What opens the front doors, unfolds the card tables.
Third dispatch from the wine world of Southern Appalachia
Are you in Charlotte and able to bring Buddy Heaters and green propane cans to people without power before temperatures drop to 30° tonight? Please bring them to Overmountain Vineyards in Tryon.
On Day 21, the impact of Tropical Storm Helene is doubling down with a cold front sweeping Southern Appalachia. Three days ago (two?) I was in shorts and a T-shirt on the lawn of a new friend, wiping soot from her belongings as the sun slowly pulled the shade of trees off me. Today I’m walking my dog past see-through trees, over frost-encased grass in my big puffy coat. It’s cold, and mutual aid orgs are working on getting heaters and generators to families who still don’t have power.
Yesterday, with much guilt, I took a break from engaging with the disaster to take care of work and home stuff, which still exists! Stopping was weird, and was followed by a second, more absurd experience: thinking and feeling.
The initial impact on September 27th prompted a nationwide, heartfelt response. In Asheville, business doors were flung open, card tables were unfolded on lawns and lots, and signs reading, “FREE SUPPLIES” and “WATER + FOOD HERE” were secured to poles or held up by people at the edge of the road.
Many people live in poverty in WNC, and this catastrophe will push those people deeper in, bringing with it those who were, before, just barely scraping by. We sometimes talk about how so many people are just “one emergency” away from going bankrupt. This is that.
And at what point will the world agree that this event is “over”, and return to operating under the attitude that unhoused people aren’t deserving of our generosity? The doors fly open and the card tables unfold when we recognize that what has happened isn’t deserved, and compassion drives us to act. Firestorm Books wrote on their Instagram page, “For a brief moment, the logic of the capitalist market is suspended, care is given freely, and everyone contributes what they can.” Some people I’ve talked to agree with me when I say that I feel as if I’m living in both a dystopian and utopian world at the same time.
I can’t see a future where the impact of this event is over. And so I can’t see a future where generosity and support for people living in poverty isn’t necessary. With that, I can’t see a way to justify our collective attitude before the flood, that under-resourced people aren’t the responsibility of the community.
Donate to relief funds:
Beloved Asheville / Venmo: @BeLoved-Asheville
WNC Rural Organizing and Resilience (ROAR) / Paypal: ruralorganizingandresilience@gmail.com
Weeks before the flood, I wrote on my dry-erase board: “wine in context”. The more I grow as a wine writer the more I find that I’m not a writer who extracts wine from the world, blurs out the background, and gives a technical report. I’ve been sensing this about myself for a while, referring to it lovingly as my “wine writer identity crisis,” and it was solidified on a recent press trip to Etna DOC—a story I’ve had to put on hold for now. Sitting around table after table for three days, I got to do something I almost never do: technically assess hundreds of wines in a short time.
It was a valuable learning experience for me; I watched my palate attune to the nuances of two native grapes and the subtle differences that location and winemaker impart on their wines, in real time. But the main thing I learned after writing lemon for the 42nd time was that I’m not a technical writer, I’m a storyteller.
That’s scary for me to admit because to admit it I have to own it, and what a responsibility—to be a storyteller and know you’re a storyteller. In my writing life so far, I’ve veered away from narrative and embraced poetry, songs, and essays that I could obscure at any point. A story must consider all the parts involved, and be forthcoming with words—notorious for their baggage—to depict a truth.
The winemakers here in WNC are small business owners and farmers, and they’re an integral part of the story of this crisis. In August, I wrote a travel guide to North Carolina wineries for Wine Enthusiast, and it felt kind of like a milestone for our state. Over the next months, I will check back in on some of the wineries that were impacted by the flood and hopefully share some of the stories that people in our region will be telling for the rest of their lives. I’m interested in hearing from our agricultural community what it’s been like to watch the climate crisis officially arrive at their doorstep and what happened when everyone around them flung their doors open, stepped outside, and asked what needed to be done.
Stay tuned.
"But the main thing I learned after writing *lemon* for the 42nd time was that I’m not a technical writer, I’m a storyteller." SAME. While I enjoy the exercise to analyze wine aromas and flavors and discuss them with other enthusiasts, the experience itself doesn't inspire me to write.