It became another ritual for us to drink a little red wine with her favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs! She'd go into detail of how my grandfather would go up and down the cellar stairs in Harlem carrying the bottles of his labor of love. She was very close to him because she was the baby of the family of thirteen and she even named me after him.
Even though Mama is gone, Douglass and I often remember Mama’s story of my grandfather making wine as we enjoy our spaghetti and meatball dinner with some red wine. We always toast Mama saying how we miss her and her stories. And I wish I could’ve met my grandfather, the neighborhood winemaker.