Excerpts From
Life's Too Short to Drink Cheap Wine

Introduction
Il Mio Amico del Cuore
(My Friend of the Heart)

My best friend, Vin Calia, planned his funeral the way most people plan a wedding. He chose the funeral home, selected a veterans' cemetery, and arranged a celebratory meal at his favorite Italian restaurant, with special wines for his family and friends. For the memorial service, Vin asked me to deliver his eulogy. But he also asked me to share it with him before the Big Day.

I knew Vin was both a realistic sage and an optimistic explorer, but I wasn't sure what he expected in a eulogy. "You know, dignity," he said. This one word was paramount to Vin. In my gut, I knew what Vin wanted––to be honored, honestly and passionately, for his whole being. He also wanted to hear my words before he died.

At first, I felt ambivalent. I wanted to see him blooming, not dying. Vin had a magnetic personality. Swirling wine in his glass, he'd describe the aroma to all gathered round the table. As he savored wine, he savored life––inviting friends to special dinners, matching just the right tie with his jacket, watching the latest Hollywood flick, and increasing his store of Italian phrases just before a trip. How could I read a eulogy to a living man with whom I had ventured far and for whom I cared so deeply? Slowly, I came to see Vin's request as his armistice with death and as an affirmation of our friendship.

I was twenty-eight when we first met, and he was fifty-eight. Vin embodied trust in his friendships as well as in client-therapist relationships within his psychotherapy practice. He attracted people of all ages and interests. Curiosity, empathy, and learning were central to his work, as was the question, How can people live vibrantly and fully in the moment?

Vin knew how to have fun and enjoyed telling offbeat stories. Yet he had also seen great suffering and pain in World War II, and perhaps that's why he devoted his life to healing the lives of others. Vin had been there for me for two decades. Now I wanted to reciprocate as his steward and to usher him through his last transition.

Finally, my draft of the eulogy was done. Vin sat with his head upright, resting against a pillow on the easy chair. He was silent––eyes wide open––fully present. I was unsure that I could read the eulogy from start to finish without breaking down, so I began with the last two pages. In the face of Vin's courage, my anxiety gave way and I began.

My Tribute to Vin

Life is special. The life you have is a gift. Live it. Live it now. This was Vin's message to us all.

For the twenty years that I knew him, Vin treated life as a multifaceted, priceless gem. Once, as he was savoring a bite of salmon, I asked, "Is that one special?" Vin responded, "Always, every one." Wine was special too, every sip. And his many friends and the Knights of the Wine Table fed his soul.

As Vin sipped fine and sometimes not-so-fine wine, there were no regrets. Vin believed that all life experiences were willing teachers, if only you let them be. Vin was the best teacher––and the most willing student––I have known.

Here is why Vin was, and will continue to be, my best friend:
Vin encouraged me to be myself … to search for what I truly loved in life. Albert Schweitzer said, "In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit."

Our loving friendship was a two-way street. Over a bottle of wine, we shared stories about our family and work. We debated the merits of an apple or blueberry pie; then Vin would buy both. We shared the pain of failed relationships and the promise of new ones. Hope, for Vin, was the flip side of fear, and always the preferred choice. He would dream precisely and worry vaguely, encouraging me to do the same.

Vin had an accepting heart. This didn't mean that Vin was everyone's buddy; he could be selective. Still, he didn't judge, but accepted others for who they were. Sometimes I'd scratch my head as if to say, "How does he do that?" I felt welcomed by Vin, as no one had welcomed me before. And I had never laughed so freely as I did with him, so hard, until my belly ached.

Vin would call and say, "Let's go for a run." I'd look outside and say, "There's a blizzard out there!" We'd go anyway.

Vin believed that, despite difficulties, life was magical. Once we went to a restaurant and Vin brought his own wineglasses in their original box. Carefully, Vin unpacked four of them, and other patrons began to stare. The glasses were oversize, about three times the size of a standard red wineglass. The waiter poured the wine. The stares turned into "oohs and ahs" as Vin angled the glass, holding its contents to the light. He swirled the liquid and, void of the slightest inhibition, burrowed his nose into the bowl. The others at the table followed: tipping, swirling, sniffing, and tasting from their own glasses. Vin made magic for his friends, for onlookers, and most of all, for himself.

Vin had a passion for life and the imagination and grace to share it. When people asked Vin's wife, Caroline, where she lived, she'd respond, "Above a wine cellar!" Decorated in a grape motif, cooled to fifty-three degrees, and lined with hundreds of special bottles, Vin's wine cellar was not a storage vault, its contents to be hoarded. It was a manifestation of Vin's passion, imagination, and grace––and freely shared with family, friends, and colleagues.

Vin asked for what he wanted. One of Vin's last requests was to stop at Lyndell's Bakery, in Somerville, Massachusetts, the town where he grew up, to buy three fig squares, two date crescents, and a small cheesecake. The doctor had said, "You must eat." Vin wanted the sweetness of his childhood now, in the moment. He asked for it, and if only in the smallest way, his dream came true.

As I was leaving Lyndell's Bakery, I ran into an acquaintance and commented that I was especially sad because my best friend was dying. She responded, "It's never a good time to say Bye."

When I'd finished reading the eulogy, Vin uttered one word: "beautiful."

He died two days later, on Valentine's Day 2002.

One day, as Vin and I were running around Fresh Pond, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I asked Vin, "Do you have to have a lot of money to be happy?" Vin responded, "No, not if you can answer, What, or how much, is enough in life?"

Today when I ask myself, Who is the most successful person I've ever known? Who is the happiest? Vin immediately pops into my mind. Many feel that success and happiness are incompatible goals: one either goes for the money and the trappings or makes people the most important thing in life. Vin taught me to combine both. He urged me not to chase after a bigger paycheck, but instead to pursue my passion and my purpose. It was all about balance. Success––owning a home and gaining professional recognition––has resulted. But I also have peace of mind, satisfying relationships, and a feeling of giving back to others. Material things are merely on loan to us, but our sense of well-being is an eternal gift––that's Vin's legacy to me.

The two of us had a tradition of running every Saturday morning, no matter what the weather. One of our favorite spots was an inviting wooded path in Concord, Massachusetts. The setting was picturesque, and the run became the highlight of my week. The obvious draw was staying in shape, yet on those days I also felt treasured––accepted––by another human being, not for who I might become but for who I was, exactly, this minute, in the present.

Having the "right" answers to life's questions was rarely important. When is the right time to remarry? How will I know when this person is the right one? Is it possible to be happy lifelong in the same marriage? What is it like to be responsible for a child? I didn't need to please Vin or to agree with him. Instead, we explored the unknown trails, together wondering and exchanging ideas. When either of us thought we had an answer, we'd tease each other, saying, "Perfect!"

Other times, Vin and I would run in silence. It was enough to enjoy the sun, crisp air, or rain. Suddenly, Vin would break into a hundred-yard dash. Running just a hair ahead of him, I'd exclaim, "Let's set a record!"

Vin once asked, "How do you run with such abandon?" "I'm not sure," I answered, "I guess I'm just fit."

Today I'm more certain of the answer: because I felt more awake on these miles of friendship. Throughout my time with Vin, I learned how to live in the moment, how to trust, how to make magic, how to ask for what I want, how to enjoy the unexpected side trips life has to offer, and how never to be afraid to start again.

I wrote this book to pass on these lessons to you.

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"Trusting someone
gives you an opportunity
to liberate
your truer self."