Grapes from the Vine

The early morning call prompted the Passenger from her bed, just a few hours after she had collapsed there.  

Grapes were in, and ready to be collected.  A truck had left them at a local farm, stacked on the forebay, with doors open into the cow stable.  Two banana boxes reserved for us.  

The sticky sweet "grapey" smell was different somehow, this year.  A a bit sharper, maybe.  Definitely time to process them.  A few days ago would have been better.  Or maybe the abundance of rain aged the grapes more rapidly?

From my own small grapevine, complete with front

doors the small worms created, in the absence of

pesticide as a deterrent.

Memories of years gone by rushed in.  When children .lined up on the laundry bench to stem grapes.  Singing, arguing, listening to Adventures in Odessey CD's.  Or on the porch, swatting away yellow jackets while they worked.

Two years ago, grapes arrived the day of the funeral.  The day we said a final goodbye to the Trucker's father.  Dear friends stored the grapes in their cooler.  DS#2 picked them up after the funeral, and stayed home to help stem them, while the Trucker gathered with his siblings to process their grief in practical ways for the evening.

As we stemmed that evening, exhausted and numb from the day's events, conversation was quiet and intermittent.  No record exists of what was said.  But the caring gesture - that of helping to stem grapes - will always be remembered.

Today's temperatures were typical for fall, but the high humidity, combined with hours of steam generated by the canner, turned the kitchen into a sauna worthy of midsummer.  And for the first time ever, grapes were done alone.  

One may become accustomed to being alone.  And even rather enjoy it, in a way.  But the reason one is alone.....that pain never eases.

An intermission to transport a friend's children to their home school class while their mother/teacher was at an appointment out of town did little to cool the kitchen.  But by 10pm, when the weary Trucker rolled in on the prayers of his erstwhile Passenger, the last round was just beginning to boil on the stove.

And now the house is quiet.  Crickets energetically communicating outside, a cool breeze flowing through the screens, and the periodic snapping of jar seals make up the symphony of this night.

Two banana boxes.  63 jars.  126 quarts of grape juice prepared for winter.  Autumn's final chore  before the canners retire to the attic to await another year's summons.  Relief, thankfulness, and the satisfaction of a job well done.