The Vineyard in July

Trying to walk through the vineyard I side step and duck under shoots that spread across each aisle fighting for sunlight and reaching for a hold. They connect from either side and like fingers clasp cling to one another. A wayward star thistle got caught in the struggle; it snaps off as I move through. Up ahead a flash of white and my dog is off chasing after a cottontail. It’s easy to see how they got their name. All forms of life are awake and thriving as the sun begins to move across the sky. From green to brown to the iridescent black of a large flying insect with a stinger just under an inch long. I make a mental note to make peace with the bugs here.

Last night I stumbled upon a large discovery. The garage has been rarely used in the past few months and three content and obviously well fed black widows have taken up residence. The lifeless form of another beguiled mate remains in the webbing of one, a cocooned cricket in the other. These women are good at what they do. I pluck at the fibers and she goes running for cover. The web remains in tact. I stretch it taunt and continue to pull. It begrudging breaks apart; the fibers are among the strongest in nature.

The webs of less infamous spiders cling to my face as I continue to explore. The grape bundles have begun to grow. They hang low on the shoots. Two clusters per shoot. Two shoots per spur. Six to seven spurs per cordon. Two cordons per plant and 908 plants per acre. You do the math. Depending on the season each bundle can weigh between one a half pound at harvest time. This year because of a lighter season and aggressive growing practices this particular vineyard will likely yield half pound bundles.

As I head down hill between the rows the sun moves slowly across the sky. From east to west its rays reach each bundle on the south-facing slope. The rows run north to south. Before trellising this would not have been a wise way to layout a vineyard. Now, by leafing the east side vineyard growers can ensure plenty of morning sun. It’s July and the workers are moving their way down each row doing just that. On the west side they tuck the shoots up into the wires that make up the trellis. On the east side they pull off the low lying leaves that are covering the young bundles and shading them from the drying effects of the sun, thus “opening up the fruit zone”. According to Lee Alegre, a vineyard manager with his hands in about 50 different vineyards in Paso Robles, this must be done to prevent the grapes from growing mildew caused by the night dew. Not leafing the west side protects those bundles from the harsher afternoon rays.

Paso Robles is notorious for its hot summers. The workers have been out here since before I arose from bed. Trying to beat the rays of the sun they are covered from head to toe and move deftly down the rows. By 3 pm they have finished and moved onto to another vineyard in town. It is as continuous as it is tedious. Though the majority of them are men Alegre says he prefers how women work in the vines; in general they are more particular about leaf pruning, with a care for the grapes unmatched by the men.

Each day the grapes get closer and closer to picking and with the crush just around the corner the vineyard is busy with new people and new contraptions every week. Just this morning my vineyard tranquility was transformed into a working farm with the sound of a tractor. What it was doing I don’t yet know but I am yearning to find out.

Not Continued Yet

We moved and my dinner notes were tucked away some place safe; safe from me that is. As soon as I find them will continue the dinner and wine tasting. Until then please enjoy my life on a vineyard, part one. Cheers!

Life on a vineyard, and more than just mine.

It was in the middle of a heat wave when an unexpected visitor arrived. All over town the power was out, and consequently air conditioning as well. We invited our A/C less friends over for an impromptu gathering based around our slightly less hot home. Windows and doors were flung open to take advantage of the foothill breeze. We sat around the fountain, feeling the mist rising off of it as it evaporated into the night air. Borrowing Spoon’s guitar, Mark strummed and sang taking requests and making his own montage of classic country and rock and roll. One by one we drifted off to our respective sleeping places.

From the master bedroom a pair of French doors open onto the back yard—an oasis of fruit trees, vegetables, and grass. With the doors open the nightly screech of the owls with just such names enter the room, accosting our ears and sending the dog into a frenzy. Apparently this evening was too hot, even for them, and all was quiet. I left the patio doors open and slipped into bed. It was during this respite that our guest arrived. Quiet as a mouse has never been a more accurate description.

The next morning,moving sleeping from the bedroom to the bathroom, I was jolted awake by the vision of a small mammal in the bottom of the tub. Crouched, near the drain, was a dusty brown field mouse. More inquisitive than scared she sat watching me as I performed my morning rituals at the sink. I watched her watch me for a while and with a plan in mind I went off in search of a bucket, a cracker and some peanut butter. When I returned she was gone.

Armed with the aforementioned accoutrements I stood slack jawed wondering where she could have gone. In her seated position she had appeared too large to fit down the drain and the slick, steep and deep sides of the tub posed a second obstacle; nevertheless she was gone. I shrugged and walked away with my house made humane trap under one arm. That evening as I took a shower I could have sworn that there were mouse droppings in the tub that had not been there previously.

The next morning, she greeted me again. Together we washed our faces. She sat and pondered me as I reached down to closed the drain. Only then did she leave her squatting position to run around the drain, no doubt searching for her doorway. I felt a pang of guilt; I had forced a refugee. Now sure she wasn’t going anywhere I gathered my tools and with ease had her under my control. Then it hit me. What if she hadn’t come in from the bedroom, but rather from a hole in the drain? And even more concerning was the possibility of a nest of now motherless babies. I released her back into the tub where she quickly scampered home to her growing community that now included a husband and extended family. I left the cracker and peanut butter in her charge.

It took but one more day for it to became apparent to me that I had, once again, let my imagination get the better of me. The ever-increasing mouse droppings and the slowly diminishing cracker were mounting evidence that she had no way out and it was up to me to save her. I began by running the water, at a mere drizzle, so that she may have something fresh to drink. Then I sat and waited. She did not appear. Over the next few days I rarely, if ever saw her, and never all of her. I was lucky if the tip of her tail could be seen disappearing into the water drain. If it weren’t for her expanding piles of refuse one would never know a field mouse had taken up residence in our home. After a week had passed and there were but a few mouse bites left on the cracker I saw her again as she had been that first morning. She looked at me in a new light now, with suspicion in her eyes, and wouldn’t let me get close enough to trap her again. I worried I had missed my chance and daydreamed about feeding and watering her for the rest of her days while surreptitiously avoiding any human use of the tub.

And then my chance came. It was morning, yet again, and there she was, asleep, at the bottom of the tub. I closed the drain at which point she awoke and repeated her dive for her now blocked doorway, only this time I did not feel guilty. She had grown wise to me and efforts to trap her in my bedside trashcan proved more difficult than before. Finally with the aide of my trusty spatula I scooted her into the can and together we went outside to set her free.