Harvest

Somewhere between my solid reliance on the rational, scientific approach to understanding the cosmos and my intuitive grasp of the inexplicable shadows that animate it lies a fear that the wrong words at the wrong time can challenge the fates to deliver disaster. I'm never comfortable with this vanity but have had beautifully constructed environments evaporate in front of me in the blink of an eye enough times that I accept it as part of an internal mechanism to keep me grateful for the fortune I enjoy. So when I heard tale of how surprisingly trouble-free harvest had turned out, I jumped at the opportunity (obligation) to point out that the truck was still loaded, still parked in front of the barn, and hadn't been trusted to the blacktop in 12 months, much less climbed 30 miles and 2000 feet to the winery, then safely returned. I've been on that truck when the brakes failed and I take nothing for granted.

When I got up that morning, I had headed out to pick earlier than normal. I did ostensibly because at that point having enough tiring hands and aching backs to cover the acreage was looking uncertain; we needed to cover some serious ground. But in reality I was replaying a troublesome conversation with a dear person and needed the diversion that a task like picking grapes offers. It isn't exactly mindless; you need to exercise care with a sharp knife, navigate your progress across a numbingly repetitive grid of vines, and manage the evasiveness that so is Zinfandel (desiccated raisins and green berries on the same vine - sometimes the same bunch) mindful of the winemaker's desires.

Keeping the conscious mind tuned into these requirements is at first made difficult by the sensory indulgence of a vine into which you must literally sink your face and body. The smells of the vine are enveloping, the sun's morning light is shearing. The weeds prick you and juice your arms and jeans with tarry resin. But with rhythmic repetition comes a convergence of the analytical mind and the self that is only aware of immediate sensory input. Perhaps ancient masters had a word for it. Perhaps modern masters titled books with it and sold many copies at health food stores. I used it to cover ground, dropping to my knees and plunging into each vine, coaxing fruit out by my fingers with grace and ease.

When the remainder of my crew joined me, my trance was broken but I felt very satisfied. We appraised our status and strategy and each took a row. After just a few minutes: "Whoa!! Froz, is that a rattler?" Coiled at the base of a vine not two rows from where my sensual abandon had ended was a sleepy but awake, 7 - button rattler about 4 feet long. Someone almost stepped on it. I would have knelt on it.

I am grateful for many things. Avoiding snakebites is one of them. Another is that apostropher invited me to contribute to this here documentary. I have been unable to contribute all I would like to, nor all I used to be able to, surely disappointing his apostroness. But in short order I shall appease him by inebriating him with copious red wine and provisioning him ample pork products, especially bacon.

Speedy and uneventful travel to you, my friend.