw the failure in his face. He shook his head, confirming this. 

“There was…nothing to be done.”

Then he pushed past them and headed outside for some fresh air. Fran had studied medicine most of his adult life, but even this seemed too much. The plague that was sweeping through Europe right now had devastating effects. 

They’d tried all the usual things. Burning the lifeless, diseased, remnants. Isolation. There was simply nothing to be done. 

How could this be happening at a time when so much good also seemed to be occurring? As if to echo this point, his eyes went to the metal skeleton rising out of the ground in a cautious point that jabbed the sky. Men climbed the growing structure and large hunks of steels were rising little by little like metal fingers. Scaffolding rose like tooth picks from the ground below. 

“Still no luck?” 

The familiar voice of Richard caught Fran by surprise. He hadn’t expected him, but Richard always had a way of showing up at the worst time. 

“Not yet.” He grunted, never taking his eyes off the rising structure.

“They say it’ll be the most incredible World’s Fair yet.” Richard pointed. “And why shouldn’t it be with a tower like that serving as the entrance way. 

“But, will they finish it in time?” Fran’ voice came out rough. Much rougher than he wanted it to, but the continued spreading of the plague concerned him. And his continued failure to contain it, was unnerving. 

Richard huffed. “Gustave Eiffel has guaranteed it.”

Neither man spoke for a long time. Then Richard broke the silence. “Well, I must get getting. Good luck and all that. There is to be an art show today featuring an artist Vincent something or other that’s supposed to be quite good. Although his art looks like splotches on a page and I’ve never been quite fond of it. But, it’s the dancing I’m looking forward to after. Liane will be performing tonight at The Moulin Rouge.”

Fran inhaled sharply and caught himself. Liane de Pougy was a beautiful woman. He’d seen her dance at a cabaret once and it was almost other worldly the way she moved her body and told a story. 

Francies smiled and grunted again. “La Belle Epoque.” He said and trailed off.

“La Belle Epoque.” Richard’s voice was no more than a whisper and he inclined his head slightly as he spoke. 

Richard and Fran were nothing like each other. Sure, they were both in their twenties, young and strapping men with the world before them. But, one had studied medicine and was determined to make the world a better place. The other, was the son of a rich merchant and cared more for business than people.

And Fran, well he was no businessman. He had noble ambitions. And his heart broke at the current climate, the plague ravaging through Europe, even as the other areas of culture and technology exploded. 

Why, just the other day he’d heard about another French man who was creating a black, spongy substance that was soft enough to hold some malleability, but stiff enough to hold its shape. There was talk of, get this, using the substance to replace the wooden wheels of the traditional bicycle. 

“It is an exciting time to be alive, despite…” Fran couldn’t finish the sentence.

Richard put a hand on his shoulder. “I know, my friend. This plague…when will it end. It’s causing so many problems.”

But, there was an odd glint in Richard’s eye, an emotion that Fran couldn’t name. He wasn’t entirely sure that Richard wanted the plague to end. After all, he was benefiting marvelously from it. Yet, only a cruel, uncultured human could wish for such tragedy for the sake of profits.  

Richard donned his hat once more and took his leave, and Fran went back to his work. He had to find a solution. Many lives were counting on him. He frowned and his immaculate mustache dipped in chorus. Richard had looked so smug too. He wondered how he could even think about profiting off such a disaster. It was so beneath a Frenchman to do something like that. 

If the Franco-Prussian War from a decade ago had taught them anything, it was that showing pride and dominance wasn’t always the right course of action. For the French, a people that were steeped in the little man syndrome of Napolean, this was a lesson most didn’t heed. 

At the time of the War of 1870, Fran had been a teenager and his parents had scurried him away from the conflict that spilled over to a four month siege of Paris, before the city fell. He’d left the country to study medicine elsewhere and returned only when those two fools, curse them both, had returned from America bringing the plague with them. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t get the destruction out of his mind. The withered, dying limbs. Life slowly suffocated out of them until there was no turning back. The smell of all the burnings. The looks of devastation and loss on the faces of so many innocent people from the utter, unavoidable ruin.   

Before all of this was over, Fran, in his heart, knew that not a single living thing would remain. He didn’t see how they could. The plague spread too fast, feeding on the life of one to transmit through to another. It was… unstoppable. 

Still, he had to find a way to slow it down. He had to save Europe and its traditions that had endured for so many years. This desire to find a way, to save others, drove Fran back into his surgery room, where he picked up the lance once again and went to work again on a new subject, slicing and trimming. 

Working off the old and dead in a technique he’d learned in University years ago. He didn’t know if it would work, but he had to try. Fran carefully wrapped the incision point and moved the patient to the recovery ward. The next forty-eight hours were critical. If the patient didn’t start showing signs of healing, then death would be imminent. 

His work wasn’t cheap either. He worried about the mounting costs, that seemed as steep as all those lost and dead. Since the plague had come to Europe as an invasive species from North America, he had to import the cure from North America too.

This was an expensive endeavor that meant long travel times with precarious, living cargo that was sensitive to conditions like temperature, light, and moisture. If, by some miracle, he was able to find a cure that worked, there were also the long term effects to consider. 

But, he couldn’t think about those things now. Surely, life over death was of greater importance. Yet, the cost of the cure, had to be considered. What was survival worth? He’d seen a great presentation by a man named Louis, who was exploring such questions with bacteria and germs. They were moral questions never considered before. At a time in history when so much was changing they were essential to consider, but perhaps not so essential that they needed considering over finding the cure itself. 

Fran looked in at the recovery ward and the beds of patients healing. He knew the world would be a worse place, a sadder place, if they were only left with Richard and what he brought to the table. While, it was perfect for some, and represented the epitome of the height of culture in Europe, it was a far cry from the beauty and life that was being killed off right now. 

Richard had been lucky. That was all. His great grandfather had purchased a drink recipe that was created by a doctor. It was also luck, that elevated that dying drink to a spot of respect and appreciation once more. Fran thought about the taste and it made him gag. He’d never been a fan of that flavor.

But, the tastes of Earth and the effect of temperature that brought out the robust, complex flavors he appreciated so much, were just different. Sure, Richard used plants like Chamomile, spinach and coriander in his drink, but there was nothing that came to match the flavors in a good glass of wine. 

All that was in jeopardy now, even while Richard’s business was booming. In fact, his business had grown so much that nineteen competitors popped up within a twenty year span to also capitalize on the movement. 

They were profiteers. 

And he, well he was trying to do good. 

Fran Baco’s heart suddenly stopped and he rushed into the room. It couldn’t be… could it. Had he…had he done it. His hands trembled as he stretched out his fingers and took the delicate, tiny green bud of new growth into his fingers. 

“Yes!” He exclaimed in joy. He’d done it. He’d found a way to save all the old world grapes of Europe from the devastating Phylloxera Plague that had arrived on plants imported from North America by a few well meaning biologists. 

Phylloxera

All of the slicing, trimming and fitting had been for this. The graft, between a North American vine rootstock, with greater resiliency to that pesky Phylloxera bug which was decimating whole vineyards through Europe, and a European vine was successful. 

Fran Baco, a leading biologist in Europe, would end up creating at least six new grape plants that were a result of grafting a European grape to a North American rootstock. The result, when properly grafted, would be a little nodule, a knuckle, at the base of every vine from this point forward in Europe that signified the grafting process.

While Richard would continue his massive expansion of a drink that radiated luxury for the next twenty years, before leveling out in popularity, Wine would slowly start to emerge once again. 

The process would be slow, and the plants that had once lived for decades and had been wiped out by the plague, would need to be started again. 

And eventually, due to the curiosities and ambitions of humans, a pre-phylloxera wine would never be able to be drank again, for a true European grape could never exist without the grafting of a North American grape. 

Even as a new era was turning, complete with painters like Vincent Van Gogh, pasteurization and germ work from men like Louis Pasteur, and dancing and artistry from people like Liane de Pougy, the world had lost something it could never get back in the form of wine. 

Michelin might have invented rubber for bicycle tires, and eventually cars too. The Eiffel Tower would rise in time for the World Fair of 1900. But, wine would change forever.

It’s temporary demise would also give way to a new drink, a drink that had been around for decades before this point but had never garnered huge success or acclaim until this point. 

Pernod. 

The Gift of Phylloxera

Capitalizing on the unfortunate circumstances of the Phylloxera plague, Richard Pernod, who was the distillery owner of an absinthe company that produced a drink made from wormwood, spinach, fennel, coriander, chamomile, and a few other ingredients too. 

With the decreased supply of wine, people turned to Absinthe to quench their thirsts, and, as the great era of science, art, and technology between 1870 and 1914 rolled on, Pernod would become the drink of choice and a sign of sophistication. 

This was the La Belle Epoque. The Beautiful Era, the height of dominance by European through the world.  

Francois Baco would go on to plant thousands of phylloxera resistant grapes throughout Europe. 

Richard Pernod would die and pass along the family company to his offspring, who would built it generations later into an empire with the acquisitions of other brands.

And Pernod, a anise flavored absinthe, would be the first of its kind and usher in many similar drinks and many variations in the last one hundred years. While it would never fully replace wine, and the tides would swing back toward wine once more when new vineyards were established, it would carve out a place in history, during a time of history, that gave us so much of the modern progress and innovation we appreciate still today. 

Anyway… I’ll drink to that.

Episode 20 – Bonus Interview with Carboy Winery

Podcast

Podcast Summary:

“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.

Episode 20 Show Notes:

In this segment we’re expanding on the last episode and going interview style with the CEO, Kevin Webber, and Director of Winemaking, Tyzok Wharton, for Carboy Winery.

Overview of Carboy Winery:

Colorado based, ⁠Carboy Winery⁠ is the largest in the state. Our conversation covered a whole array of unique wines you must try, growing in places where wine typically isn’t grown, and what it’s like to make wine in a state known for its beer. 

Visiting Carboy Locations in Colorado:

⁠Denver, CO⁠⁠

Littleton, CO

⁠⁠Breckenridge, CO

⁠⁠Palisades, CO⁠

Listen Now:

Teroldego and The Things That Scare Us In The Night – Episode 19

Podcast

Podcast Summary:

“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.

Episode 19 Notes:

It took one very brave person, in this mountainous Italian town, to rise up and do what others could not. Listen to the incredible, mostly true story, of an epic battle between a monster and a hero. The result was a legend and a plant that lives on today. 

This podcast is done in conjunction with our friends at Carboy Winery.

Listen Now:

Transcript of Podcast:

*This is the entire podcast episode in written form. Do not read if you want the audio version to be spoiled.

****

This episode is dedicated to Miles. He loved adventure and would have loved today’s drink of choice. So, here’s to you and your restless, wandering soul.

****

The count watched his four year old son play in front of the mirror, which was leaning against the brick wall in his bedroom. 

“What’s all this noise?” He said playfully. The count put his hands on his hips and screwed his face into a smile. 

The boy giggled and stuck out his tongue, watching the mirror mimic the same motion. “It’s funny, daddy.” He laughed and looked at his dad in the mirror. 

“You’re such a silly boy!” The count exclaimed. He finished dressing and pulled a long cape over his shoulders. “Have fun and I’ll be back soon.”

The Count took his leave and exited his castle, looking out at the flowing fields before him. It was summer and his cows were mooing and grazing in the tall grass. His brow furrowed as he thought about how many he’d lost this year already and his eyes instinctively flicked to the pale castle positioned high above him in the ridge of the cliff. It might be a hard winter if things don’t change.

The, castle above him was built into a crack in the mountain behind the city. It was beautiful and in an excellent defensible position because of how difficult it was to get there. The strenuous effort it took to climb the landscape and ascend up to the location was also the reason it had been abandoned hundreds of years ago when this new castle had been built by the Mez family, who had once ruled this area before his family arrived. His grandfather had abandoned the castle because it was too exhausting to get to. It worked too well as a remote, secure position. At the time it was a smart decision. It still is. But, doing so also raised the anger of the entire village. 

A long wall, curved near the middle, ran straight out and then turned at a ninety degree angle. Behind the middle of it was a two story tall tower. The wall and the tower were filled with perfect, rectangle windows big enough to throw rocks out of. Or, to shoot arrows from if invaders happened to be so bold…and stupid, enough to try breaching the castle.  

There was a defense outpost too. Its own water source. And a church, because during medieval times like these, you, needed a church. And the entrance had a fresco, shaped like a shield, painted red, outlined in white. It had three symbols on it. A golden crown took the spot at the top of the shield, stretching the length of it. It rose and fell in sharp points and the gold band was inlay with beautiful, precious jewels. Antlers, wide and heavily pointed, were on the right, attached to a velvet, blue patch of hair. On the left was a dragon, a basilisk, a winged serpent, coiled and a hideous yellow with its mouth red and filled with rows of sharp teeth. Collectively, these three symbols, on the shield, represented the coat of arms.

The castle had been beautiful once. A long time ago. But, not anymore. Now the walls were crumbled and broken, ruined under immense pressure and force. The walls were blackened and covered in soot by streaks of fire. What once was a place of comfort and strength for the town was now a haven filled with terror. Something should be done about that. Someone should do something about it. 

The mooing of cows brought him back to the present and his eyes went skyward, searching. Finding only blue skies in return, he sighed in relief. His cows were just settling in. He saw his servants in the field too. One of them was tugging on the udders of one particularly large heifer and shooting milk into a tin pail. He heard the ting, ting, ting from here as the first shots hit the cold metal.

The Count’s mood sullied further as he thought of that fresco and looked at his spotted cows. He thought of things that hunted these fields, killing off his cows and sheep little by little, snatching up villagers and reigning terror across the land. 

Someone, needed to do something about that. 

It had been here for as long as his family had called Mezzocorona, Italy home. But, unlike now, back then it lived in the mountains further from town.  It took to grazing for food less frequently. 

Mezzocorona was a beautiful place too. Swampy, green marshland raced outward in two directions until it climbed steadily and rose to meet the wooded mountains. The land was rich and fertile, allowing for the easy and fast grown of plants. But, you also had the easy draining, gravel landscape too of the mountains. It made many different types of plant life sustainable here. 

They in the Northern Part of Italy and sat at the base of a steep, rocky mountain wall that protects it from the harsh, Northern winds that like to rip through this part of the country.  The much larger city of Trento was close by and  located less than 10 miles South of here. 

The abandoned castle in the cliffs was also a perfect home, which is why it moved from the mountains to the castle ruins. Plus, it had easier access to all those tasty snacks that it so loved…like sheep. Cows. And humans. 

Someone, needed to do something about that. 

Wait, he thought, why don’t I be that someone. 

But, how would he do it…if he had to do it?

How do you…take on such a creature.

He knew it was cunning and powerful. It moved faster than he could ever hope to move and, when it took to the air, there was no chance of him equaling it.

He, had to be smarter. 

While he walked the field, occasionally glancing up at the crack in the cliff, and the crumbling castle, the inklings of a plan started to form. 

He flushed at the idea at first. Out of embarrassment. It was silly. It would never work. Surely, it would not be fooled by such simple traps. Yet, the longer he thought about it, the more confident he felt that it would work. 

So, he went to bed that night determined to save the village, and ensure his own son could live a life without fear. 

He work early the next morning with sleep still in his eyes and the castle radiating cold through the brick. He’d slept restless, nervous about the day and what he was going to do. 

In the dim, morning light, for the sun had not fully risen yet, he slid into the heavy metal armor that covered his legs, arms, and chest. The armor weighed on him and already he was warming up. By the time he got to the castle ruins he knew he’d be sweating. 

He kissed his son on the forehead and paused for a moment to look into his face, etching every line of his brown hair and sweet, soft, round face into his memory. 

“I love you.” He whispered.

Then he took up his sword, strapped his shield to his back and took the mirror that was leaning against the wall in his bedroom. Finally, he stopped at the entrance of his castle and grabbed a bucket.

Outside dew was thick on the grass and it wet his armor. With the bucket in hand he made his way to the fields, seeking out the very large heifer. He found her, knelt and worked the udders until he had half a bucket full of milk. 

Then he took the bucket, took the mirror, grabbed his sword again, and started to climb the dangerous, difficult trail to the castle ruins in the fading stars of morning. Light was beginning to push across the sky now in a soft flushing of white. 

The Count kept his head held high and moved ever onward and upward toward the castle ruins, his stomach twisting in knots and fighting the urge to puke. Sweat poured out of him under his heavy armor and he had to fight hard to not spill the milk out of the bucket  

Finally, he reached the castle ruins. He paused for a moment, setting down the milk in the bucket and the mirror. He kept his sword with him, just in case. He fought to steady his racing heart, and his body was already numb with exhaustion from the climb here. 

The smell of sulphur and burn brick and cold blood filled the air and hung on the stillness of early morning in a way that terrified the Count. He sat there for a long time with his body pressed against the exterior wall of the castle, trying to will himself to do what he knew he needed to do. 

For the villagers. Who deserved to live in peace and not fear the destruction and devastation of such a horrible beast.

And for his son. Oh, his son. He wanted those brown eyes to always shine with laughter and never know an ounce of pain. 

This, was the only way. 

So, Count Firmian took up his sword, grabbed his mirror, and lifted the bucket of milk then stepped into the entranceway of the castle, beneath the coat of arms in red that was painted above the door. 

His heart skipped a beat at the size of the thing. It always looked smaller in the sky, a dark, menacing dot. But, here, it was so big. 

It could crush him with a single flick of its tail. 

When he entered it stirred so he rushed to lean the mirror against the wall. Then he set the bucket of milk down in front of it and retreated to the entranceway once more.

The animal stirred and let out a throaty groan that shook the crumbling walls and made Count Firmian’s heart race. He clutched his sword a little tighter and drew his shield. 

Then the animal was up, uncoiling itself and rising to its full height. Thick, impenetrable, yellow scales covered its body and it towered over him when it rose up. Rows of sharp, white teeth flashed when it chortled and turned to the milk. 

Wings whooshed out and closed again and the long talons pressed into the ground as it moved forward.

It sniffed the milk and recoiled, it’s eyes shooting to the sides. The Count recoiled out of sight and pressed himself hard against the wall. 

“I can smell you.” 

The count’s heart was in his throat now, but still he did not waiver. He kept his ground.

The beast turned back to the pail of milk and sniffed it once more. 

“Hmmmm.” It mused.

Then a long, red tongue slipped quickly out from behind rows of teeth and took a sip of the milk.

“Mmmmm…. Deliciousssss.” 

It took another drink, then, out of the corner of its eye, it caught the reflection in the mirror, bristled, and retreated.

It let out an ear ringing roar and stared at the monster staring back at it. 

When it lowered its head and snarled the creature staring back did the same thing. 

The monster swung its tail and the tail of the other monster swung out too. 

It turned back to the milk, wanting to take another sip, but also unsure of this new, threatening creature. 

The monster looked from the mirror to the milk. Then back to the mirror. And back to the milk. Assessing. Trying to understand.

Seeing his moment, Count Firmian mustered all of the courage he could, thought of his young son, and leapt back into the room, driving his sword up and into the belly of the monster. 

A howl tore through the air and the Count pushed upward harder, hearing the squishing and tearing. 

Blood gushed out of the monster’s belly, dark red and thick. It covered Count Firmian, staining his armor. 

And, as the monster fell to the ground, dead, Count Firmian looked on as the poisonous blood began to change him. He looked down, his hands and arms peeling away. Then he felt the rest of him tear apart too, little by little, molecule by molecule.

And Count Firmian, 

After slaying the dragon that terrorized the village of Mezzocorona, turned into a pile of ash. 

And on that exact spot where dragon’s blood was spilled and Count Firmian gave his life to protect a village, and his son, a plant sprouted. 

It thickened in the stem and turned woody with flaked bark. And the vine stretched upward along the castle walls, clinging to them for support, until small, round pieces of fruit appeared. 

They were dark red, ripe, and, when plucked, mashed, and, when fermented and strained, took on a quality that reflected the heart of Count Firmian.

This grape, a well known grape in Northern Italy, and much more rate in the United States,

Is produced in one location in particular by Carboy Winery.

It’s the Teroldego grape.

Teroldego

And the wine produced from the Teroldego grape at Carboy Winery has won multiple awards

For the bright fruit notes and hints of pepper and Earth from the Teroldego,

Speak to the bright, courageous heart of Count Firmian and the fiery, spicy dragon that battle centuries ago

And, in their deaths, gave the world a new grape varietal called Teroldego.

Anyway… I’ll drink to that.