Life Goes On

Last night came a letter from cousin Quentin in Texas.  It brought back a moment decades ago when Julien, then ten years old, declared that history was boring.  Quentin took him aside and in less than an hour explained the entire American Civil War.   Julien ran back to us, “History is so exciting!  I wish all my teachers were like that!”  

Today Quentin is a judge and a law professor.  His letter spoke briefly of the issues we face today.   And his confidence that eventually we’ll get sorted out; that the next generation will pull us into the light.    He added that people today need grounding and inspiration, antidotes to the “often empty calories of … life.”  He sees a growing exodus of young people toward lifestyles with meaning, even if that means material worry and less having to be more.  He said he’s reassured when he thinks of our life in the countryside.

I am by nature a worrier.   But I don’t worry about Quentin.  I just miss him and his warm, generous, old fashioned, southern wisdom.   So this is for Quentin, a few ordinary days on the ground.  A messy mix of  work, worry, dogs, children, fun and mud tracked everywhere.

In December I look out my window to golden or frosted vines and spy a lone worker making his way slowly, patiently, methodically along the rows.     Julien is learning this vineyard, one plant at a time. 

First, an Inventory.  He and John counted every plant, assessing the health of each parcel, noting which must be torn up and replanted.  We then discussed urgent improvements and costs – soil remediation, biodiversity, bio control, better adapted varietals…   

Then began the taille  (pruning) which leaves the signature of the vigneron on each plant.  He’s worried about finishing 10 hectares (25 acres) alone.  An expert can prune about 800 or 900 plants a day.  Being a novice he figures it will take all winter.

I look for him as I walk the dog.  He’s hidden in the landscape of vine silhouettes, so I hear him first.  It’s the only sound on the hilltop – the faint, sporadic buzz of electric shears.  He wears a woven metallic protective glove on one hand as he snips; everyone knows someone who’s lost a finger to those blades.  

He examines each plant for the history of its past pruning, to decide how to proceed:  which cane to keep for this year’s fruit bearing; how many eyes per plant to plan the number of grape clusters (yield); how to ensure the clusters will fall nicely like a string of pearls exposed to air and sunlight (preventing mould and encouraging maturity); choosing the canes to cut for harvest 2 years from now…

His advisor stops by to check on him.   He’s doing a great job on the taille.  But relief is shortlived as he reminds him of all the other tasks to juggle at the same time, from sourcing manure for fertilizer to the current equipment supply shortage.  He sees Julien’s brow knit up, and quotes an old peasant proverb: “You need strong kidneys to be a farmer.”  (Translation:  kidneys = nerves of steel.) 

A few weeks later and Julien is moving faster.  He now listens to podcasts while he works.  We talk about those subjects as he snips:  geopolitics, gender issues, video games, left versus right, epic fantasy stories, women’s education, Biblical history, raising children… But the main subject is always, what gives life meaning.  

He admits his feet are pretty cold when the temp is  -4° C, but that the frost creates a fairytale scene and the beauty reminds him how lucky he is.  “We aren’t rich but we have everything.  At the end of the day my body is tired but my mind is rested.  I go home to chop wood, stoke the kitchen fire, have dinner with my little boy and my cool wife.”

Then, as if he needed to throw salt over his shoulder he warns, “But there’s too much to do, you and Dad better stay healthy!”

I try not to worry about that when John doesn’t answer his phone.  I track him down in the woods with a chainsaw.   Another winter project, sculpting the bassin under the ridge of old oaks.   He says this work rests his mind and helps grow some much needed yin to counter his overabundance of yang.

As for the rest of us, in the midst of everything, Genevieve got married.  An elegant and simple ceremony, in a window of time when covid gave us a break.  In that same window my book finally materialised and we invited our neighbors for a Launch at the Taverne.  And somehow Henri returned for Christmas, full of music, a growing knowledge about soil, and helpful hands. 

On the night of the Solstice we lit our candles and gave thanks for each other, for warmth, health, safety and meaningful work.

And play.  Luckily I have my best little buddy Noah who grabs my hand to go to the woods for an “adventure.”   As we tumble down the hills in soft carpets of oak leaves “looking for treasure,” he shouts “Come on Nanna, Follow me!”   The normally graceful dog scatters branches as he tumbles like a scoobidoo.  Noah’s laughter echoes off the rocks.

I pause for one second and whisper, “OK, I get it, this is everything.”    

I think of Julien, so serious on the hilltop, but always ready to laugh.  I watch Noah in the forest, king of fun and lightness, but always ready to work.

In that one second I see them superimposed, like photographs from parallel times…

And here’s a PS, just for fun – Henri and Julien pulling up the old wire fencing.  Somehow no matter where they are, the subject always comes back to – spiders!

Julien & Henri removing cow fences, talking Vineyard Spiders Nov 2021