This weekend was all about wine.

My husband, like an old time Italian, makes his own wine. The process starts by going to the produce center to buy crates of wine grapes. In Philadelphia, on Pattison Avenue around Front Street there are huge produce (and fish and meat)wear houses, one of them being Procacci Brothers who sells all different kinds of wine grapes and equipment for making wine. Some people make wine out of grape juice saving the steps and the mess of crushing and then squeezing the grapes. We like the way the wine comes with the grapes. My husband has been making wine for 19 years. When he graduated Law School I couldn't think of a good gift for him since he is very hard to please when it comes to gifts...so I bought him the bulky wooden and metal equipment as a surprise. This was the one time I got something right in the gift department.

After emptying all the crates into a very large plastic container the grapes get crushed and are left to sit for about a week. Then, that crushed pulpy juice is put in the presser a little at a time and squeezed. The juice pours out of the bottom and into a bucket and gets put in large glass bottles to ferment. After sitting for a couple of months it is transferred to wine bottles and then transferred to smaller bottles as it is used throughout the year.

As you walk in the front door of my house the aroma of grapes is apparent and down the basement the sweet fruity odor is even stronger. (We have a large room that runs under the front porch of my house where the juice and equipment is kept and since I live in a twin home, the breezeway is used for the work area when pressing).

We drink wine everyday.

Yesterday, there was a Vendemmia in the park across the street from our house. For about 10 years now, one of the local Italian doctor's in the neighborhood has organized a homemade wine contest and sort of picnic. It has become a large and somewhat commercial event now, but since it is in the Historic Stephen Girard Park and in the middle of an old, lovely neighborhood it feels nice. Music with a live band, and rows and rows of stands set up by Philadelphia restaurants, coffee houses, Italian ice cream and water ice, pastries, and cakes make the event popular. Of course, the Italians that pay for their table also bring their own food and wine and make a party out of it. I make dinner and a few extra items and whoever is still hunger after it is over comes over for a late Sunday supper. Yesterday I made stuffed, rolled eggplant, stuffed braciole, mixed mushroom tomato sauce, pasta, and a variety of roasted sausages from Martin's meats in the reading terminal and fried peppers and onions and long hots, crusty bread made that morning at the local bakery and of course all the wine we could drink.

The best thing about all of this is the tradition. It is the feeling of carrying out a process that was started hundreds and hundreds of years ago. It is a way for my husband and a few of his friends and my sons to spend a couple of afternoons together, get their hands all purple and messy and use their strength and organization to make something delicious and wonderful.

Most people think it is too much trouble. It is easy and safe to buy bottles of wine at the local liquor store. That is true. In the middle of a weekend where we had 2 soccer games, football practice and a game that my husband coaches, and a father and sons gathering along with all of the weekend chores of shopping, cooking and cleaning and laundry...they were able to press the grapes and enjoy the process. You get so much out of it. After the pressing we had a nice dinner Saturday night together. Matzo Ball soup, curry shrimp in coconut milk, rice, escarole and beans, grilled turkey london broil and a large mixed green salad was not all Italian but delicious and warming since it was a chilly, rainy day.

On Sunday we saw and chatted with lots of neighbors and new and old friends.

Wine season is not about drinking alcohol. It is about tradition, community, friendship and love. It is about celebrating a culture and a way of the old country. It is about remembering the hard things in life are sometimes what make it special.

We also make homemade lemoncello and sometimes our own yogurt. We would like to learn to make our own fresh mozarella and soppressata and prosciutto, too.

I dream of living in Italy with my own large vegetable and flower gardens and olive and fruit trees and a house full of my sons and their families.

So far, this is close enough and very nice indeed.

I could not understand her on the phone, Minnie sounded out of breath, nervous and distressed. I tried to ask directions but had to figure out what she was saying first and that was very hard.

I pictured a big fat lady unable to get out of bed due to her short breath.

The street was bare with one side being tall grass strewn with bottles and trash. There were no cars around, parked or otherwise. A startled black and white cat was wide eyed with disbelief as my Mini seemed to appear like a flying saucer according to his cat talk; he ran into the tall grass.

Minnie was a tall, skinny lady mumbling to herself in gibberish with red moist eyes. Her black t shirt and sweat pants were baggy revealing flip flopped covered feet. Her movements were jerky and continuous. There was a mostly empty gallon bottle of gin on the floor next to the sofa. There was just as much trash strew around the house as in the grasses across the street. Cigarette butts on the floor, receipts, bags, mail, crushed crackers. I looked around for bugs. Where were they hiding? It was hard for Minnie to stay still enough for me to take her Vital Signs. All O.K. there. She eats and drinks and goes to the store. She lives with two sons. There was a large bicycle in the living room. She said her son was in Vietnam and goes to the V. A. every day for his medication. That usually means he is in recovery of some sort or on a medication for a mental disorder or schizophrenia that he must take every day and cannot be trusted to take it himself. I checked Minnie's medications. She was on haldol which indicated a mental issue. She had a large wooden cane in her hand that she heavily leaned on while walking around in circles. No wonder she was skinny. She expended more energy than a roller coaster. Haldol is supposed to calm the mind down. "Are you taking your medication every day"? "Oh, ye ye ye ye yes, I ha ha ha ha have to take it every da da da day". Yes she does. A large knife on the kitchen table sudden made itself evident. I asked that we walk into the living room. We did. I could see she appreciated my attention. "You should not drink alcohol with this medication" "It could be very dangerous, even deadly, do you know that". "Yes, I know that" "I don't drink that much". At that point I felt so sorry for her.

As on cue her son Mickey arrived, evidently from the VA as he had a bag of medication from their pharmacy. He also had a large cane. He was tall and heavier with a neatly trimmed beard and clean, ironed khaki pants and new white sneakers. He looked like a high school teacher and then I noticed the same involuntary behavior as his mother. Twitching and jerking and moving around. He asked me questions about his mom and seemed genuinely interested. His eyes were also red and moist. I wondered how he stood to attention in the army with his twitches. I wonder how he handled a weapon. "Thank you so much for coming here", he said. I felt like it was the middle of no where. "Your welcome", I said. As I left I wondered what Minnie and Mickey would do for the rest of the day. At the corner and an immediate right was busy Lancaster Avenue. It seemed like an all together different world.

She was a storybook Kindergarten teacher; soft spoken with white, fluffy hair and an endearing smile. She wore cotton dresses and sensible shoes and no make up on her clear Irish skinned face. Her blue eyes told us how good we all were and how special. She almost reminded one of a nun. When I was 6 years old I was in awe of nuns and other women like them. Quiet and serene do-gooders I thought of becoming one myself but never got the call.

As I climbed the grades Mrs. Q remained friendly and available. When her own mother passed away, we were all saddened. The only time I saw Mrs. Q mom was at church on Sunday when Mrs. Q and she would wave to all of us children that passed her by in the communion isle.

The wake was in the house. The house was directly across the street from the school which was next door to the church. We were all scared. I do not remember how old I was at the time; somewhere between 7-11. A few of the girls got the nerve up to walk in there squeezing each other's arms until pain actually forced us to relax. Mrs. Q's mom was dressed in a powered blue long dress and white shoes and was laid in a sand colored shiny box lined with ecru satin. A large rosary hung on the opened lid. I swallowed hard. She looked comfortable. She looked like wood to me. I was so sure we would see a ghost I refused a cold drink and inched my way out the front door.

Years later, after Mrs. Q died, I was startled in the supermarket when she stood in back of me in the 6 items or less isle. "Excuse me, you remind me so much of my K teacher, her name was Mrs. Q". "I am her daughter", she replied with a calm soft smile. I excitedly talked and she quietly listened and replied in the same demeanor as her mother. I told her the story about the wake. She said she still lives in the same house.

This past year Mrs. Q daughter past away and the house was put up for sale by the two younger sisters. It sold in 2 weeks for more than the asking price.

The house has good bones and no ghosts....so I'm told.

Barry will be 70 in a couple of months, a youngster for me. I was asked to check his blood pressure as soon as possible. The home visiting doctor took it 2 days prior and was startled to find it 213/175. Of course, I went directly over there.

This section of the city, near the Philadelphia Zoo, is being renovated as most of the rest of the world. There are streets of falling down buildings where you can actually see a torn off front of a used-to-be household in a stopped mid-way tumble. Whole living rooms and bedrooms ready to crash to the ground. It is truly spell binding.

I arrived at a renovated turn of the century grand home that was turned into a senior apartment building. The wide, long open verandas overlooked the park. Fancy black iron gates barricaded the inhabitants in style.

Barry's sister greeted me at the gate after I rang and identified myself. So far, so good. We rode the elevator to the 6th floor. A man entered the elevator on the 3rd floor with a bike. Not good, I thought. The apartment was small and smoky. An elderly lady sat in a wheelchair and smiled. Barry's sister took to her folding chair and continued to watch a game show.

Barry was a young looking 69 year old sitting in a wheelchair. His face was pensive and he looked needy. After introductions, I reviewed his medications.

Barry told me he was recently in the pen for 15 years. "Oh", I said stunned and wondered about his crime. When he was released, almost a year ago, he was given a full year's worth of medication. He admitted to not taking it regularly. He asked me if I could get him some pain medication. "What kind of pain do you have"? "My knees, my back, my hands, arthritis".

He lives in a grand residence with a sister who helps take care of him. His appetite is good. Frozen complete meals are delivered once a week, enough for 7 days along with milk, juice, fresh fruit and bread. I took his blood pressure which was normal around an abscess the size of a walnut on his right arm. "What is that from?" I asked. "Being bad" he said, revealing a short smile of rotten teeth. "Oh", I said again. "Heroin or crack"? I asked. "Anything" he answered.

I told him the combination of not taking his prescribed medication and shooting heroin there is a great chance he can have a stroke. I handed him my card and told him to take his medication. I told him to call me or the visiting doctor if he wants to go to rehabilitation. We would set it all up for him and provide transportation. I told him I will call the doctor to make sure she ordered the medications he ran out of and an antibiotic for his abscess. I told him to use hot compresses on his arm and Neosporin. As I walked out the door he asked me for pain medication again; his sister seemed to not hear any of our conversation. As I closed the door I couldn't help thinking he did not deserve to survive a stroke.

Those three people are probably living on welfare in a building paid for by The Philadelphia Housing Authority. Their medications, food, shelter and cabble TV are paid for by tax payers dollars. I try to focus on my job and my role. I try not to judge. I will never go back there as Dr. J and I agreed.

We keep rehabbing buildings and people and they keep on crumbling.

"Be content with what you have;
rejoice in the way things are.
When you realize there is nothing lacking,
the whole work belongs to you."