Omak Daddy

So, we pull out of the Lake Chelan AVA, on our way northeast to Omak, Washington, the site of Kathy’s 30-year high school reunion. We’d checked in three empty full-case Styrofoam professional wine shippers, and we’ve already filled up one with tasty treasures from this newly official wine region.

Stopping in Chelan was a great way to break up the 5-hour drive from Seattle, but I could sense the dread that Kath was feeling as we approached Omak.

The reunion was set up to be informal, to say the least. I’d accompanied Kathy to her 10-year, 20-year and now this one; previous reunions were held at restaurants or hotel ballrooms. Per previous clambakes, festivities began with a Friday night no-host mixer on the back patio of (one of) the downtown pubs.

Days before, Kathy had taken her 1981 high school yearbook to work in an effort to bone up on facial features of classmates 30-years hence. CSI: Omak.

We pulled in to Omak late afternoon, checked in to our Best Western that hadn’t existed a decade ago, freshened up, and then hit the main drag down the hill for the Class of ’81 Reception.

The mill has long-since closed, and the Dairy Queen at which K worked has relocated. We drove by her old house, the high school (expanded!), and Gene’s, the grocery store that would cash your checks. And Kath told me that there never was any home mail delivery in Omak; everybody picked up their mail at the post office downtown.

We were hungry as we parked the rental car on the main stem, but it took a Reuben and a couple of splits of Fetzer Chardonnay before K and I were ready to head back to the three-decade, nametag-free zone.

And 30 years melted away instantly. Elisa was first to shout, “Siggy!” (a diminutive of Kath’s maiden name); “Chatty” Cathy was there; we chatted longtime with Troy, whom we narrowly beat out at the 10-year for “farthest traveled to attend”; at the time he lived in Pasadena, CA; we lived just west, in Beverly Hills.

It was actually really fun to hang in the background, and to hear old nicknames, probably unheard for decades, bandied about. Especially fun was the anguish that former classmates experienced at not recognizing same, from a class of just over 100 graduates. Troy, in particular, just could not wrap his head around a fellow grad sporting a few more El-Bees and a lot less hair.

The best were the 1981 HS alumni who actually copped to “wasting 20 minutes talking to” a supposed-graduate, only to discover that “they were only a SPOUSE!”

Befitting the unstructured reunion framework, Saturday was a mishmash of self-guided activities. Omak’s Rockwall Cellars (no relation to Cali’s RockWall) was expecting alumni throughout the day; one could take a stroll through the old/new high school; and it would all culminate for a BYOB BBQ chez alumnus Kevin.

Kathy and I were the party poopers from Friday’s mixer (BTW, that’s assuming that we ran into anyone who, when ordering a cocktail, asked for any mixer). We made plans to meet some folks at Rockwall when they opened at 11 a.m., knowing full well that we’d see them, for the first time tomorrow, that night at Kevin’s BBQ.

So, we hit Omak’s winery, Rockwall. Great space, nice wines, but they are struggling with estate stuff. Turns out that the summers are nice and hot, but the winters are brutal; they’ve had to replant at least three times, to hybrid varietals that give me a ‘Nam flashback to the 1970s of Canada’s winegrowing, such as Marechal Foch. Omak always had apples; vinifera may just have to take a little longer.

We’d arrived at Rockwall at opening time, only to see a gent wheeling cases out to his truck. I thought that this was either a zealous restaurateur or some mofo collector. Turns out that it was family, transporting cases for a tasting event in which they were participating up north in Oroville, WA.

Now, you have to understand that Kathy had already 'googled' some wineries up north for us to check out. We had already visited Omak’s Rockwall, but when it became apparent that all of Oroville’s wineries were going to be at “The Toast of Oroville” in the park, we had to get directions and do one-stop shopping.

Guys, “Das Toast” was wonderful. Small time, small town, big memories.

First, Kathy had knit herself a beautiful green mini-dress, from a “wool” that was spun from corn fibers. She packed it in her reunion luggage, but couldn’t bear to wear to any “official” reunion event. She wore it during the wine tasting in Oroville, and got raves, not the least of which was from the outrageously welcoming woman who sold us our admissions to the “Toasting.” (See photo: this is what welcoming strangers is all about!)

Even on the main street, we couldn’t divine the right park for the event; the Chamber of Commerce, in the old rail depot, was open, and they were outstanding.

We tasted, we ate and we bought some wine. Surprise.

We had no directions, no address, and no nothing to get to Kevin’s domicile. Partly is that a lot of Omak is on Native American land, so addresses mean, well, pretty well dick. We happened to drive down the roads when party organizers were tying the balloons for the correct turns.

Lots of fun, y’all. It was BYOB, so Kath and I brought some mid-level screw top so as not to burden the host. But this was no franks/pre-formed patties on das grill: This was a fully catered, more food than necessary full-meal deal. Beef, pulled-pork, cornbread, potato-, macaroni- salads.

Ya gotta be a special type of person to plan something for a group of other people. People who don’t even know all the other people.

Nobody thanks you when you are the event planner. Hey, you took that on; you know what’s entailed. Yeah, right; nothing but gratitude.

Many thanks. See you at 40. But if you don’t want to do it, we fully understand.