I cannot remember a time as a youth when I did not assist my Dad in the making of wine. I must have been 3 or 4 years old when I first began helping him in the cellar in Verona, Penn. The grapes had that sweet, sticky smell and touch. The white grapes were called muscatel, and the purple ones — which looked black to me — were zinfandel.

This was back in the 1940s and 50s, and my father did not have a car or drive. He would solicit a friend, relative or neighbor to take us to the New Kensington rail yards, where about four refrigerated rail cars would be loaded with grapes from California.