Fifty years ago — unbelievably — I crossed the stage at my college graduation, part of the second class of women admitted as freshmen to Yale. I was filled with hope, excitement, and, truthfully, no real idea of where life would lead. Looking back now, I can tell you: The most meaningful journeys are rarely predictable.
I never imagined that my path would lead me to a vineyard in the rolling hills of Sonoma County—let alone that I would become immersed in the world of Sparkling Wine. But my time at Yale planted a love of learning, a passion for storytelling, and a spirit of curiosity that made me willing to follow unexpected opportunities. What follows is adapted from an essay I contributed to the Commemorative Class Book for our 50th Reunion this May.
I arrived at Yale in 1971 – one of the early years when women were admitted – as a would-be math major, quickly backslid into economics, and ultimately found my footing in history. There, I had the extraordinary privilege of learning from some of the greatest minds: Donald Kagan, who made the Peloponnesian War feel as immediate as the evening news; C. Vann Woodward, Edmund Morgan, and Howard R. Lamar.
To be in their orbit—absorbing their wisdom and witnessing the passion they brought to their fields—was one of the defining privileges of my time at Yale. Studying history wasn’t just an academic pursuit; it felt alive, urgent, and deeply relevant to the present. Learning extended beyond the classroom; small seminars and one-on-one tutorials blurred the lines between study and lived experience. You didn’t just learn history; you felt its weight.
Education at Yale was more than acquiring knowledge or fulfilling academic requirements—it was about engaging deeply with ideas through conversation, debate, and immersion. Being in the room mattered whether at Rev. William Sloane Coffin’s gatherings or on the New Haven Line to Grand Central with R.W.B. Lewis.
That train ride, in fact, became the setting for my sole English “class” at Yale. Lewis had a gift for making literature feel personal. He taught Edith Wharton’s work with such knowing familiarity, pulling back the curtain to reveal the person behind the prose. Studying with him didn’t just deepen my appreciation for Wharton’s novels—it shaped the way I think about storytelling, the interplay between personal narrative and historical forces, and the enduring power of great literature. Like history, it wasn’t static; it was alive, urgent, and shaping the present.
At Yale, learning happened in close contact. I absorbed ideas not just from lectures but from the way these towering figures challenged assumptions, argued with precision, and wrestled with history in real time.
Woodward, with his measured Southern drawl and piercing insights on race and power, could turn a discussion on Reconstruction into an urgent, living debate. Morgan’s clarity of thought on America’s contradictions forced you to rethink everything you thought you knew about freedom and slavery. And Coffin? His living room was as much a classroom as any on campus—a place where activism, philosophy, and faith converged. You didn’t just learn by studying; you learned by being in the orbit of those who shaped the world.
The professors I gravitated toward weren’t just scholars; they were storytellers—shaping the way we think about race, power, governance, and identity. Their influence fed my own instinct for storytelling, which led me to journalism, where I spent a decade telling other people’s stories.
But life has a way of writing its own narrative, and eventually, my story brought me to my family’s vineyard, Iron Horse. At first, it was about honoring a legacy, but I soon realized that wine, too, is a form of storytelling. Each vintage is a reflection of place, time, and the people who shape it. Every bottle holds a moment in time, a confluence of history, nature, and human hands. The vineyard is a living narrative, evolving with each season. It is a privilege to tell this story.
I am particularly proud that Iron Horse has been a model of sustainability and community engagement from the outset. We were early adopters of regenerative farming practices, deeply invested in preserving our land for future generations. Our wines have been poured at the White House for seven consecutive administrations—beginning with the Reagan-Gorbachev summit meetings in Geneva, which helped end the Cold War. The current release of our Ocean Reserve Blanc de Blancs marks 20 years of contributing to ocean conservation.
Beyond the vineyard, I serve on the California State Food & Agriculture Board and the California Coastal Conservancy, working to protect the land and resources that sustain us all.
As I reflect on these past fifty years, I am reminded that life rarely follows a straight line — and that some of the most meaningful chapters unfold in ways you don’t expect. I am deeply grateful for the friendships, the opportunities, and the moments when old and new friends come together.
Here’s to the next chapter — may it be richer, more surprising, and more wonderful than we can yet imagine.
