Throughout life, there are sayings that stick with a person. Each generation has a special selection of these, which leave the youngers scratching their heads at the meaning. Almost like a secret code to another world, these phrases bring a smile and knowing to those that understand. They leave those that don’t get it confused.
Once upon a time, VST and I farmed in the Central Valley of California. On our ranch, there were 109 rows of vintage grapevines. Planted before 1936, these grapes were a variety lost to the ages. Their flavor and texture were of another time. They were not for shipping, for their skins were far too fragile. They were Thompson Seedless grapes, green in color. Not the huge grapes you find in the store, which are tricked into being that huge size. These were normal sized grapes, which when dried in the sun, turned into delicious Sunmaid Raisins.
For seventeen years, VST and I carried for our vines the best we could. We worked two full time jobs to support our little farming hobby. Forty acres is a lot of land to care for. One fourth of a section of land. If you every need to walk down a vineyard row, picking up discarded thick wood removed during pruning, you begin to know how long the rows are. Especially if it is a cold, foggy Central Valley morning, when your irrigation boots get stuck in mud.
There you have another phrase. Stuck In The Mud. Until you have been, you don’t know. A terrible predicament. A Stick In The Mud prefers their life to remain that way. Stuck in the mud. Horrible situation.
On our farm, there were 109 rows, most of them, very long, continuous rows, stretching from one side of the ranch to the other. Whether irrigating or shoveling, one would start at row 109 and work back towards the house, which seemed ever so far away. Hours later, you might be at row ninety-five, depending on what you were doing. Fixing wires that supported the grapes. Shoveling in gopher holes or shoveling off sucker vines growing at the base of the stumps. Cutting down weeds or tying up tendrils. There was always something that needed doing.
Our house sat in the middle of rows 1 – 30-something. A nice square space in which our house was, along with a big red barn and out buildings. This divided those rows into two sections which were named The Short Rows.
Every one of us would look across the vineyard toward the house wishing we were already there. Plodding along in the cold, wet, or extreme heat, we moved at a snail’s pace. There was time to think and ponder the problems of the world. Time to wish we could win the lottery and never need to pick up a shovel again. Surprised, we might scare up a quail or coyote. Always, we moved toward the house and the short rows.
Now, in life, I’, working the short rows. No matter how I wish the days would zoom past April 8th, I plod along. Each day a little bit closer. There are more opportunities to sit and rest, but, I’m not done yet. The last year has worn me down. Emotional blisters are healing, but the heavy weight still makes them sting a bit. I find I’m a bit more calloused from widowhood. I’ve found I could carry more than I thought I could. Looking back, I am proud that I made it through, a stronger and more competent woman.
The best thing about the short rows, is that you could find rest at the house. There was a bathroom right there. Grabbing a cold water, you could sit under the shade of the patio and take a break. The breeze seemed a little stronger there, promising that the job at hand was almost finished.
In life, there will always be another pass to be made. Another daunting experience in which you return to Row 109 and start all over again. So glad VST and I could experience farming and life together. Someday, he’ll be waiting for me at Row 1. Bring the lemonade, VST. I’ll be tired.