Wine in the blood.

ONCE, for insurance purposes, my father brought in a French oenologist to assess his cellar. The Frenchman spent a half hour surveying the wines, taking notes. After he was done he came up to my father's study and said solemnly, "Your wine is valueless."

"Oh?" my father said. "I have thought it very fine wine."

"That's what I said," the expert replied. " Valueless!" It was with some relief that it dawned on us what a Frenchman can do in search of the English word "priceless."

After Father's death, our consolation was prolonged. Year after year, for over twenty years, whenever we gathered at Great Elm, we would be served the wines Father had accumulated, those lovely things that had slept peacefully, gaining flavor and enhancing their power to delight, through a world war and several occupations. It is a wonderful way to remember one's benefactors, isn't it? To drink wine in their memory?

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