Planting Vines
A Day in the Life
Why, exactly, Arthur Godfrey came to mind, he had to consider.
That Saturday, he had been planning to assist the field crew at Walsh Family Wines with new vines at Twin Notch vineyard. The weather had interfered, both with vineyard operations and with milling at home.
The week, the hours not spent planting in Waterford, had passed quickly with equipment repairs. It was not enough trouble the way farm tasks accumulated in springtime: the suddenness with which the grass and fields overgrew seemed to coincide with repairs jobs for critical equipment moving from optional to critical.
Replacing the ball bearings on a six foot mower deck is no easy undertaking: there are often stressed parts that should come easily away, that have been rusted or heat-fused to each other. That was the case, but with a prior experience on another tractor, it went steadily, one small mechanical issue fell to persistence after another, and the deck was soon reinstalled under the belly of the tractor.
The Kubota series was over engineered with a series of six electric switches that cut off the engine, for example, when pressure on the driver seat was released as a safety feature in case the driver fell off.
The complex interactions between clutch, mower power train and seat, conspired to make identification of the offending faulty switch extremely tedious. One switch at a time had to be located, often at near inaccessible locations within the engine and body compartments.
It was at this point the weather swung toward rain again, and working on the tractor in the open was uncomfortable.
Seemed there were several items of equipment that wanted small attention: the tractor had run intermittently and eventually, the seat came loose of its bracket. In the meantime, a tire went flat, was plugged and went flat again and there was a delay ordering the new tire.
All the while, the meadows, the grapevines and the hops continued as if nothing would stop them. The saw mill orders could only be completed with a functional tractor. The millyard became a morass of wet mud from the late spring rain and flooding.
The joy of seeing the first greenery faded like the visible evidence of neighbors: the trees and underbrush were soon extraordinarily thick and the farm was once again screened from sight and sound of enroaching civilization on the developed side, and the loud sounds of heavy equipment to the south where the adjacent Corderman farm was sprouting thirteen new million-dollar homes.
By the time I caught my breath, it was tick season, the risk of sunburn was high and the purple bearded irises were in full bloom. The early commercial cherries had fruit, but the native black cherries trees, the most valuable along with walnut for milling, had bloomed and were shedding a blizzard of petals from the cylindrical composite flowers high above the meadows.
The other two native cherry trees, chokecherry and pin cherry, were earliest in bloom of any: these were long gone after a late spring snow had fallen in middle of their blooming period.
The previous week had also passed quickly as the season picked up an active pace.
He had hoped to pass through DC to see a friend whom he hadn’t spoken in a while and whom he had missed on the return from San Diego. The opportunity arose again in theory, but his trip to Stafford County for hops, turned out best routed through Warrenton, not Alexandria and DC.
Half of the rural route was familiar, and identical to the often-traveled run down to Orange County during harvest work at Horton Cellars.
In fact, his ex-military harvest friend who had been an Air Force T-38 jet instructor, had sold a few pots of hops two years back but they were at that point, no more than a curiosity. When a large enough quorum of new hops growers decided to form a professional organization in April, the decision was made to revisit feasibility of an experimental hops planting inside the now well established vineyard fence.
He found himself last Wednesday, wandering the Civil War byways near such battle sites as Kelly’s Ford, the Wilderness and Chancellorsville, and eventually arrived at Leif’s hop yard and farm where the two ex-Horton trainees reunited, and chatted about mutual winemaker acquaintances, about the challenges of hops cultivation in Virginia and the features of the eight different types of hops he bought from the Air Force pilot, now hops farmer.
On the route home, the Flying Circus Aerodrome made for a nostalgic stop: he had not been to photograph an air show for several years. The gate to the hanger was open, and during the week he knew the mechanics would work and tinker with the big yellow and blue Stearman biplanes with the opening of the show season on May 7.
Time constraints dictated he push on without stopping to chat with the mechanics, and be content with just driving by the airfield.
As the rain came and went this week with little warning, it seemed like a fire station emergency to scramble for the right pesticide or fungicide. The various risk factors, weather, ambient temperature, calendar date and season, make for a juggling act that must be done properly or for want of a half hours’ attention, an entire crop of grapes might be lost.
By that time, six years’ experience and pesticide certification helped him navigate the maze of formulations and vineyard threats that were in part, similar each season, but with timing as unpredictable as the weather.
In retrospect, this seasonal dance between grower and weather went smoothly and he was gratified he had managed, when a moment of down time came his way, with considerable hustle, attention to detail and dumb luck, to keep a step ahead.
Grape growing success depended on instinct, anticipation and knowing the limits of flexibility in keeping vines trimmed, healthy and tidy in the face of the onslaught of insects, fungi and deer that could easily destroy the season for vines, or terminate the vines themselves if the management got too far out of hand even for a single day.
Driving back to the farm from Purcellville collecting the latest delivered tractor repair parts, a familiar car passed in the opposite direction.
The driver’s face passed in an instant, but suddenly his pulse picked up with the glimpse of the blond hair and aviator style reflective sunglasses shining behind the windshield in the sun.
He was taken too suddenly to spot the license, although he had no idea about the letters and numerals. If it had been Virginia, it wasn’t but he did not quite process the sighting in time to divert attention from the road.
The sighting would recur to him in the quiet moments late Friday.
With the flurry of Spring chores lately, he had not taken his wife down to Casanel at the end of the day Fridays as was their habit when time allowed.
As his car came to a stop on the gravel parking area, raindrops picked up tempo on the windscreen and the two of them had to hustle to avoid a shower.
t was a little earlier than their usual visit just before close of business when the winery was quiet, and the tasting room empty, the relaxed end of the week interval during which baristas and owner had time to joke and catch up before closing at six o’clock.
There would be salmon dinner with all the fixings waiting later at their home farm kitchen, so the choice of wine had to be their favorite pinot gris.
Although they bought the bottle and carried glasses to a deserted table, sight of the house wine educator, a friend who had immediately given both him and his wife full-body hugs when they arrived, drew them to the empty club chairs which she motioned to, when they looked over from across the room.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he opened.
Kathy grinned, sipping rosé. Her husband Richard had been tugging on a diet Coke.
“Hey, what are you up to, where are you now?” she smiled. He liked her, a computer and IT professional who did have a good grasp of wine and teaching.
“We planted this week: Sunday, the same,” he replied. “Nate’s new place.”
“Where is that?” she asked, curiosity piqued. Everyone in the industry was constantly keeping up with the dynamic changes of winery and vineyard personnel and new plantings. It was business to keep abreast of what varietals were working, especially at the large vineyards, and how the market was evolving.
“What are you planting?” she probed leaning closer with a pleasant curiosity the foremost in her expression. “Is that up near Lovettsville?”
“No: Nate has a spectacular site along Old Waterford Road, the old Arthur Godfrey estate,” and he took a sip of the pinot gris, settling into the chair after a frustrating and physical week of field work and tractor repair. “Oh, let me see: viognier, a lot of chardonnay, about forty five hundred vines. Chenin blanc.”
With the last type of wine grape, Kathy’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, that’s good. I haven’t seen much chenin here in Virginia.”
He noted in passing that her pronunciation “shen-in” and his “chen-neen” were different, possible the English and French renditions.
“Remind me to tell you a story of Arthur Godfrey, the Saudi prince Talal ibn Abdul Aziz, the Beacon Hill development and Nate’s vineyard.”
Of course, he knew the juxtaposition of unlikelihoods to be the opening line to an irresistible tale.
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