Here are the TWO SELECTED WINNING STORIES of our, “Our Los Olivos Cafe Story” contest.  First Place winner receives two seat at our 20th Anniversary Celebration, December 12th.  Second Place winner receives lunch for two with Bernat wine.  These are two well told, true stories, worth reading.  Each uniquely reflect an experience at the Los Olivos Wine Merchant & Cafe that is an honor to share. Vote for the story you pick for 1st Place on Facebook!

A Few, Small Steps Away  By: Patricia M. Mahon

It was a cold and rainy afternoon in town. The tasting rooms were quieter in the rain, but the wine was louder. There’s something about inclement weather and a glass of pinot that is deafening. The sidewalks thundered with downpours and drizzle. The hillsides bellowed with streaming lavender and chamomile and the vineyards resounded with the rhythm of fruit ripening, developing, and evolving into perfect maturity.

As I walked with friends in and out of the welcoming counters and table-tops of smiling wine purveyors, we came across an elderly couple in the rain moving slowly toward a cafe. The older gentleman leaned heavily on his cane as a small, bent woman clung to his elbow. Rain cascaded off his plaid, newsboy cap and rolled down his ruddy face as he enquired about lunch. A young woman informed them that the café was “in-between” serving hours … meaning they were done with lunch and not yet ready for dinner. Looking aside to his wife who was unsteady beneath her bucket rain hat, the man turned back to the girl and asked if they could wait, or stand inside, or simply come in out of the rain. They were met with an “I’m sorry, no, and I can’t have you in the doorway so please clear the area.”

The man pivoted his cane back down into the street with his wife tightly hinged to his hip. With a chivalrous glare he pulled her close as sheets of rain undulated across Grand Avenue whipping the flag pole and rousing the tasting room canopies and awnings. Water erupted from down spouts and drive-ways as the run-off of the younger, mobile generation rushed along the curb side and swirled around their lace-up walking shoes.

As I watched them slowly move away, I thought about how many battles he had fought and how many wars he had won. I thought about how many tiny steps she had steadied and how many small hands she had held. I decided that we can do better … that we must do better. I ran ahead and intercepted them.

“Please, come with me.’ I said. “I know another place right across the street where you can have a late lunch and get in out of the rain.” The man looked at me with surprise and uncertainty. The woman looked up at him and then back down at her wet shoes.

I toddled beside them for what was mere minutes but seemed like a life time. I commented on the rain and the flowers. I talked about traffic and tourists. I chatted about wine and horses. They did not engage me. The walk was enough. As I looked across at him, I saw a man that had lived. His soft eyes and still-strong hands told a story of a patriarch and a provider. He was strength and resolve wrapped cavalierly in a British Khaki London Fog rain coat.

She was a caretaker. Her face was furrowed with the fine lines of patience and the deep folds of compassion. She was the kind of woman upon whose back generations were raised and upon whose fortitude the tradition of family endured. In a place where we revere classic cars and clamor for vintage wine, these two shuffled quietly along the sidewalk, moving inconspicuously through a world that had quite simply left them behind.

Step by step I felt the absurdity of the aging process. It is, after all, as Yeats said “tied to us like a tail to a dog.” Getting old is not random selection. It is not the luck of the draw or a tug of the short straw. But for the grace of God there go I, you and all of us.

As we reached, “the other place,” the old woman looked up at me for the very first time. She did not speak. She examined me, and I examined her. In the soft hollow beneath her cheek, I saw my grandmother’s face from so long ago when she confided in me one snowy afternoon back in New York … that life was 5 minutes.

I opened and held the door to the new café as the couple shuffled in. We were greeted by another young woman with a warm smile. “Three?” she queried. I said, “Well no, we are not together. You see, I just walked them over … they are looking for a warm place.” She smiled again, caught my eyes, and nodded, “Of course” and quickly seated the pair at a table by the fire. She set the man’s cane beside him, placed their hats by the mantle, and hung their wet coats on a spare chair. The old gent and his grand dame looked across at each other and seemed utterly transformed. I would be lying if I did not admit that they looked young again.

I quietly slipped out the door as the young woman popped her head out and called after me, “Thank you for bringing them,” she said. As I bounded into the street, I replied, “Of course,” and we shared an existential nod, and I felt in that moment that I had passed a torch.

The Wine Merchant Café presented the better side of us that day, the quintessentially human side in a world that in so many ways has lost focus and perspective and manners. It truly is a gathering place where friends meet, stories are told, wine is shared, and despite an outside world that often rages beyond our control, we can take personal moments and make our part of everyday life a little more perfect.

Perhaps the larger lesson here is that within every tempest there is a calm harbor and within every storm there is a safe place. And that despite the tragedies that we have endured as a society, as a people, and as a town there is always a warm fire and a friendly smile … just a few, small steps away.