Regardless of where my life takes me, my heart remains safely nestled up in the hills on the property where I was born. Every year I return to pick grapes for my father. The vineyard is small and we recruit friends and family to pick on the weekends. The work is strenuous but there is something comforting and wholesome about being out in the early morning in the hills that look over the Napa Valley, trudging along the rows with your bucket, your knife and your back bent. Most mornings, the valley is an ocean under a blanket of fog with the opposing mountains emerging as islands in the distance. Hot air balloons rise above the fog and the harsh city noises carry up the canyon, muted through the moisture.
Picking is one of the most social events on the hill. People partner up and choose a row, moving from vine to vine, gossiping, laughing, and complaining. Above your own conversation you hear the murmuring and outbursts of your neighbors, culminating in shrieks as a grape fight erupts. Jesse, the neighbor and first cousin who my dad fires on a biweekly basis, is the bucket runner. Responding to bellows of “BUCKET!” he walks the rows to pick up buckets brimming with zinfandel, leaving behind a fresh bucket and his peanut gallery comments. Competing with the crows, my sister and I squawk our rendition of “Picking Cab Sucks” to the tune of “Three Blind Mice.” Meanwhile, at break time, my artist-vintner-winemaker father, in Homer Simpson mode, slinks off to the truck in search of “doooouuughnuuts.”
There are rules to follow: First rule is Clean Clean Clean; second rule is Safety First; third Rule is Don’t Make Eye Contact; and the Fourth is Don’t Mention the Unmentionable. The first two are obvious; the latter refer to ex-wives and hostile neighbors. In direct violation of the Rule, the Unmentionable is the favorite topic of discussion.
Picking is the soul of our winemaking. The people, the laughter, the bitterness, and the love that gets crushed into the fermenter along with the grapes is raw and real. They are the needle and threads of the tapestry that the vineyard weaves into my life.
originally written in 2002
