Lou Preston

I often speak of surprise and serendipity as I recall the twists and turns of Preston Vineyards. Ours has not totally been a random walk through the vines, yet I confess to the absence of a grand design in the spinning of our vinous thread. It’s been visceral trial and error. If it feels right, I’ll do it; if it works, I’ll keep it.

My farming roots began at our family dairy on the Russian River near Healdsburg. Owning a dairy means big dumb cows and a lot of headaches. Thoroughly confounded by the advice of the then Sonoma County Ag Commissioner who was the local expert on viticulture—“plant Cabernet Sauvignon anywhere, everywhere”—it became my lot to go to UC Davis to get the real scoop so we could exchange cow headaches for wine grapes.

The University didn’t have all the right answers either, but brought me into contact with some fascinating characters whose influence extended beyond my year’s course of study. Maynard Amarine, Lloyd Lider, George Cook; each had an intimacy with grapes and wine that was as much personal as professional. They loved their subject and they loved wine. From them I absorbed rather than learned that the beauty of wines is in their diversity and individuality. We tasted our way through acres of grapes, decades of vintages, and continents of varietals to learn that place matters. Un-named then, it’s what we call site specificity and terroir today.

Fast forwarding to the selection and development of my own property in Dry Creek Valley, good luck brought me into the company of several individuals who helped shape the context of my evolving grape and wine experience. What I call my Italian Period began with the introduction to a real estate salesman who knew Dry Creek history and land intimately, was a Zinfandel grower himself, and made great wine. That Americo Rafanelli sold me my ranch and then taught me the tricks, techniques and traditions of red winemaking was not the crux of our relationship. It was seeing his way of weaving wine and farming into his life in a holistic and natural way. No pretence, no preciousness; wine was simply something he made because the day was incomplete without it, and because his own was the best.

Other neighboring Italian old-timers continued my education. Jim Guadagni taught me to read the soils, to understand the rhythm of the seasons and to choose the grape varieties that were best suited to my property. His brother Fred taught me to cure olives, to dry prunes and walnuts and to plant garlic by the phase of the moon. Fred Bartolozzi engaged me with stories of getting by during hard times (press your home-made prosciutto by driving your pickup truck over it). Reno Buchignani told me about collecting wild vine rootstocks along back road ditches and streams (no we don’t do that). All told stories of Prohibition and the Depression suggesting the best way to survive was bootlegging (we don’t do that, either). Of course the sustenance for all of this Italianness has been Susan’s cooking. It’s Italian too and so is she. And next time ‘round you can call me Luigi.

My middle period focused on marketing. The short list of wines we made in the beginning (Zinfandel and Sauvignon Blanc mostly) exploded into an extended family of tasty but at that time esoteric varieties that the average consumer wasn’t familiar with. My Davis-inspired fascination with diversity had the unintended result of putting me on the marketing trail to explain, educate and promote. While my colleagues were talking about Chardonnay and Cabernet I found myself expounding the virtues of Dry Chenin Blanc, Gamay Beaujolais, and Syrah. I made many friends thirsting for knowledge who are still with me today, anticipating the next unusual wine from Preston.

It was the marketing challenge that brought the special personality of Dry Creek Valley into sharp focus for me. Not well known outside wine-centric Northern California, Dry Creek was eclipsed by Napa, Sonoma’s Valley of the Moon, even local Alexander Valley. A collaborative of local wine families met in 1990 to explore and define the essence of our valley, with the consequent founding of the Wine Growers of Dry Creek. As its first President I was assigned the task of educating consumers and trade about the Valley which broadened my perspective and deepened my respect of the appellation and its distinctions.
The segue from those marketing years to today’s downsized production is a tale of introspection for both Susan and me, seeking proportion and relevance in an increasingly intense industry . Sometimes referred to as an ageing hippie (the beard and Birkenstocks, I suppose), I revisited the values we espoused in the 60’s and 70’s. Given a choice between the pursuit of economic gain and the husbandry of plants and family I chose to give up those accumulated frequent flyer miles and return to the vineyards. We resized the winery to make it more manageable as a family business, and found other wineries to buy the extra grapes. We still specialize in unusual varieties, but have added the proviso that we will select only the best of the property for our own label, we have to like the wines we make, and making them has to be fun. Home-made bread and olive oil and pickles share prominence on our table with the estate wine bottle, and we’ve gone fully organic, extending the care and concern we used to reserve for our vegetable gardens to the vines and the trees and the people of Preston Vineyards.

It’s hard work, farming and winemaking, and it’s been our dream for the last three decades. Having a smaller winery makes it feel right; I think we’ll keep it.