One Sunday during October's hot spell, I hopped on my English bicycle and took a short ride along the vineyard-lined street of my upper valley community. As I rode past the collapsed grapevines, I visualized a cemetery of dead soldiers, their commander-in-chief being the god Bacchus. He can be proud of his troops as they have fought this battle courageously, weathering all conditions. Above all, the inconsistent weather situation. Our temperatures had gone over the 100 degree mark during the daytime the past week, dropping to below 50 in the early hours of the mornings. However, the precious vines can be contented that they performed their best feat in this new decade.

I pedaled past the graveyard and stopped for a brown bag lunch in my neighborhood park. Families were scattered about, trying to escape the Napa Valley heat. I was doing likewise, sprawling out on the cool, plush lawn. It was a perfectly manicured carpet of green, reminding me of the 18th hole at Augusta National Golf Course. Looking through a grove of tall pines at a flawless blue sky, I wandered down memory lane.

In the summer of 1958 I came to Napa with my 2-year-old son to visit my mom and dad at the old homestead on Randolph Street. My husband was in Japan for six weeks and I looked forward to seeing old friends and family. Upon arriving, I called some pals and confidantes. One of them was a fellow actor, who had been in my graduation class at Napa High School. He informed me that he was acting as the casting director for a feature film that was being shot in the valley. It was the story of a family involved in making wine (what else?), and he would be using some 10 or 15 local people for a couple of scenes.

He asked me if I would be interested, and being an adamant movie-holic, I enthusiastically agreed. My dad is an actor, having performed in many productions here in the valley. He graciously agreed to be in the film, too. When my mother, who was the organist at the First Presbyterian Church in Napa, heard the news, she consented to join us. My thespian buddy told us to report to the Yountville Train Depot the next morning at 7 a.m. That was in the days B.V. (before Vintage 1870), when we still had a train stop there. The film was entitled "This Earth Is Mine." The principal stars were matinee idol Rock Hudson and the lovely English actress Jean Simmons. The story took place in the 1940s, so we were instructed to wear costumes depicting that period.

My parents collected costumes and our attic looked like backstage at the Met. They had outfits ranging from Napoleon's regalia all the way to Mickey Mouse! The ladies had to wear furs and fancy hats and gloves. The men wore suits and top coats, even if they were behind the scenes or out of camera range. The temperature was over 100 that day, however, we all reported punctually and energetically at the location for every call.

The scene was supposed to be of a train pulling up to the platform. Location: Somewhere in England, in the bitter cold of winter. I was assigned to be on the train, sitting in a window seat waving vigorously. Mom and Dad were a handsome couple, looking so authentically British that they were chosen to be the commonwealth greeting the star, Jean Simmons. Rock Hudson always looked so cool and handsome and managed to keep all the ladies enraptured with his clear, blue eyes.

During that seemingly endless ride up and down the sturdy tracks, we all kept smiling and tried to keep up the appearance of being cool. Even the soaring temperatures, which rose with each passing day that July, could not dent our desire to act as professionals. When the Uptown Theater showed the motion picture, there was quite a soiree for the participants from this metropolis.

Suddenly a yellow Frisbee stirs me from my journey into the past. A towheaded youngster, in a mini-Speedo, swoops it up and gleefully tosses it to his partner. I return to the present, dumping my debris into the nearest receptacle, and I get back on my old-fashioned three-speed.

Surveying the scenery that surrounds me, I admire a colorful planter bursting with marigolds and lobelia. The vibrant orange-yellow of the marigolds and the bluish purple of the lupin are a consistent, pleasant sight throughout our valley. Enjoying the blend of God's natural beauty and a man-made commodity, I feel happy to know that nothing goes to waste from the arsenal of the Bacchusites. Discarded wine barrels, converted into planters, serve to house the bouquet.

Once again I ride by the graveyard of Bacchus warriors. In only this short time, the tractors and mowing devices have slain dozens more, and the dead ones lie on their backs with the hot sun parching them until they will be well done enough to return to the earth from whence they came. Behind me I hear the grinding of a diesel truck chugging along. It gets louder and the vibration of the mammoth creature forces me to move to the side and give him the road. As it leaves me in its exhaust fumes, I look at the dead vines and wonder how they have managed to survive through the rotten pollution and noise. General Bacchus has trained his troops well. The new little recruits are already shooting up, in the field next to the dead soldiers. They will rebuild their fort and create their protection from the elements in order that their life blood, wine, will nurture man's absorption for another century.