RETIREMENT MORNING - "Double Blind"

It was the day the fat lady would sing again, so I decided to lecture on band theory. We had been studying solids for a few weeks, which was the field of my own graduate work, so the topic seemed timely, fitting, and appropriate. I had really intended the previous afternoon to put some serious effort into this last lecture of a 32-year career (excluding graduate school) but soon discarded the thought; two weeks earlier not one of my four students appeared for what I considered an important presentation. So instead I visited my travel agent-I dressed in my tuxedo these last two days using a shirt that needed laundering, so I wasn't really wasting much on these indifferent students-and she was happy and excited to learn the reason for my dressiness. Then I found in my cellar one last bottle of a wine of more sentimental than intrinsic value: a 1974 cabernet sauvignon from Monterey Peninsula Winery. It was still fermenting when first tasted in barrel, it was still fermenting when bottled, and it was still fermenting now. Oh well, after the week just passed of drinking wine with very close friends, both old and new, even a great vintage Burgundy would have been anticlimactic. What I really needed was champagne, but I was down to my very last bottle, a 1971 Salon, and that had to be shared with another close friend not arriving until the following week. After supper I was still uninterested in band theory so I listened to Wagner's Die Walküre; my first post-retirement trip is to Bayreuth to hear the entire Ring cycle and Parsifal in August. The first words that had come to mind after my decision to retire were Wotan's "Das Ende, das Ende," when he realized his inability to control his world any longer. His "leb wohl, leb wohl" to Brünnhilde when he kissed her eyes to sleep and mortality had been the basis of my farewell to a class last year that I particularly enjoyed, and they would be to my students again this year, even if their lackluster performances had contributed to my sudden decision to retire a year early. After going to bed around eleven and before falling asleep, I thought about the seven days of partying that had just ended. The Memorial Day weekend had originally been planned as a series of wine-related events for twelve friends, six each from California and Washington. Friday evening we began with a gorgeous, outdoor (with a tent to protect special delicacies) champagne (Veuve Clicquot) reception at one couple's home and concluded with a no host dinner at the Greystone, one of Yakima's three fine restaurants. Saturday we toured the Walla Walla Valley, arguably the state's finest wine-producing region, where we were astounded by the high quality of the wines, overwhelmed by the hospitality and generosity of our hosts, fascinated by the slow, steady collapse of the van in which we were being transported, and intrigued by its driver's uncanny ability to drift quietly away for a smoke while the passengers corrected the van's problems. That evening we were transported by the same van, which continued to disintegrate, and driver, who presumably was still smoking, to Gasperetti's, another of Yakima's superb restaurants. Although I had selected it primarily for the quality of its cellar, I must confess to a strong admiration for its wine steward, a particularly graceful and knowledgeable woman. This night, however, the food was the real star, at least until a special goodnight from this, my favorite wine steward. In presentation, texture, and flavor, the dishes matched what I have enjoyed in several of France's three-star restaurants. (No one wished me goodnight like that in France, however.) The beginning magnums of Billecart Salmon rosé (sensational) and concluding fifths of 1960 Graham's (mature, slightly dried) bracketed three outstanding Walla Walla Valley wines, superb food, and sensitive service. And, as far as I know now, almost one week later, the van made it back to its resting place, but assuredly not in one piece. On Sunday the group traveled to my home in Ellensburg for a comparison tasting, double blind, of 1978 California cabernet sauvignons and red Bordeaux; there were four of each plus a ringer from Washington state. The tasting itself progressed rather smoothly, particularly with the Californians pesent, whose tastings, at least the two times I participated, were a bit undisciplined, may I say, by professional standards. The compilation of results, however, was another matter. Had the voting not been conducted by one physics professor, observed and announced by an attorney, and analyzed by another physics professor, I would seriously have doubted the results, especially when the analyzer revealed that the wine definitely in last place, which turned out to be the ringer, would have received no votes except that he liked it best of all. The howl of laughter that evoked matched the hilarity stimulated on the previous day, when our transport limped to a halt for the first time, by the suggestion from our most genteel male member that what we needed to get the vehicle (and its driver) moving again were some pushy broads in back of the van! The clear favorite was a well-known California wine much loved by the southern subgroup. The second wine, also from California, was far back of the first, but safely ahead of the next two, both from France and with very similar scores. (The group's second and third choices were my co-favorites, and I rated the group's first favorite a definite third; I labeled all three French, just because I liked them.) Very surprisingly the next four wines, two from each area, had essentially identical scores only a little behind the previous two French wines. And finally, of course, there came the luckless and lifeless ringer. Two interesting facts emerged. First, the attorney, a very bright young woman, correctly identified the origins of all nine wines using three essentially non-taste criteria: hue, clarity, and the amount of tannin. Second, backup bottles of the three winning wines were tasted two nights later by three original participants (and two others), and the original results were vindicated. These were definitely fine wines, although the order of preference among them differed from one person to another. Monday's seminar on German wines at the Selah home of two participants was a much more sedate affair, not because of its seeming scholarly nature, but because it's hard work to have so much fun in so few days, and we were slow to get restarted. All but three of the wines were from my own cellar, where they had resided for many years, and with at most two exceptions, they were from the best producers, vineyards, and vintages of the last two decades. The three newcomers illustrated the current increasing interest in dry wines: a trocken Rheingau kabinett, a halb trocken Moselle spätlese, and a trocken Baden spätburgunder. The first was just too austere for me, but the second seemed beautifully suited, perhaps mainly in comparison to the first, to many foods, and the third, a red went handsomely with our hostess' superb choucroute. The other wines were a kabinett, three spätlesen, three auslesen, a beerenauslese, and an (beerenauslese) eiswein. Grumblings over the absence of a trockenbeerenauslese were squelched unceremoniously. The high quality of these wines was no surprise to those who know the German riesling's versatility, and those tasting them for the first time were duly impressed. And as someone must have said, "Until one tastes German wines, one has not tasted riesling!" The morning of my last lecture I awakened at 3:30 after sleeping very peacefully. I lay in bed for perhaps thirty minutes, and then went through my routine of dishwashing, coffee preparation, and bed making. It was nearly 5:00 when I settled down to reconsider band theory. After a very few minutes my mind wandered back to events of the previous morning shared with two very close friends, the last of the California contingent to move on. We had risen early to view slides of a trip I made three years earlier to Kenya and the summit of Kilimanjaro. A day earlier they had read and (I think) enjoyed a story-I have allowed only one other person to read it-based on these events and so were willing to gamble an hour on my photography. After the slides we shared a bottle of champagne, obligatory when the three of us are together, and were impressed with the lightness and intense fruitiness of this Perrier-Jouët Grand Brut. After retrieving glasses and extra wines in Selah the previous day, we had taken care of some business in Yakima, and then returned to Gasperetti's for dinner. Our champagne that night, Roederer Brut Imperial, was also delightful-a little fuller and less fruity-but both were clearly superior to the Taittinger Francais cuveé I use as a standard for comparison, which we had drunk twice earlier in this week-long soireé. Compared to Saturday, our dinner was nearly as good, the service at least a match, and the wine steward, if possible, even lovelier. I don't recall if we had breakfast, but we were soon freeing the car of its glasses and wines, and reloading it with suitcases and wines, and then my friends were gone. The Africa story was still on my desk, so I read it again and was reminded of many happy events, including what I thought could conceivably evolve into a special friendship, a relationship I believe it's called by today's youth. When that affair ended as abruptly and unexpectedly as it had begun, I was a tragic figure; grown men turned their faces aside as I passed, and waitresses sent me flowers. But, four days later I was fine; it was a small price to pay for the special companionship that often develops while I'm traveling abroad. This morning, the day of my last class, I just couldn't stick with band theory, so I showered and dressed, wrote down a few equations, had breakfast, drew a few figures, and then just gave up and looked out the window. Students were already arriving for 8:00 classes-I live next door to campus-so I had about an hour to prepare, but I didn't. My throat was dry, and I was more than a little nervous, perhaps apprehensive. It reminded me of the night before my wedding, many years ago now, when I seriously considered backing out, despite my having pursued her for a long time before she finally consented to share our lives. Of course I was fine the next day, and she and I lived happily together for very many years. Still, the exuberance of a new life was tempered by its unknown uncertainties. I next thought of those few minutes before my final doctoral oral examination began. Then too, just as now, I found it impossible to study or even to think about what was to come. So, on retirement morning I just emptied my mind, relaxed, and strolled across campus, just as if I didn't know I was wearing a tuxedo and was the object of everyone's curiosity. My class was present, attentive, and respectful; and of course I was dignified, authoritative, and profound. When I explained to them what Wotan meant by "leb wohl," they understood, and while I erased the boards-this was a two-wall lecture-they walked out, smiling, and each returned a "leb wohl" to me. The apprehension was now gone, temporarily I'm sure, replaced by a sense of accomplishment, of achievement. What life had called me to do was now done, and I felt no need to apologize for the quality of the job. I was free, totally free, to begin living a completely new life. What the future holds, I do not know. It's as impossible to guess as it is to judge the contents of the bottle in the brown bag numbered seven without pouring out a sample and experiencing it. But I do know that I heard the fat lady sing again this morning. W. Vance Johnson 01 Jun 90