grapes

I plum (plumb??) forgot ­­– not really, but somehow it got buried under more current happenings: I had the nicest sunny Sunday a few weeks back harvesting grapes. I'd go so far as to say it was the perfect day. And it's so important to hold onto such days — mentally and in every possible way — as they're a great place to hang one's thoughts, if such a thing is possible, on days when things are less than perfectly sunny.

And, yes, some grapes were less than perfectly green.

Others were well on their way to becoming raisins.

I happen to be quite fond of raisins ...

Anyway, it all started with an e-mail from Greenvale Vineyards announcing the time was right/ripe for picking Chardonnay. I'd pick Cabernet or Merlot or Shiraz (or just about anything red) over Chardonnay, but that's just me. In any case, I showed up bright-and-early — it was chilly down by the Sakonnet (!) — and got to work. It's the third year in a row I've participated, actually, for all of one day: hardly a drop in the bucket. Oops, barrel.

So there I was, among all those appealingly-parallel rows, in just about the most picturesque setting I could imagine (at that particular moment). And even though my row was somewhat sparsely hung — it had been struck by lightning, I was told, meaning the current of electricity traveled along the wires strung between the ancient posts and zapped the vines — it was nonetheless stunning and so satisfying to snip whatever clumps managed to grow, to knock off the dead stuff ("overripe" might be a nicer way to think about it) and place the dripping sticky clusters in a bright yellow bin.

I had company: both volunteer and professional. Soft voices of people my age and younger, some much younger, some in other languages, even a soft boom box (how oxymoronic), could be heard issuing through the hush. There really was hush, due in part to the beauty and resulting reverence for the surroundings, I guess, but as much because the work requires a certain amount of concentration, lest one cut oneself with the sharp pointy clippers. Still, talking works; it even helps. And I was flying solo that day – I can’t remember what Mr. Betty was doing, but he wasn’t with me – so the vineyard owner, Nancy, came over to be my picking partner for a bit. It works best with a person on either side of the grapevine ....

Which makes me wonder about that idea of hearing something “through the grapevine,” as that’s exactly how I was talking with the vineyard owner: through the grapevine. I guess it’s referring to one thing getting passed along (in whispers??) in some way that isn't necessarily intended for others or without much thought about where it might end up. Must say, people do seem to speak in relative whispers among the grapevines, based upon my limited experience, though I couldn’t say why exactly, except there is some sort of sense that one is talking to oneself, because one can’t really see the person on the other side of the grapevine.

There’s not much else to say about the experience — I mean, there is, but I don't have sufficient time, energy or powers of concentration to do so right now — though I really wish everyone could experience it. Except the part where I ultimately did clip my finger right through my sticky rubber gloves and had to stop in order to head to the barn for Band-aid, as I was bleeding rather profusely …

I’m fine. And the day was so fine. And it was just the morning, if I’m being honest. Just a four-hour commitment. Round about noon-time, we had picked the requisite ton-and-a-half (a very modest amount in harvesting terms), whereupon the group gathered in the barn for payment. Being wine. And there was a wine-tasting. Bottom's up ...

("Sticky" is such a funny feeling, isn't it??)