W(h)ining

I have recently come to terms with the fact that I can work.  Working is good.  The money one makes from working is better and allows special little treats like new shoes and vacations.

This summer I have been working like crazy.  Rarely turning down an offer of additional hours.  Some time in July I had a well deserved day off and the phone rang.  It was the boss inquiring if I could cover a shift because someone was sick.  I smiled and said sure, hung up the phone and said:  "That does it!  We are going to Hawaii!!"  And just like that a lovely Hawaiian holiday was planned for mid-September.  Tucked right between my birthday (the 4th) and Peter's birthday (the 19th).

The rest of the summer proceeded to be unusually hot and sweltering.  A week before our much anticipated vacation, and entire month before expected, our grapes became ripe.  Not instantly, but it became apparent they would not last until our return. The fruit flies, the birds, nature would destroy them if we waited. We HAD to make wine, and we HAD to do it immediately!  Unfortunately, I was still putting in the hours at the Post Office so most of the picking, de-stemming, crushing, pressing, & barreling fell to Peter.  I helped when I could.  I helped frantically, passionately, and carelessly.  I was snipping and clipping grapes off the vine when I snipped and clipped right into my left ring finger.  Blood.  Everywhere.  I cursed.  I grabbed my finger, Peter looked up and declared it was time for first aid!  Then he asked me if I was going to pass out.  I guffawed and said emphatically, "NO!"  As we were traipsing back to the house and applying pressure the world started to close in.  Things started going black and I started to dwell on that "are you going to pass-out?" question.  I changed my mind regarding my original answer and, yes, I believe I was.

I sat down.  Peter checked on me and then trotted to the house for bandages and water.  By the time he got back I was completely horizontal.  You know I am in trouble if I lay down on the ground where there are spiders and ants and earwigs and squished grapes and other disgusting things.  Peter returned and bandaged and disinfected and forced me to drink water.  Then, bless his heart, he took my picture.

In my defense to this very overly dramatic pose - my right hand was on my forehead because I didn't want to rest it on the ground where all the nasties reside.

After 15 minutes of self-pity and wallowing in my injury I headed back out to the vineyard and continued, CAREFULLY, snipping grapes clusters.

We had to be in Portland by Monday night as we were flying out Tuesday morning.  Monday we were still pressing grapes.  But when all was said and done, we got it done. Hundreds of pounds of grapes processed in record time.

We have a pinot, cabernet, a white wine, some blended red and some concord.  Oh - and six gallons of beer. Because man (and woman) can't live on wine alone.