One Last Glass: Closing the Scholarship

Three years ago, I established a small scholarship in honor of my father for Stage 2 Master of Wine students. Grief is a funny thing; it ebbs and flows. At the time, it was helpful to remember him in this way. Now, my family and I have decided that the scholarship, beautiful as it is, has served its purpose. The winning recipients have been published here, so many students have been inspired to write and apply, and my father’s memory lives on. Simultaneously, we feel it is time to move forward, and cherish his memory differently.

We have decided to end the George T. Gamblin Memorial scholarship, but hope that its establishment continues to encourage wine students to think about wine and life in a more creative light.

To close the scholarship, I have decided to share a deeply personal piece that I wrote about my father shortly after he died. I have revised it recently in hopes of paying him a final tribute. Perhaps it will inspire others to share a glass with someone they love the most, and cherish every moment.

Cheers,

Mary Margaret McCamic, Master of Wine

One Last Glass

A daughter’s short memoir

You are never prepared for death when it comes. It doesn’t matter how many friends or family members you’ve lost, the finality of it all is a shock to the system. I can remember looking out the window at my home in Napa, watching the wind rustle the branches of the old Redwood, and thinking to myself “I will never see my father again. He is gone.” 

And yet, at the same time, I held out hope that it was all just a bad dream. 

I waited for the dream to end, closed my eyes tight and believed with all my heart that when I opened them, it would be a different day, and that my father would be at the other end of a phone call. There was a strange combination of real and unreal, belief and disbelief. I knew he was gone, but I could not accept it.

Those who know death know that it changes everything. Of course, you go on living, The sadness may come less frequently, but you essentially learn to live with a gigantic hole in your heart. The new normal is your life with that absence. You must learn to deal with it.

My father’s passing was rather sudden. We had no time to plan for it. That said, as you see your parents aging, the reality of their mortality creeps into your thoughts every time you see them. We all knew that my father had heart disease in his family and that a major heart attack killed his own father at the young age of 51. In some ways, every year he made it after that signpost felt like an accomplishment.

In hindsight, the last few years of my dad’s life felt a bit like the last glass of wine at the end of a dinner with really good, old friends visiting from far out of town. You know that they will have to go eventually, and that when they do, you probably won’t see them again for many years because of the distance. But you convince them to have one final glass, and while you are happy that they decided to stay, there’s a quiet sadness in knowing that it’s just a matter of time before they leave. You’ll eventually be left alone with a table strewn with empty bottles, wine glasses, and dirty plates. The buzz of all of your voices, the laughter and conversation from a few hours ago will linger like a fog in the room for a while, but the night will end, and eventually, a deafening silence will take hold.

A last glass of wine with old friends brings immense pleasure, but it still feels a bit like borrowed time.

I am lucky in many ways — the relationship that I had with my father was phenomenal, and I have so many memories to cherish. Yet I still have some regrets. I wonder, given my natural skepticism, why I never took the time to spend more one-on-one time with my father as he got older, simply to discuss life and share my most favorite things with him. There are songs I wish I’d played for him, drives I wish I’d taken with him, stories I wish I’d told him. Did I assume there would be time? Did I forget how precious and fragile this life really is? I think so.

What I wouldn’t give for one last day, one last shared experience — one last glass of wine with my father.

And so, I find myself here, left behind, thinking of what I might have poured for my father and I if I still had the chance. He wasn’t a man who needed much — he loved a good dry rosé in recent years. He wouldn’t buy anything more than $20 for himself unless it was a very special occasion or if I convinced him that it was “necessary” (I write this with a smile), but he would always partake if a good glass were being poured nearby. 

One last glass with my father. What would it be?

Let me escape to a fantasy, and pretend that this scenario could be real. I choose a glass that captures the elements of a wine that I’d like to share with my father, something surprising, captivating, and generous: the 1994 Bonneau du Martray Corton-Charlemagne Grand Cru.

It’s a wine I know well since I represent the Domaine in the United States, but it’s also a wine with a beautiful history and one that my father never got to taste. When I started working with the property he was elated — he knew how much it meant to me to have a foot back in Burgundy. He loved to hear me talk about the grand Hill of Corton, whose white wine vineyards ultimately took the name of Charles the Great: Charlemagne.

The bottle itself would elicit conversation. My father would call me by my childhood name, “Presh” (short for Precious, of course). My dad called me that for as long as I can remember. It never stopped, not when I turned 18, 25, or 34, the age I was when he died.

“Presh,” he’d say with his gentle, slightly Southern drawl. “It’s just incredible that the land has that kind of history, isn’t it?” He’d be nervous to take a sip at first, would look to me for direction, and I’d nod with encouragement. “Should I swirl it first?” he’d ask.

“Yes, definitely,” I’d reply, delighting in his interest. “But first, Daddy,” I’d say. “Look at the vintage on this. 1994. Now look at the color of this wine. Can you believe it?”

“Wow,” he’d say, then follow it with a chuckle. Have you ever noticed how vividly you can remember someone’s laugh? My father’s laugh was so genuine, so inviting. “That’s just amazing,” he would say.

Undoubtedly, there would be a series of questions that seemed simple on the surface but required an enormous amount of explanation.

“White wines aren’t supposed to age like this, are they?” he’d say, gleefully swirling the glass and then smelling it, gaining some confidence in his wine tasting.

“No,” I’d say. “There are only a handful of white wines that can really stand the test of time.”

“Why is that?” my father would ask, not knowing how much detail I’d have to go into to truly explain the answer.

“Well, red wines are made with their skins, so naturally have more antioxidants,” I would begin, knowing he’d understand that right away. “But there’s so much more that goes into aging a wine than that. There’s quality, pH and acidity levels, tannins in red wines — so much. But, the reality is that most white wines are just really lovely when they are young and fresh - that’s part of their appeal. Whites like this gain something as they develop. Hazelnut, caramel, earthy tones...and they have the backbone to stay fresh for quite a long time.”

I’d think about telling him more, but decide that would be enough for him to digest for now.

My father was a doctor, and exceptionally smart, so there was no question that he could understand the nuance and complexity of wine science. Of course, his understanding of biology and chemistry far exceeded mine, but it was hard for him to apply it to something he saw as a beverage. He was fascinated that I could on some level.

The conversation would move onto something more personal about the glass of wine. “1994. I just can’t believe it. You remember what you were doing in 1994?” He’d chuckle again. My father loved reliving the days of my childhood. He’d be referring to my competitive swimming career. In 1994, I was 10 years old, a champion swimmer in my age group, with dreams of going to the Olympics.

“Yes,” I’d smile. “I remember those days well. Everything seemed so much simpler.”

As I write this I wonder, in this daydream, why I wouldn’t have taken my father to Burgundy, to the Hill of Corton itself, to drink this glass. It would be the last one we’d share, after all. Why wouldn’t I want him to see that majestic slope and its precious limestone soil as we enjoyed this last glass?

There’s something that seems, as funny as it may sound, too unrealistic about that. And it wouldn’t be what my father wanted. No — I would want to share this with him in my childhood home in Raleigh, North Carolina.

I’d want to return to that place because it reminds me of where I was shaped and where I knew my father best. Within those walls, from the age 8 until 22, I grew up. I remember the details well. My dad would always come home from work through the door to the garage, dressed well in his Khakis, tie, and blue suit jacket. He’d usually have a grocery bag in hand filled with some sort of treat he’d picked up on the way home for after dinner; candied orange slices were his favorite.

He’d burst in the door and put the bag down, hang up his tie while laughing loudly for the dogs to come greet him. Two little poodles, one black, one white, would come running toward him ready to play. My father would clap his enormous clap — a sound that you could hear through the entire three-story house - and dance around with them in celebration of his homecoming.

It seems fitting that our last glass of wine would have to be enjoyed in that kitchen, at our old, scratched, wooden table with the chairs and their near-failing wicker bottoms. That’s where most of our conversations were as I was coming of age, in my early 20s on trips home from college.

Yes — that’s the place. We would sit right there, my dad at the head of the table where he always sat, front-facing the kitchen where my mom would often cook, and we would share a glass of Grand Cru white Burgundy.

I can’t say for sure what we’d discuss next, but no doubt it would venture into nostalgia. He’d reminisce about my time as a young athlete, and all those swimming meets where I’d broken state records. He would still beam with pride, decades after the fact. I’d remind him of how we used to watch Chariots of Fire together, my favorite film, to get pumped up before swim meets. Or how he’d come out into the garage as I left for school, quoting Shakespeare by shouting “Unto the breach!” from the brick stairwell as we drove off in the car. We’d go through all the old times, retell all our favorite memories, especially after a few sips, as the wine started flowing. 

At first my father would be surprised at the wine’s freshness. “I just can’t believe this wine is 27 years old,” he’d begin, struggling to find the right descriptions. “It doesn’t feel old. There’s a pop, something tangy about it, does that make sense?” he’d ask.

“Yes, definitely. Acidity. Like a spritz of lemon, right?” I’d answer, confirming his observations.

“Yes, exactly. But then the fruit. It doesn’t seem as old as it is. You said caramel and hazelnut, but I still taste some citrus,” he’d say, swirling with more authority this time, and taking another sip.

Sitting in the kitchen with my father would remind me of being a kid, and sitting there with him at breakfast on the days that I didn’t have early morning early swim practice.

“Daddy,” I’d say. “Remember how much you loved lemon poppyseed muffins?” He’d chuckle and say yes, they were so good, but he could only eat half at a time.

“I remember that,” I’d say. “I specifically remember a time when I was, oh, ten years old and found half a muffin you’d saved for yourself in the kitchen. It was the last one, and I didn’t want to ask for it,”

“But you gave it to me,” I’d say. “The whole half, knowing I would want it. You didn’t take any for yourself.”

 Such a simple, silly memory, reminds me how kind and generous my father was in every aspect of his life.

“Anything for you,” my dad would say. “Your mom and I are so proud of you and your brother, you know it? You’re both just our heart and soul.” Then he would smile, and look at me with his gentle, ever-caring eyes.

Those were some of the last words he said to me in his final days before he died in the hospital. He told me that he loved me, and that he was proud of me. I’ll never forget how kind yet how so very tired his voice sounded.

“Love you, too, Daddy,” I’d say, tears welling in my eyes, trying my best to focus back on the wine and the moment rather than the past.

As most great wines do, the 1994 Bonneau du Martray would disappear far too quickly from our glasses.

We’d share the last sips over conversation about his childhood, his father, and how he chose a life of medicine over becoming a history professor, but luckily, he loved being a doctor, too. I’d sneak in a few comments about the texture of the wine, its rarity, and how the perceptions of white Burgundy have changed over the past several decades for both collectors and the trade. My father would nod and politely engage, but he’d be more interested in hearing about history, and the influence the Catholic Church had on the vineyards in Burgundy, rather than a collector’s perspective on buying top wines.

He was a romantic at heart, and always found a way to tie some intangible, beautiful feeling to a concept rather than focus on the concept alone.

The final sip would be the hardest because I would know it had to be our last, and the sips leading up to it would carry dread and longing. 

“Thanks for sharing that with me, Presh,” I can hear my father say as he put his empty glass down. “I loved it.”

And then, just like that, everything — all the noise — would fade away.

His gentle voice, the one with a slight Southern drawl, his hands clapping so loudly that the echo could fill the house, the warmth that radiated from him to everyone he knew and everything he touched — it would all disappear again.

More time. I’d still want more time.

I can conjure these memories until my final days, but it won’t give me the opportunity to see my father again. The only place I will ever find him is within myself.

And yet.

I like to think that my father’s spirit lives amidst the Redwoods in Northern California where he loved to hike, or in the walls of the home where he raised his children. Or maybe he haunts the Pacific Coast shores, where the wild, raging waves crash against the mountains. I can’t think of a more beautiful place for him to be. 

Maybe he lives in my triumphs, or in the failures wherein I find the strength to rise and pick myself back up again.

Or maybe he lives somewhere in between my mind and what is real. Those sleepy moments when you just wake up, unable to discern the difference between your dreams and the reality before you.

And maybe I will find him, ever so often, in the experiences that stir my soul. In those precious, rare moments where I feel so moved by an experience that it brings me to tears. 

It’s there, and then, that my father assures me: So long as we remember someone, we can always share one last glass.