Sin in the South

Yesterday, after two vineyard visits, I plopped down between the grassy rows of vine at the third destination, heaved a slightly inebriated sigh, and commented on how seductive southern heat really is. “I suppose it’s because you just want to take your clothes off,” I said as I squinted in the sun and picked at the draped fabric of my dress. Of course two tastings of wine, the equivalent of three glasses for me, was likely fueling some kind of fire. My husband began to regret that there was no picnic blanket in the trunk of his car. I think had there been, he would have likely dragged me into a shady spot in the woods right then and there.


Alcohol or not, there is something about southern heat, particularly when a nearby radio is dripping with blues music like condensation, as was yesterday. Here, heat makes one move slowly, languidly, glisten at the throat, and flush. Women draw up their hair and find thin, strapped shirts to bare their skin. Flesh becomes more so. It’s a wonder there isn’t more scandal than there already is down here.

I passed on the third tasting, by the way, and opted for a bottle of water. The closest shade came from the promise of patio umbrellas and a container garden, so I kept my clothes on, abandoned my husband to a lone tasting indoors, and made nice conversation with visitors from the nearest large town. Next time, though, seriously—must pack a picnic blanket. In the meantime, I wouldn’t be surprised if my husband finds a way to break the air conditioning here at the house…