As we stare down the final weeks of 2020, I feel both sadness and a sense of accomplishment. It is impossible, and surely unwise, to ignore the suffering and destruction that has made this a year to remember, but when it is done, I will also recall how we’ve endured, adapted, and sometimes thrived. We’ve changed our minds, practicing new thought patterns to engage with the world differently, testing the limits of our generosity, our patience, and our independence. The best among us showed their generosity and patience to be boundless, but our beloved American self-sufficiency had its limits; we needed each other more than ever.

There is a traditional Jewish story I’ve used to cheer myself up now and then, and it’s been in my mind quite a bit this year. It is the tale of a person of little means, with a small, one-room house and a large family. Without the space to live comfortably, their spouse and many children are bumping into each other, snoring, disturbing one another, and generally at each other’s throats. Things could not be worse, they think, and so they go to their Rabbi for advice on how to help the family situation. The Rabbi asks if they have any animals. “Yes,” they reply, “We have a cow, a goat and three chickens.” The Rabbi continues, “Then invite them into your house to live with you all.” Maybe you can see where this is going. The poor person brings the animals into the house and they make it more crowded and noisy, and foul- smelling to boot. They return complaining, and the Rabbi instructs them to first remove the chickens, then the goat, and finally the cow, and voila! Suddenly the house seems large, its inhabitants amiable, and life is again manageable and joyful for the family. 2020 has been our barnyard in the house, and I think we’re all looking forward to an ever so slightly less complicated year ahead.

Oakland Yard will be open today for curbside pick-up from 11am until 6pm, and Monique, Crystal, Daniel and I are looking forward to helping you find that special bottle, delectable vittle, or last minute gifts. We’ve even got a handful of spectacular bouquets from Flower & Forage for the early birds. Thank you all for helping to make this holiday season a successful one for Oakland Yard. We hope we never have to do it this way again. We like having you in the shop and look forward to a December when we can embrace one another and stand beside each other, unmasked and smiling. Until then, we are grateful for your support and truly hope that our additions to your holiday table, and the bottles at the foot of your tree, help make it a joyful holiday season for your family as well.

Cheers,
Max

My older daughter celebrated her birthday last week. I can go on about how she has enriched my life and all that has given me since her arrival (in this giving season) three years ago, but my favorite gifts from her are new words. Her words. I'm not talking about her learning our language, but more so the creation and sharing of her own unique vocabulary.

Much of this was just silly baby babble through the years that my wife and I have kept alive. Our daughter calling blueberries booboos, etc . At three, she can now say oatmeal quite clearly, but we'll all still frequently call it oompalah, as was her habit - and though I believe she knows the word toothpaste, she'll still ask where the mintyminty is. My favorite of all: she calls bare or shoeless feet beadie feeties. I really don't know how to spell most of these.

But the one the house has adopted, the most used word of all, is perhaps the most ordinary. Stuffers. While seemingly just a superfluous extension of stuff, I soon embraced her particular nomenclature. You see, stuffers is not the same as stuff. While stuff accumulates, those things (what we adults might call crap) are category C, not even on her radar. Stuffers is category B. In her mind's landscape but occupying no part of her heart. It’s things in her life that have collected but they have no word, no assigned name, no assigned value, no true purpose. Stuffers occupy space, but do not spark joy.


I know it may sound hokey as hell, but somehow this year it really hit me. The gift of words. The joy, the power. The pandemic has limited us so much. Now every phone call, every note, every text means that much more. And I think of the words we share each week with you. And I'm thinking this morning of all of your words that you've shared with us these past months, words of concern and support at our door, messages of gratitude and encouragement on the phone, a warm addendum accompanying online request orders...

Beyond your words, this holiday season we couldn’t ask for anything more than what you all have given us. Another birthday. Our lights are on and there's a roof over head and our doors are open. You are a part of our heart. We're here for you and because of you, open today and everyday until Christmas day, happily writing and relaying your kinds words onto holiday cards and special bottles - or spoken to the surprised and delighted faces who receive them.

Keep spreading the joy. Keep sharing light. Keep the good words alive.

Everything else is just stuffers.


Happy Holidays,

Daniel


HOLIDAY HOURS
OPEN ALL WEEK (THROUGH SUNDAY) REGULAR HOURS 11-7
*OPEN MONDAY 12/21 12-6PM*
OPEN TUESDAY 12/22 & WEDNESDAY 12/23 11-7PM
*OPEN CHRISTMAS EVE 11-6*

I like to think I have a few attributes that make me a decent friend, but staying in touch is not one of them. I’m a terrible correspondent. I may love you dearly, but if you move away, or I from you, then you will not hear much from me. It’s not that I’m too busy, although owning a shop can make one feel that way. Nor have I forgotten you. You inhabit my mind with past words, gestures, and laughter, echoes and images that keep you here with me, but I am not inclined to reach out with news.

I saw a phone booth the other day and thought ‘How quickly life changes!’ One always kept a dime, and then a quarter, to make a call. That quarter was important, and could be your only path to safety should something unexpected befall you. In my college dormitory, there was a row of three wooden booths beside the cigarette vending machine, and just about every Sunday, for the four years when the eighties met the nineties, I’d spend an hour in a booth on a collect call with my parents.

Not long ago, in the grand scheme, it was smoke signals and drumbeats, but by my grandparents’ time, letter writing was a thing. Everyone wrote letters. My grandfather would often include illustrations in his letters, and I still have a note in which he describes picking beach plums with his friend, Mel, at the Sunken Forest on Fire Island. “Grandma made the best jelly out of them. Only about 4 jars came out of all those plums. I think if you write to Grandma and ask her for a jar she might spare one.” The image, drawn with colored pencils, shows two men and a tree, and my grandfather writes: “I am the good looking one in the picture.”

Some folks write an annual form letter at the close of the year, reviewing the family exploits, their accomplishments and setbacks. One could imagine what the American people would write this year, if we were all one family addressing the other nation families of the world. “It was a big year for the United States. Many of us fell sick and died, and many others began to acknowledge our systemic racism, and throughout, we were not particularly united. Fire laid waste to homes and forests, and our jobs have changed, or disappeared entirely. We grew our hair long and mostly kept to ourselves. We will learn lessons of immeasurable importance from the unexpected events of this year, but it will take time for us to know them, and we are very much looking forward to next year. With love, America.”

We at Oakland Yard are eternally thankful for your continuing support, and with a store chock full of exciting wines, new beers and truly delectable snacks, we are dedicated to helping you make these last three weeks of 2020 not just manageable, but cozy, fun, relaxed, and maybe the best three weeks of the whole damn year!

Cheers,
Max

I'm often confounded by the simplest things. Rattled by obvious truths. I didn't discover that reindeer were actually real animals until I was in high school. In 6th grade my brother told me you could fold a paper 42 times and it would reach the moon. When I confirmed this with my teacher I was literally dizzy with something closer to fright than awe. A winemaker I assisted just a few years ago discussed the limits of his vocation. "If I'm lucky", he remarked, "maybe I get to do 20 more harvests?". An acquaintance last week expressed sadness that her annual family gathering was not happening this year. Again, it was the simple math that crushed me: "...I mean, best case scenario, I think we'll only all get together 10, maybe 15, more times", she lamented.

I got to counting that day. And though I can't control the cruel math, I know I can give it meaning. Of all the struggles and strains that 2020 has presented, I am grateful for the renewed appreciation of time. Of counting and recounting blessings and days and years with an awareness and respect for finite numbers.

Here's another one: 17 days.

Jessie Olsen joined OAKLAND YARD just before the holidays in 2017. She was our first hire. She arrived with a can-do-anything attitude, a New York heart, a down to earth disposition, a wealth of knowledge about Italian wine, and her tiny Chihuahua-fox... a magical creature casanova who would become our greeter and shop dog, Turtle.

Jessie takes pride in her work. She cares. She gets her hands dirty. Jessie helped build this ship and has been at the helm for the past three years, serving and stocking and selecting thousands of wines for dinner tables and countless celebrations across this town. And even as we've sailed into unchartered waters these past few months, we've been able to stay the course with our seasoned captain. In 17 days, Jessie's sails off to a new adventure, to start her own business. We have been so lucky to work with Jessie for so long and will miss her dearly. And while we know she'll drop in on occasion with Turtle (she's convinced him he's the mayor of Temescal and will require future 'face time' for re-election), December 20th will be her official last day here at the shop. Mark you calendars with broken hearts. Ring the bells that can still ring. Get to counting. Stop by while you can and say hello and farewell. Show and share some love.


Daniel

My parents’ centuries-old yellow farmhouse is the coziest place I know, which is a very good thing, because it’s often bitterly cold in western New York by the end of November. The house has seen nearly fifty Thanksgiving celebrations with the Davis family, and doubtless many more with the Hathaways, Peglows, and Poppenhusens preceding us. I haven’t always made it home for Thanksgiving, but on this day, it is always where I’d rather be, and I can still easily conjure in my mind the soft, orange light light in the living room window one sees from the end of the long, snowy driveway.

Like so many of us, I will not be traveling to be with my family today, but they will be in my thoughts, and many of them will also be on my computer screen shortly. I wonder if Zoom can handle the day’s traffic, with everyone’s aunts and uncles and cousins gathered in space, laid out like the Brady Bunch, or the Hollywood Squares. I look forward to seeing them, my people, though it won’t be the same as overeating together, with no tickling or poking each other, and no one seated on the floor playing ‘spoons,’ the family blood sport. Maybe next year we’ll be able to get back to these dear and familiar activities.

Daniel, Monique and I will be in the shop today from 10am to 2pm to help with last minute holiday supplies. We’ve still got loads of great wines, beer, cheese and charcuterie to keep your festivities rolling, and I look forward to seeing the smiling eyes above your masks, in lieu of the warm light of that cozy, snow-covered home.

Thank you, and a happy Thanksgiving to you all,

Max

 

OPEN THANKSGIVING DAY 10AM-2PM

I had a friend named Phillip in grade school who thought it would be funny to remove the head of his sister's doll and put it in the oven when no one was watching. The gag was simple, someone would open the door to slide in a casserole or a massive turkey... and there would be (gasp!) a head in the oven! It was the kind of joke kids play in 4th grade, the busy kitchen and particularly large Thanksgiving crowd would mean more laughs. Problem was, 4th graders are easily distracted and quickly move on to other merriment - and 4th graders do not consider that ovens are often preheated. I wasn't there, so I cant tell you who smelled the melting plastic or the singed hairs first, or if anyone screamed seeing the grotesque melted face, but Phillip told me on Monday he "got grounded from Thanksgiving forever".

Thanksgiving is going to be different this year for most of us, with many of us feeling grounded, perhaps in two ways. Sitting down to write you I find myself thinking back on past holiday feasts and Thanksgiving memories I've shared over the years. And while this year will likely see less pomp and preparation, I hope that the potential intimacy of smaller gatherings is something special that we can all embrace, and truly celebrate in its own right.

We'll surely miss the warm, lively crowds in the shop, curating and collecting bottles for their feasts and festivities in the weeks ahead, but we are eternally grateful for those who remain connected to this shop and who keep this space, this joy alive. With businesses closing all around the city, the profound gratitude we have this particular year is immeasurable. We are thankful simply to be. Thankful to keep our doors open and to still have a place in this amazing community. We are here for you and because of you. We remain honored and delighted to be your shop - and a part of your celebrations, whatever size or shape this year.

With all our thanks and deepest appreciation,

Daniel and the OAKLAND YARD family


HOLIDAY HOURS
OPEN TODAY - SUNDAY REGULAR HOURS 11-6PM
*OPEN MONDAY 11/23 12-6PM*
OPEN TUESDAY 11/24 & WEDNESDAY 11/25 *11-7PM*
OPEN THANKSGIVING DAY 10AM-2PM

Ten years ago, Daniel Schmidt walked into Smith & Vine wine shop, in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, for a second interview. He’d already impressed the general manager, and he was passed on to me and Michele, one of the shop owners, to see if he’d meet our approval. I don’t remember anything was said, but I remember that Daniel seemed nervous - a little shaky, talking quickly, eager to say the right thing - but he also came across as genuine and kind, and he was knowledgeable and passionate about wine. As soon as Daniel left the room, Michele smiled and made a gesture I’d never seen before: she drew a heart with two fingers in the air.

It was a big day for Daniel. Needless to say, he got the job, but he also gained, in me, a business partner and lifelong friend, and more importantly, he then got the girl, for when Glenny was hired shortly thereafter, he was smitten, she fell for him, and they began their life together. Smith & Vine was staffed exclusively by restaurant escapees, former waiters and cooks who loved food and wine, but had been jilted, or just plain worn down, by the industry. They were done with uniforms and late nights, tired of listening to the Buena Vista Social Club and Gypsy Kings, the anodyne soundtrack of nineties dining. They wore ripped jeans and played hip-hop loudly, and they knew their grapes. My first day at Smith & Vine, I wore a button down shirt and nice shoes, and they told me I was overdressed.

It felt liberating to act naturally at work, to really be ourselves, and still be appreciated for excellent service. The connections we made with our odd bunch of regular customers felt nurturing and supportive. We served Olympians and court clerks, writers and bike mechanics, actors and teachers, chefs and musicians, and their daily visits enriched our lives. Just thinking of them makes me smile. Our experience together at Smith & Vine made us want to create something like this for ourselves, and for Oakland, a friendly wine store without pretense or attitude, a place to get to know our neighbors.

Daniel, Glenny, Julia, and I opened Oakland Yard four years ago next week, and I like to think we’ve accomplished much of what we set out to do. In March of this year, we were awarded Oakland Magazine’s People’s Choice Best Wine Shop and Best Wine Bar in the east bay. The novel virus has limited our closeness, but this too shall pass. Our online store looks great, thanks to Daniel, and it’ll keep us afloat, but it’s no substitute for the community we’ve built and will enjoy again in its fullness some day. Thank you for an excellent first four! Despite divisive politics, drought and wildfires, pestilence, and the usual greed and hatred, together, we’ve created a little bubble of wine and love - to sustain and support us in our journeys - and it all began on one day, ten years ago, three thousand miles away.

Here’s to the next four years,

Max

I've had a hard time starting this one. With the angst and uncertainty of the election I found myself needing to prepare two very different letters for you today, depending on the outcome. And while today brings more hope than anyone may have been feeling on Tuesday, I'm not pushing bubbles quite yet.

Something about my participation in this unknown outcome reminds me of a series of books I was wild about in my youth. The Choose Your Own Adventure books left an indelible mark, as fantastical, absurd and arbitrary as they were. The obvious and persistent themes of mortality. The simple notion of having a choice in my narrative arc, in my own (final) outcome. Perhaps intrigued by failure, these books gripped and rattled me. I can still recall one particular ending, like a terrible dream, some 30 plus years later. A miscalculation, a regrettable decision. There is a loud noise or a sudden flash of light, when I needed to go unnoticed. I am suddenly surrounded by the wolves. The simple and hopeless final line haunted me for years: They begin to close in. The rest of that page is startling bare. It is the END. My end.

As I read more adventures during those years, the failures were less shocking, but more internalized. A disappointment in my decisions, in myself. A naiveté of my autonomy. If only I chose this or that, perhaps things would have turned out better. I'll confess to you that I'd often cheat, keeping several twisted little fingers tucked in to various pages - an invisible thread to find my way back from ultimate doom - with one foot and my still beating heart tethered to trail markers and past potential at each forked path.

As an adult, I know that narratives are not singular. And perhaps that is something positive I took from those books, ultimately. The other threads and endings are not alternate, but simultaneous - a better outcome is there, sometimes playing out unnoticed or simply waiting to be discovered. Sometimes just on the other side of the current page. Let's breathe deeply and hold some hope in our hearts this morning. Let's hope for the best. But whatever happens with the election, this adventure does not end today… nor in the coming weeks. We still have much work to do. We still have decisions to make, wolves to fight off. We will keep fighting. And most importantly, let us keep fighting for those who have little choice in their outcomes. Forget the ending, let’s focus on how we can begin. Let’s change the narrative. Let us write a new page, together.

In solidarity,

Daniel


P.S.
OAKLAND YARD turns 4 next week... we'll be sending out news in the next few days about an outdoor socially distant celebration on the afternoon of Sunday, November 14th. Stay tuned!

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live,’ writes Joan Didion, in The White Album. ‘We live...by the ‘ideas’ with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience.” Every other Thursday morning, for the past four years, my friend and business partner, Daniel, and I – both stubborn procrastinators - have woken up early to write. We write to share the stories that bring meaning to our lives, stories that help us understand our place in the world, that make us laugh, or change our minds.

When we opened Oakland Yard in November of 2016, Daniel suggested we share the task of writing of a weekly ‘newsletter’ featuring amusing stories, new products, events, and promotions. I’d say I have a great appreciation for wine, but I don’t know anyone who wants to read a weekly essay about the stuff. My delight in wine comes from the unmediated experience, a smelling and touching and tasting that has nothing to do with words. Wine, like music, does not fit into words, or rather words are unfit to describe them, and much of the value of wine - and all food and art – for me, is that it sends me places words cannot go. We still write about the store, or about wine, occasionally, but these days, with no events on the horizon and fewer actors onsite, more often than not, we just tell stories. I suppose we do it to try to make sense of our lives, to freeze the phantasmagoria.

So we try to let our wines speak for themselves – they may whisper, groan, roar or sigh; far be it from us to tell you what they’re saying – and instead we put words to our hopes and fears, to the funny thing that happened last week, to a persistent childhood memory, or any of the unlikely events that make up a half century of life on this planet. When I was young and learning to write, I felt I had not lived enough, not seen enough, to have anything interesting to say. I used to joke that I was busy gathering information, storing data, and that one day I would release my findings. Maybe it wasn’t a joke after all. Daniel and I have each written over a hundred of these missives, all archived on our website for binge-reading or general reference. Some mornings we’re sharper than others, but it always comes from the heart.

Thank you for reading,

Max

I wrote a couple weeks ago about my daughter's peculiar affinity for acorns - and mostly about her doing the ridiculous things kids do that elicit head-shaking grins. One thing no one told me is that while toddlers are often silly and spastic, they can also be downright frightening. I don't mean that in a "eeek..she's so high up that ladder!" kind of way, I mean she can actually creep me out. My fears of the dark return to me. She'll wake me up in the night with her cries, and I'll hold a palpable terror in my arms. She'll tell me about spiders on the ceiling or of a wolf chasing her, and I'll console her as best I can. But some nights she'll really spook me - like last week when I entered her room around 6:30 to start the day. She was just standing there in the dark, silent with her back to me, facing the wall. Everything OK? I asked. A slow glance over her shoulder, then pointing at the wall and a whisper delivered with chilling clarity and calm: "I can still see the monster's shadow...". That afternoon I looked online for a night light, not for her but for me.

Halloween is a week or so away, though I doubt we'll see many trick-or-treaters out and about this year. While I've never been really into it, having a little one brings new interest in holidays. Ellery is now aware of this dress up day and has told me that she wants to be an astronaut, so planning is underway. My folks had their hands full creating costumes for all of us kids - painting little faces into werewolves and pirates and wrapping miniature mummies in Ace bandages. I more often played characters than dress-up. Eddie Munster one year. Thriller-era Michael Jackson another. Fonzie from Happy Days. One year I gave in and let some of the older siblings talk me into a costume called the Shaggy Dog. It was made entirely of newspaper, cut into strips like grass skirts and affixed with an absurd amount of scotch tape. It was a strange spectacle. A shiny brown nose and a concerted canine enthusiasm brought it all together. But that evening a certain shyness stopped me from selling it. We went out into the neighborhood for candy and the first door opened. Ooohh, a pirate! Oooh, a ghost! I stood there lackadaisically. An uncomfortable pause, a muffled discussion with another adult in the doorway, and then: "Well, look at you! ... Are you trash?"


Whatever next week, next month, or next year looks like, have no fear.. we are here for you. Whether your days are triumphant or trash, sunshine or shadows, we're here to hold you. No tricks, only treats. OAKLAND YARD is OPEN and for CURBSIDE PICK UP Tuesday through Sunday 12-6. Our ONLINE SHOP is up and offers free curation service as well as a new online bottle shop (with pictures!). Our phone lines are open as well - and though there may be a short wait, feel free to walk up to our door as well. Little shaggy (and not so shaggy) dogs are most welcome, always:)

Sunlight takes about eight minutes and twenty seconds to reach the earth, and, like the paradoxical ancient Greek word pharmakon, meaning both remedy and poison, the light of the sun is a necessity of life, and also a lethal danger. Sunlight is scattered and filtered by our atmosphere, and it appears to us with differing qualities, depending on the season, or time of day. Morning and evening light travel a long passage through our gaseous ring to bring us golden hues and lengthened shadows, while the penetrating midday light encounters less dust and fewer molecules, giving sharp, short shadows, and bright blue skies. The fall season brings cooler weather, not because the sun is farther from us, but because of the angle of its rays, a result of our signature twenty-four degree tilt. Like that of morning and evening, autumn light is less direct, more diffuse, yellower, and softer.

Fall seems to have a natural poignancy, an emotional power that many of us respond to with introspection, thoughts of our larger voyage, a new perspective on our past, present, and future. This change in light is one of many signals on our perennial path to winter, perhaps the most obvious sign of seasonal change in these parts, where a day in late October can warm to the high nineties, but the leaves continue to fall, and the geese still pass with a honk. The cosmos are moving at the same speed as in summer, but the effects of this motion, and our response to it, form a watershed of evaluation, a time to acknowledge and effect change.

I received my election ballot in the mail this week, and I intend to fill it out this weekend, and if you too have received this powerful and long awaited packet of paper, I encourage you to do the same. For me, this act of inking will be a moment of personal victory, regardless of the ultimate outcome. Next month will be Oakland Yard’s fourth anniversary, and the fourth anniversary of an election that so changed and divided our country that we no longer recognize it. Four years ago, it felt like we needed to hang on tight, because the ride was about to get a lot wilder. Well, we were right - it got wild, and we’re still white-knuckling it – but we’re still here, and you’re still there, and despite that dark, orange day we lived through last month, and these dark four years we’ve endured in America, here comes the sun, little darling. Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s all right. It’s all right.

Cheers,

Max

You need any acorns? I've got some. Loads of them. My two year old daughter (three in December!) has amassed an extraordinary collection. There are massive oaks that frame a cul-de-sac nearby and each evening when I get home from work, she begs me to let her wander and gather them up. She is a motivated squirrel - hoarding, storing, scattering, occasionally trying to eat them. It seemed harmless enough at first, and, in truth, was delighted to support her interest in these free toys. But now it's gotten out of hand. Mounds and piles in every room. Miniature land mines beneath early morning bare feet. Seven in a bowl here, sixteen in mom's wool sock... What's that smell in the oven? You guessed it. They are everywhere. She even picks unique favorites each night to take to bed (a tiny whisper in the dark: "Don't move, let me tuck you in, little fella..")
 
I inquire about her general plan, her endgame. "To pick them ALL!" she squeals and scurries off. I ask Ellery what she will do when she has them ALL.  "Give them to EVERYONE!" she hollers, triumphantly. And so the great socialist acorn revolution continues, as I write you this morning, picking one out of my slipper and sipping my coffee.

Watching my little one grow, the acorn metaphor is plain. Simple, and rather hokey, perhaps - that something singular and so small can grow to something so grand. But this morning I reflect not on the acorn, but the squirrel. The acorn falls from the tree with such promise, but will not grow in the tree's massive shade. It's the little critters, the simple characters that collect, store and scatter these tiny seeds and allow them potential new life in other corners and cul-de-sacs of the world.

We miss you here at the shop, and all the little joys and gentle gestures you brought into this space. Your seeds, your stories and anecdotes, the collection of curiosities and your kind contributions that made this space grand. We miss growing with you. Until this all passes, we hope you find some some delight and comfort in the collection of treasures we have amassed here at OAKLAND YARD. We hope these bottles will find their way to you - and to your friends and fellow critters, scattered across the city. Into your hands and into your homes, bringing you warmth and joy. A joy that grows. A towering joy. 

With love,

Daniel

My vision was perfect – better than twenty twenty - until I reached forty-five, but in the last few years, it has degraded quickly. Now, a slim pair of plastic glasses are my only way back into the smaller places, the land of words and little details. I’ve read of folks who’ve gained sight, having lived without, who become surprisingly disturbed by the messiness of it all, the chaos of the world unveiled. It’s easy to imagine scenes more beautiful and orderly than most, and I’ve felt largely at ease, unbothered by the newly inaccessible, but there is also a feeling of helplessness that outweighs the relief of not having to decode what one cannot see, and the indistinguishable bottles in hotel showers have led me to wash my hair with conditioner more often than I’d like.

Thirty years ago, when I still saw quite well, I enrolled in an ancient Greek language class. My professor was a round, young, red-headed Dennis the Menace-looking fellow who got very excited about ancient Greece. He was also a huge Washington Redskins fan who believed American football was the closest thing to phalanx warfare. We read poems by Sappho, plays by Aristophanes, and the Gospel of Paul, which was – who knew? - originally written in Greek. We also read Homer, the blind bard from Ionia, and bits of the Odyssey have stuck with me, particularly one seemingly unremarkable scene, which our teacher presented as an example of Homer’s realism. After a terrible day at sea, having lost many shipmates, the remaining crew set up camp, and cooked dinner expertly. The key is in the final word; Odysseus’ men were experts at boating, fighting, camping, and cooking, so naturally, although they were certainly sad and tired, they also made supper in the fine fashion that was their custom. An odd detail, but very real.

There is comfort in a familiar task done well, and though the world continues to fade from sight, to burn and crumble around us, we needn’t lose our expertise, rather we must cultivate and exercise our skills, and exert a noble agency in the face of great loss and a future unknown. Daniel, for one, has been flexing his technological muscles, and he’s now got nearly all of our selections listed on the Oakland Yard website, with photos and prices, for your perusal. We appreciate you buying blindly for these many months, and we’re really excited to let you see, once again, all that we have to offer.

Cheers,
Max

As a sophomore in high school I was persuaded by a charismatic senior to join the school's all male acapella group, the Troubadours. An uninspired name considering the rich tradition of musical puns for choral collectives (The Acafellas, Nothing But Treble, The Clef Hangers, etc). It was essentially just men's chorus, but one of the perks was the monthly off-campus "touring" where we'd visit nearby middle schools to impress them with our vocal prowess and persuade them to enroll in our school ("yes.. you too could be this cool!"). A few girls would make eyes at us. On a couple occasions, a member of faculty. More often than not, some of the boys would shout unpleasant nouns across the lot as we boarded our bus home.

The most ridiculous outing was the time we were hired by a senior women's group for some fancy annual luncheon event. We were told to plan a 90 minute set of "charming background music". We spent a month rehearsing old-timey numbers: jazz standards, a couple low tempo doo-wop ditties. Non stop nostalgia. But on the day there was some miscommunication. We came out in our blazers and ties, expecting to set up in a corner but were brought to the center of the room. The attendees paused conversations to listen to our opener, a rehearsed gimmick: we'd do a few bars of Latin mass and break into Gershwin. (No they didn't!). The central problem was that the emcee disappeared and no one spoke up to encourage guests to continue eating, drinking, and talking among themselves. And so it became very clear by the fifth song the guests were losing patience, visibly upset we were still singing. An exaggerated whisper at one table: "How long is this gonna take??"  

So I was less than confident for the first solo number (mine, thanks.) A semi-choreographed flirty sideshow of Night and Day by Cole Porter. Tired, ancient eyes melted any mojo, painted pursed lips and perturbed pouts all around. Zero swagger and ill-timed, cringeworthy croons: "And this torment won't be throooough.. til you let me spend my life making loooove to youuu... day and niiiight... night and daaaay..".  The applause was soft. And short. Someone in our group finally spoke up and said we were going to take a quick break. We returned 20 minutes later and gathered in the corner near an empty table. We sang If I Didn't Care by The Ink Spots and an odd list of mostly religious hymns the remainder of the set, a sort of self-imposed penance I suppose. 


Sometimes you have to pivot. We are grateful for all your support - and to those who have kindly suggested mixing up the setlist here at OAKLAND YARD. Some have encouraged us to increase our market and pantry offerings. The main request after this email was for us to put our inventory up online (with pictures, please!). Well, we listened - and while we'll still offer our "somm service", curating cases and recommending bottles based on taste and preferences... for those who want to go their own way, our ONLINE SHOP will be up this week. ("How long is this gonna take??") We'll be adding more bottles and photos daily, but you can start browsing and selecting your own bottles right away. Thanks in advance for your patience and support as we work out the kinks, and find some way to keep the song alive.

With gratitude,

Daniel

In observing life’s ordinary objects, I find it interesting to consider their origins, and their paths and uses, but I am most fascinated by where things end up. A stone in a field, a knit wool sweater, a computer chip; they each undergo a journey, contain a history, and have hidden, untold tales, with beginnings and endings. As Nabokov notes in Transparent Things, an item as seemingly simple as a pencil has a story that is lengthy and complex: “Thus the entire little drama, from crystallized carbon and felled pine to this humble implement, to this transparent thing, unfolds in a twinkle.”

Many of our things find their end in the garbage; the typical American denouement. Some crumble back into the earth, and others are recycled. I remember witnessing, with awe, the Fresh Kills landfill, which covered 2,200 acres of Staten Island, and at the peak of its operation, in 1986, received 29,000 tons of residential waste per day. I once knew a couple living in Vermont who didn’t have a garbage can, only compost and recycling. This blew my mind a little bit. Here in Oakland, our liquids flow with gravity and find the bay. The spoiled milk, wine we drink, my shaven whiskers, all come to a quiet rest in the surrounding water.

When I lived in Alphabet City, I used to confront litterers. “You dropped something,” I’d say to the teenager throwing down a candy wrapper. The response was more often hostile than gracious, but I’d registered my disapproval. Occasionally, someone would throw a plastic bottle from their car window, and I would take it from the sidewalk and throw it back into the vehicle. I once left my apartment on St. Mark’s place and watched someone open their car door and drop an empty soda can while stopped at a light. Since their window was unopened, I took the can and jammed it into the rim of their back wheel. The muscle bound driver, and his passenger, emerged quickly and angrily. “Did you just touch my car?” He roared. I stuttered, “Y-Y-You can’t just drop trash in the street.” He told me that, in fact, he could, and he was getting ready to punch me in the head, when I heard a voice behind me. It was the owner of Rags-a-Go-Go, the consignment shop below my apartment. “What’s going on here?” She asked. I quickly explained myself and, as a woman appeared beside her, she turned to the driver and said “Well, my girlfriend’s a kick boxer and she will kick your fucking ass!” She said it as though there were no question in her mind. There was a brief silence, then they got back in the car and drove away. I thanked my neighbors, walked to work with my heart in my throat, and made a note to be more careful, lest I find myself sleeping with the fishes.

I’m no longer one to tell folks what to do, but while the world’s turning upside down, and we’re forming new habits, some wasteful and some regenerative, let’s remember to prioritize stewardship over convenience. Take what you need, dispose of it properly, and take care of each other. And feel free to bring back the blue Oakland Yard six pack bags you’ve got piling up in your pantry; we have a designated quarantine corner where they’ll rest until they’re safe to reuse.

Cheers,

Max

I feel as if I've aged five years in the past few months. Just deserts, I suppose, as I spent much of my early youth wanting to be old. I took unusual pleasure in wearing second hand suits early on. I took to Dominoes and Backgammon in admiration of the elegant old Greek, Italian, and Armenian men who congregated in the neighborhood parks on the weekends. I methodically strained my eyes for many months around age 9 in a desperate hope to require glasses. I scored a cane at a garage sale with immeasurable glee. I once even regrettably shaved the corners of my hairline to give it the appearance of receding. I was 12. And, actually, it was only one corner - I realized immediately that attempting this ruse after a summer tan was naive at best. The 'bald' patch was a shockingly bright and bare contrast, which I then needed to conceal by drawing hairs back in with a Sharpie. This proved far from convincing, so i scrapped that plan and went with a bandaid, concealing some non-existent injury which demanded further fabrication to sympathetic inquiries. 

These days I no longer pretend. Though the practiced scowl and shaking of a fist in the air never quite took, the body gives. An aching back, sore joints. Nerves. General malaise. Suspicious looks at the sky. But as old as I may feel or be - at this time of year - and this week in particular - my elementary heart can more readily access memories of youth. I've mentioned this before, but my heart still beats to the school calendar. The new year starts in September for me. A silly but certain rebirth. I can still access that particular nervous excitement of returning to a familiar and common space - to classmates, crushes, old friends and curious new faces joining together for another annual adventure. New purpose and new plots. New memories to be made.

I can't wait until this strange season is over for us. We look forward to seeing all your faces when we get through this. To gathering again, whether in parks or in our little classroom on 40th St. We hold our collective breaths and look forward to reconnecting. To sharing stories of summer, of tall tales and short-lived exercise plans. To hearing all about your new habits and hobbies and, perhaps, of a regrettable hair cut or two.

To feeling, if not young, perhaps new - again. 


Sending love, 

Daniel

Peering through the mist and smoke, we’ve wondered how we got here, and where we’re going. We look ahead to brighter days, and we’re thankful for our community and the simple pleasures we still enjoy, like wine, bread, and flowers, or the familiar voice of a trusted friend. We are also resentful and bitter that this is our lot, fearing strangers, intimacy, and invisible germs, our smiles carefully hidden from sight. What did we do to deserve this? A world so small and troubled.

If it has not dried up entirely, our work too has changed, sometimes beyond recognition. You may be strapping toothbrushes to fish for a living now, and not asking questions, as jobs are hard to come by. We continue to buy wine from over fifty distributors, and our afternoons were once filled with back-to-back tasting appointments, but I’ve not sat with one of our salespeople since March, and our bar is full of tiny bottles and sample jars, sterilized vessels handed over in bags and boxes, drawn from sample bottles for our assessment, accompanied by emailed tech sheets. The little jars have no jokes for us, no news of harvest, or tales of new love.

We miss spending time with our patrons, our regulars, our wine club members. We miss your fashion, your wit, your dogs, and your joy at finding a promising bottle at the end of a long day’s work. When our people come to pick up wine, we see them now so briefly there on the sidewalk, across the wooden table, with kids in the idling car, or bicycle in hand. Sometimes we ask, “How are you holding up?” And the pauses, the sighs, the eyes rolling to avoid the enormity of the question, are all we need to understand. “Some days are better than others.”

The world is still unimaginably large and full of life and love and wonder. We will see each other through this, or around it, or we’ll meet it head on; however we do it, we will do it together. In fact, we ARE doing this together, even when it feels like we are alone. Along with the sunshine, there’s got to be a little rain sometimes - or just fog and lightning - so let’s step up the singing and dancing, keep counting blessings while we’re counting new cases, and consider every day an opportunity to recognize the bits of goodness in life, and to help others do the same.

Cheers,

Max

I'm slow moving this morning, with little sleep last night. Even on the rarest occasion of both the baby and toddler slumbering through the night, I was wide awake. I've always kind of been this way. I can recall countless nights of my youth, Dad driving us home late at night, back to the east side after visiting friends down south in Huntington Beach or cousins in Costa Mesa or others further inland. Packed up in our Dodge Ram Van, after a long afternoon and evening of games and mischief and spent energies - everyone finally too exhausted to do much but get along, each of us seven finding some odd position of personal comfort, and most quickly trailing off to sleep on their respective bench. 

But I'd be wide awake for the dark drive. My mom would put on an easy listening station, almost always 103.5, and we'd listen to Love Songs on the KOST... with Laurie Sanders. Request lines were open for all lovers awake in the night. Laurie would read their notes and dedications and take live calls. Little windows into the sappy souls of strangers, sharing their feelings of love and loss and longing. There was a predictable Hallmark cheesiness to it all that I rather enjoyed. The quaint and hokey tie ins: "Kyle, if you're listening... Sharon just wants you to know that the fire in her heart still burns... " and Sharon would request Eternal Flame by the Bangles or something of the sort. Sometimes there would be some left turns: "Jen, Richard knows how stressed you are at work these days" ... and then Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye would follow. (Richard!). Other times it was really out there: "Alejandro, Cassie says she's still so conflicted - and is sorry about what went down at the work party..." (What?? So many questions!). If it was really juicy, mom would sometimes insist Dad keep the radio on for a few more minutes outside the house, the others still sound asleep, knowing nothing of Cassie's conflict nor of Kyle's fire. 


Phone lines are open today and everyday. And we're taking ONLINE REQUESTS as always, all day and all weekend. We're now open Tuesday through Sunday 12-6pm. Thank you to all of you who continue to call in and connect with us, and to all who keep sharing the love. Let us know how we can best be there for you too. We welcome all requests - an email came through recently asking to know more about orange wine, another customer wanting more beer and hard cider options, and still another encouraging us to have an full online store. We're working on it. Thank you for reaching out! We hear you and we're here for you. Eternally.

Sending love,

Daniel


p.s. Check our Instagram today for pics of our new OAKLAND YARD totes! We will be selling these for $10 - with ALL proceeds going to APTP and Mask Oakland. Use the ONLINE REQUEST FORM to order and support!

Some cancelled plans hurt more than others. In these five months of sheltering, we’ve all missed weddings, graduations, and important milestones. My wife and I were meant to spend the first week of August with close friends on Fire Island, and to join her parents for a stretch of sailing on the Atlantic coast, before celebrating our anniversary in New Paltz, where we were married thirteen years ago. I’ll let all of that go, and we’ll pencil these plans in for next August, but I’d give almost anything to be in New York this Sunday for my father’s eightieth birthday.

A Virgo from the ‘Silent Generation,’ my father, James Cyril Davis, Jr., grew up in Woodmere, Long Island, riding horses, playing basketball, fishing and swimming in the Poconos, and helping his father install and repair boilers in the basements of the five towns of Nassau County. The eldest of five children, Jimmy was the first to go to university, studying English at Harpur College, in Binghamton, New York, where he met my mother, Jody Greenfield. After grad school in Rochester, my father became an English professor at Monroe Community College, and they bought an old farmhouse in Farmington, where my brother and I grew up, and where my parents are now.

My father taught at MCC for twenty-eight years, and I remember my delight when he would bring me to work and I would play with microfiche in the library, and eat lunch in the college cafeteria. I have so many fond memories of time spent with my father – playing basketball, splitting firewood, canoeing on the Finger Lakes - that it’s difficult to come up with one that represents how much he means to me, but there was a time, after my father retired, when he came to work with me. It was a short shift for him, but every year on Christmas Eve, at the wine shop where Daniel and I met in Brooklyn, my father would come help me close up the store, and then we’d drive together to Julia’s parents’ house in New Paltz.

In that final hour of holiday sales, my father would hold the door for last minute shoppers, and chat them up as they browsed. He was so proud to see me in my element, and so pleased and comfortable, really mirthful, interacting with customers. Then we’d lock up the shop, get in the car, and drive north, often through ice and snow. We’d then enjoy the rare pleasure of talking alone together for an hour or so, before calling from the thruway exit to telegraph our arrival, and finally arriving the cozy home full of loved ones, with Julia’s steaming bouillabaisse just hitting the table.

We can’t always be where we want to be when we want to be there these days, but it helps to sit and remember some of the good times. Happy birthday Dad! I love you, and am thinking of you, and we’ll see you next year. Eighty-one’s a big one too.

Much love,

Jonathan

An order came in the other week, so epic that we paused from our work to read collectively. A request for two bottles for a very special occasion, a first date. It began:

Here’s a slice of my inner world so you get a better idea of where I’m coming from.

dear diary:
~ fade in ~
(( No Ordinary Love by Sade plays softly in the background ))

We took the request in earnest and with gravity. Got reacquainted with that song and video to embrace the mood (spoiler alert: Sade is a mermaid). Nearly a full page of cosmic imagery followed - scene changes, second and third acts, dream sequences, a motivational montage - an excellent soundtrack keeping things focused and moving forward. 

The inquirer goes on to seek a red that brings comfort. A red wine "to make us feel at home with each other..." and a white wine that is "heart-exploding...mesmerizing... one that tastes like the warm yellows of marigolds, a symbol for new beginnings." The request is playful and surreal. Soul warming and sincere. 


Reading all the daily requests remains a true highlight. We miss the energy that you all physically brought to this space, but we are thankful for these little windows into your souls and into your days, your lives. It brings us great pride and comfort to know that some spark and spirit still connects us all, even at such distance these days. And it is both touching and telling to see the considerations and kindness at work - so very many requests that come in are for bottles or gift certificates or six packs for others: for friends out of work, for a couple who had planned to be married that given weekend, for isolated family members, for a considerate neighbor. Folks still celebrating birthdays and commiserating bad days. Still showing and sharing the love, in these unordinary times. 

We are so grateful to see your order requests come in. We are honored to still be a small part of your lives and your celebrations. Your birthdays. Your weddings. Your movie nights. Thank you for allowing us to keep our doors open and to be a part of this beautiful community.


With extraordinary love,

Daniel


p.s. Brown Bag Bread Club accepts online orders until noon today for Friday afternoon pick-up at OAKLAND YARD. That’s right now if you’re quick – click here! 

ALSO, a happy reminder, OAKLAND YARD is now OPEN TUES through SUNDAYS, from 12 noon until 6pm! Mermaids (and mermen) welcome to order too.