When I was a kid between the ages of eight and twelve, most Saturdays I accompanied my father, Frank, to the winery where he was foreman — The Cucamonga Valley Wine Company. It was located on the El Camino Real in Ontario, California. It even had one of those bells out front that dotted, and still dot, Highway 101, but that’s the romantic version. To us, it was plain, old “A” Street, and we lived in a two-bedroom house on “E” Street.

My younger siblings, sister Karen and brother Frank, often went, too, and we usually rode to the winery in the back of our pickup truck. We were allowed to do that in the mid-1950s.

When we pulled up to the chain link gate that was the entrance to the winery’s long driveway, Dad would get out to unlock and open the gate. We three kids quickly jumped out of the truck to see if the monkey that lived at the house next-door to the winery entrance was outside in his cage.

We thought it was a wonderful and exotic thing to see that monkey until the day he somehow reached through his — or her?— cage and the fence to bite me, pull my hair and pinch me with lightening speed. Everyone else thought it was very funny and enjoyed re-telling the story to everyone, but I was more humiliated than amused. No one had the monkey checked for rabies either, but things were different in those days, and as those who know me can see, I survived, and you can bet I was careful to stay a good distance away from the fence after that.

Dad’s job was to check on things in the winery on the weekend although there was a nightwatchman. The man’s name was Mario, an Italian immigrant who was the father-in-law of my Great Aunt Maria, who also worked at the winery as a secretary and bookkeeper.

We were fascinated by Mario and the fact that he was all alone in such a scary place at night plus the fact that he lived in a tiny room at the top of a long flight of open stairs — kind of like Cinderella’s garret. However, I don’t believe he had any cute little mice to help him fluff the bed and open the window to air the room — even if there had been a window. Mice to help him? More likely rats to scare him.

We also had to feed Daisy, the official watchdog on the premises. Daisy was the dog that lasted the longest at the winery. A few before her didn’t survive the busy El Camino Real/A Street.

It was fun to see and play with Daisy, since we didn’t have a dog of our own at that time, but it was during grape season that we had the best time.

Our father was in charge of overseeing the entire operation of making the wine. During grape season, he had to hire one or two men to help him, and these men became our family friends. Near the end of Dad’s life, he often called upon one of those men, Roy, who pre-deceased our father by many years. I don’t want to digress too much, but we have a favorite story about Roy.

My husband, Larry, walked into Dad’s room one day for a visit. He sat down to chat and watch television with him when he heard him say something.

“What’s that you said, Frank?”

My dad turned to Larry with an angry face and responded, “I wasn’t talking to YOU, Larry! I’m talking to Roy!” I was glad he had his old friend at that time in his life and always assumed Roy was telling him what came next.

After the grapes came in, they fermented in giant red, wooden tanks for a certain period of time. There were about seven or eight of these tanks, and each one was over ten feet tall with a ladder bolted on the side.

The fumes were pretty powerful and probably dangerous, but nobody seemed to care that my siblings and I climbed up those ladders to skip on the catwalks between the tanks and gaze into the murky, chunky pools. Had my mother been there, it would have been a different story, but Dad pretty much let us do what we wanted.

Whatever chemistry was happening in the tanks, it formed bubbles of varying sizes all over the outside of them. We kids raced to see who could pop the biggest and juiciest sticky bubbles.

The winery was also where I sometimes trained to drive. The driveway up to the back of the warehouse was long, or so it seemed to me then, and Dad let me take the wheel of the pickup often. One time I hit the gas pedal instead of the brakes when we were about six inches away from the back loading dock. Scared me to death — not to mention Dad. My father was hot-tempered and could swear in two languages,  but that day he slammed his foot on top of mine and told me to not do that again. I considered myself lucky.

Brandy is made from grapes, and the winery also produced brandy. They bottled it with a conveyor machine, but the labels and what they called cello seals had to be put on by hand. After the seals were slipped over the bottle top, they would dry and shrink to fit the bottle top. This was a job I had for a couple of grape seasons — putting the seals on the brandy bottles.

They were in slightly thickened liquid inside 5-gallon buckets. I would stick my hand in the bucket, grab some seals, separate them, then slide them over the top of the bottle.  It was so satisfying to watch the seals dry and cling to the bottle neck.

For fifty cents an hour, I did that job when I was eleven years old. I think I made four dollars for eight hours of work one day. Child labor laws were also ignored, although I think my putting seals on liquor bottles, though an odd job for a child, was not as dangerous as what some kids did at factories or on the farm in the twenties and thirties. Be assured I was thrilled to be working and making a little money. Four dollars was a lot in 1954.

The winery also had a small liquor store in front. The store carried the wine and brandy made in the winery, as well as some sodas, candy and beer — Rheingold Beer the prevailing popular beer. There were real girls that held the title of Miss Rheingold, and the store had a few very large posters with Miss Rheingold featured. Their radio and television ads carried a very catchy tune that I remember to this day, and no, I will not sing it for you — unless I’ve had a couple of bottles of Rheingold.

In addition to the winery and liquor store, there was a business office in front where my Great Aunt Maria was the secretary, manager, and bookkeeper and really the Person In Charge — that would be capital “P-I-C.” No one messed with her. She lived to be 95, and she remained the “P-I-C” her entire life.

Nowadays, I merely have to close my eyes, travel back to that time, and I can see and smell the warehouse, the fermenting grapes, the cello seal buckets and even the office with its inks and papers and accounting books.

I can see Dad, Mario, Roy and Aunt Maria working away.  It was a delicious time for me, Karen and Frank, and we so loved accompanying our father to the winery on those long ago Saturday mornings.

The End