Portland

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Scott went off to the farm this past weekend, and as much as he loves farming, he hates leaving us to do it. We were supposed to be moved out there by now, to tend the vineyard from a 10-minute drive, and eventually, when we could afford to build on our ground, by stepping out our front door, not this 90 minute plus haul that happens each time something must be taken care of. And now that season has begun. The taking-care-of-the-farm time.

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Hooray! The Dalles has been named a “True Western Town” in True West Magazine’s top 10 list of, you guessed it, “True Western Towns” for 2010.

I’ve always had the feeling, from the first time we showed up and actually spent some time in The Dalles looking for vineyard ground—instead of simply rumbling by on 84 as I imagine most do, because honestly, from a car window, The Dalles kind of shows its ass to the world and who would want to stop? The auto repair and RV spots, the strip malls and former old rundown Aluminum factory site now razed to a bunch of bare earth and that’s probably enough—that it was, at its soul, a quiet, Western town. And it is: at its center you’ll find restored, 19th century Victorians; one-way down-town streets lined with high-windowed brick buildings; farm rigs and big hats going by; cowboy boots and western wear; plus all what the article in True West speaks of. And all against the backdrop of enormous, grassy hills that echo Connemara to me—or pictures I’ve seen of New Zealand—on the Washington side, and heights of basalt outcroppings with scrub oak and sage on the Oregon side; the Western character is hard to miss. Read the rest of this entry »

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You know how when you meet someone and you immediately bristle with dislike? The very next morning after our Ireland return, greatly jetlagged yet fresh-faced, we would drive out to meet the person potentially interested in selling us some land, Old Wise All. At that time, he would be our only chance because from all the ground Scott had identified as prime for our venture, he was the only landowner who would show any interest in letting some go. Scott would have the vineyard fever in him, and somehow it would feel like we had crossed a now-or-never threshold. Whatever it took.

Of course our budget would determine just how far we could go. And Old Wise All would be privy to the numbers; his interest in our budget and Scott’s willingness to hand it over land (physically) unseen, man unmet, would put me on high alert towards the whole deal from the get go: why would someone just interested in selling land want to know our entire budget for the endeavor? And why would Scott hand that over to a stranger?

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