The wind is blowing out the windows, the leaves are sorts of colors. Thirteen days have passed since the fish journal--the one beginning with the Winemaker--ran out of blank spaces. My stomach has contracted for, but my feet found no spare minutes, time to sit and write. now it is a Saturday, local, and there is coffee of course, and in a few minutes I will head out to Castillo de Feliciana, to absorb the wind, to pick grapes and walk the rows east toward the Blues, to fend off the rain just a few hours more and hold Winter back until her time.
My man's been busy busy working 90, 100 hour weeks for crush this autumn. Malbec, syrah, albariño, cabernet sauvignon, bolsa negra.
So it was extra generous when he set me up in his Ranger (we traded cars for the weekend), carboys and growlers strapped down in the back, and sent me north to his village at the foot of the Cascades, even though he couldn't come. What a delicious treat to help his family pick apples and join in pressing 50 gallons of cider!
And to discuss the true story of Johnny Appleseed, the tearing out of cider orchards during prohibition, and the subsequent advent of wheat production and beer in our country, with a certain beloved hobby orchardist and father.
Bringing back 20 gallons for the Winemaker to convert into hard cider felt small but purposeful, the way it feels to help pick or de-stem grapes. I always knew I'd be with a farmer. And I am so lucky.
I've been a child I've been a slave I've grown bitter and learned to pray Packed my bags and started back The cost was just too high to pay
Em G/F# C9 G When you walk through the water I will be with you Em G/F# G C9 When you pass through the river the waves will not overtake you Em G/F# C9 G When you walk on the fire the flames they will not touch you Em G/F# C9 You are mine, you are mine, you are mine
bring your abandoned orchard plum-picking evenings,
your canyon runs southeast to Harris Park
show us the late and lingering blackberries before they crumple and wilt,
shriveled raisins on the vines
i love the hood of his ranger, his arms around me, our eyes on the glow to the west
as i love each stranger's invitation to pick Asian pears,
or sitting beside him in the truck, windows down, back road wind & silence
welcome autumn, bring your long runs again,
your deep shadows on the Blues in the afternoons
Peter Bradley Adams & the rain, the rains returning
pressing coffee each morning before i bike to work
helping destem grapes at crush, for merlot, syrah, malbec