the checks; I could learn to do the physical work, too. We decided I could shift my focus.
I knew this would be an adventure since my only claim to farm life is that when I was born, in 1944, my parents, Phyllis and Gus Sokol, lived at Melody Farm, in Waukesha, Wisconsin. In 1942, to counter the austerity measures of World War II, they gave up the city life they had always known and moved with their three sons to the country, where they could grow their own food. Their farm life, with its classic whitewashed brick farmhouse, orchards, and barns, bordered by a split rail fence, lasted only seven years, but it loomed large in our family lore.
Stories of my mother driving a horse and buggy to the local store during wartime gas rationing and my father keeping chickens, pigs, and horses kept the memory alive, but my personal knowledge of farm life was nil. By the time I was four, we had moved back to the city. I grew up as a middle-class urbanite. My early memories include helping my father choose which patterned silk tie to wear with his suit for his workday; hearing my parents talk about the theater and concerts they attended; falling asleep listening to the adventures of Gene Autry on the big radio next to my bed; and smelling my mother’s perfume and feeling the tickle of her fur coat on my cheek as she leaned down to kiss me after coming home from an evening out. I can’t imagine either of them harnessing a horse or mucking out a chicken coop.
But managing our orchards and grapes put me in the vineyards every day for much of the 1980s. Wayne Cook, the young man we had hired as our foreman, patiently trained me on all the equipment. Although I was his boss and twelve years his senior, he took time to show me things—little things, like where to find the grease fittings on each piece of equipment and how to refill the grease gun from the bulk grease barrel, and big things, like how to use the forklift to load totes of grapes onto our big flatbed truck, tie down the load, and start moving. I started with almost zero knowledge, so was grateful that he was never arrogant or overbearing.
Little by little, I learned what needed to be done, how to get the equipment ready, and do the work myself. I gathered a store of information about things that I had never before even wondered about. I’d never had an urge to know how to attach a piece of heavy equipment to the back of a tractor, but now I learned how to maneuver the tractor into position so I could do it without heavy lifting. I’d never imagined driving a twenty-foot flatbed truck, but now I learned how far into the intersection to go before starting to turn a corner. I absorbed the rhythm of the vineyard year and what needed to be done each season in the orchards and vineyards—pruning, fertilizing, spraying, canopy management, crop estimates, harvest procedures. I took a farm management class to get a better understanding of the business side.
I threw myself into my vineyard work, wishing I could inhale all the new information and relishing my new skills. Crouching to lubricate a piece of farm equipment, my overalls covered with dust and my hands and nails stained dark brown from the grease, I’d suddenly wonder what my high school friends would think if they could see me now. My parents proudly displayed a photo of me as a debutante in which I looked out from the sterling silver frame, elegant in my white strapless gown and elbow-length kid gloves, my hair in a French twist. It was about as far from my vineyard life as I could imagine. The image made me smile, not only at the contrast but also at the unexpected turns my life had taken. I would not have changed places with anyone.
Something happened to me when I got out into the vineyard. It both freed my spirit and tied me to the land. Being responsible for the farm focused my attention and stimulated my mind, but being in the orchards and among the vines penetrated right to my gut, giving me a sense of oneness with the land and a fulfillment I had never imagined. I could have lived my whole life in a city and never discovered those feelings. Until then, I’d participated with more fervor than I felt. After taking over the vineyards, I finally began to take emotional ownership of the project that had been swirling around me and dominating my life for a decade. My passion for our venture grew steadily from then on, until finally it surpassed Bill’s.
Even now, I can close my eyes and imagine myself walking down a row of vines early on a summer morning. My feet are wet from the dew soaking through my boots. The air is fresh, cool on my skin, and very still. The vines are bright green and lush with new growth. The sun, just touching the vines, will soon be intense. If I am lucky I will spot a nest, probably from one of the bright yellow goldfinches, hidden in the vine canopy.
Or, I imagine it is the end of a summer day, when the sun casts long shadows in the vineyard and all the colors look deeper and richer. Above me, the swallows swoop and swirl, snatching bugs out of the air. A small breeze makes the growing tips of the vines wave gently. I can feel the heat of the day fade as the sun starts to set and a hush settles over the land.
In October, during harvest, the vineyard starts the day shrouded in mist. Viewed from the vineyard’s highest point, only the tops of the tallest Douglas firs poke through, reminding me of a Japanese landscape painting. In the foggy wetness the pickers start, breaking the dew-covered spiderwebs that stretch across the rows. By noon, the day will be gloriously sunny, with the crispness in the air that is autumn.
In winter I see the skeleton of the vineyard, the trunks and canes of the vines stark without their leafy cover. Its austerity is striking, whether cloud-shrouded and bleak with rain, or snow-covered and glaringly bright. The vines sleep a long time, from December to April. By then I am eager for the vineyard to come alive. My heart sings as the swollen buds start to unfurl into tender green leaves, pink-hued around the edges. Baby clusters emerge with tendrils like tiny curls. The birds start nesting again. The air feels soft. What will this season bring? It could be a great year. A farmer’s hope is always highest in the spring.
Each new vineyard year starts in the winter, when the vines are dormant, with our crew pruning away most of the previous year’s growth. It is done in January, February, and March, when the weather is miserable—pouring rain, cold and windy, or just gray. Layers of long underwear and flannel underneath yellow rain pants and slickers, rubber boots and fingerless wool gloves completed the well-dressed pruner’s look.
During my years in the vineyard, pruning season was one of the most sociable times, despite the fact that it took place during the worst weather of the year. In addition to our own small crew, I hired three or four extra people each winter to help.
On rainy days, we would prune with our hoods up and our heads down, each in our own row, with only the sound of the loppers breaking the silence. But when the rain stopped, we would throw back our hoods and the conversation and singing would start.
At noon we would sit in the vineyard office—the basement of our house—while we dried off and warmed up, the ambrosia of wet rain gear, tuna sandwiches, corn chips, and fresh oranges permeating our conversation. Someone had given me a book called Totally Tasteless Jokes and we took turns reading it. The jokes were pathetic and we mostly moaned at them, but then one would strike us as hilariously funny and the laughter felt good. Occasionally—just often enough to keep us from rain-induced depression—the sun came out and the whole world looked different: blue sky, bright sunshine, and snow-covered Mount Hood looming over the vineyard, its majestic peak alternately tinged with pink, gold, or blue. What a glorious feeling to be working outside! How lucky we were to be working in the vineyard! We strode up the rows more boldly and sang louder on those days.
SOON AFTER I STARTED in the vineyard, we witnessed Mother Nature’s stunning power. On the morning of May 18, 1980, Mount Saint Helens erupted with a force that sent a plume of ash fifteen miles into the air and created the largest landslide in recorded history. A wall of logs and mud flowed down leveling everything in its path—forests, homes, roads, bridges, wildlife—and leaving miles of desolation blanketed in gray ash.
It was a Sunday and the five of us had been to a birthday brunch for Bill at his parents’ home in Tigard, about seventy-five miles from Mount Saint Helens.
