Absent....Any Sense...Of Knowing Poem by James B. Earley

Author's note:
Robert Mondavi's birthday is June 18. This composition is in celebratory recognition of that august event. And kind of a joint birthday/father's day greeting as well! It also speaks to the uncertainty of life, humanity's fellowship, and the notorious lack of conversation between estranged individuals. JBE

When losing my path I found my way
.....Absent....any sense...of knowing
Uncertainty of life was all I saw.....
Within a sea of grape vines growing

My first day there....questioning God
..."What in the world am I doing here"
Every hope and dream I owned
....Had abruptly....disappeared

Further adding to distraught-despair
...I saw...the spitting image..of my father
Seated...at a desk......before me
...Another...God-awful pain....to bother

Paradise awaiting...in the strangest way
...At the time no sense of knowing
Taking...some years...hope reappeared
...Within that sea of grape vines growing


Author's note:
Following Mr Mondavi's death, Mrs. Mondavi initiated a Christmas tradition, inviting me, along with a small group of other former co-workers to her home for a celebratory luncheon, and reminiscing chatter. During one such event, someone spoke of their favorite Christmas memory. And from there, one by one, others chimed in with additional stories. Someone noticing that I had offered no commentary, asked "Jim, what is your favorite Christmas memory? That was a most awkward inquiry, as I have no favorite Christmas story to tell. I responded by quickly pivoting to my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving and the poignant tale of that memorable meal of 1956, one month after moving to San Francisco. It was a diversionary tactic avoiding one of my life's most bitter moments.

I was a thirteen year old high school freshman. Couple weeks before Christmas break, our homeroom teacher suggested that the class draw names and exchange gifts, preferring that they be homemade, or if purchased be of nominal cost. There was a classmate I had fallened very much in love with. Once the drawing was complete, the teacher asked that we divulge the names we'd drawn. I drew the object of my affection's name, and to my happy surprise she had drawn mine. In my heart of hearts, I knew this solemn act was in fact divine intervention. later that evening, I wrote her a letter, in it disclosing my feelings, telling her that I was very much in love. As I neared the end, my father asked to see what I was writing. He read the letter through, then tore it to pieces, while lecturing me that I was trying to be too "mannish, " that I had no idea of love and what it meant. That moment was the beginning of a lasting estrangement from my father. From that day forward.....he was simply another someone I knew. I treated him with utmost respect, but had no feeling toward him, he was just that someone.....I knew. He passed January or February 1980 with no resolution.

When I saw Mr. Mondavi, November 1985, for the first time, seated behind his desk, it was indeed an agonizing experience, because of an uncanny facial resemblance, for I saw the spitting image of my father before me. There I was borderline despondent, just months before having lost my Southern California based limousine operation through bankruptcy; and now having to revisit the erstwhile pain of that distant Christmas moment.

Late 1980s, while driving along Napa Valley's Silverado Trail, I heard "Mike and the Mechanics" on the radio, singing the most mournful of songs, "In The Living Years, " a verse I could easily have written....every single word of it. Its message specifically addressed all the pent up angst I'd long lived with since childhood. And through that song, in time, I found myself becoming increasingly closer to Mr. Mondavi, spiritually speaking. It was the beginning of a bonding, and lasting friendship.

A few months before I retired, I had driven Mr. Mondavi to an event at The Culinary Institute of America's St. Helena campus, situated on a knoll overlooking a picturesque Valley view. As I was surveying the scene, Tim Mondavi approached me saying, "Jim, thank you for taking such good care of my father." I replied, "It's my job, I'm simply doing what I'm paid to do." "No, Jim it's much deeper than that, " said Tim. Well did I know that Tim was right, it is in fact "much...much deeper than that."