The Pinot Noir grapes got ripe when they got ripe.
There is wisdom in patience, but I don't have it. The longer the grapes are on the vine, the more that can go wrong. Birds. Rain. Frost. Hail. Mildew.
I am thrilled to be picking today.
The parts of the vines that were still putting up new growth when we had the frosts a week ago turned brown and curled, which is why the top of the canopy looks different from the middle. The top is brown, the middle is green. The wind machines worked for three days last week trying to keep the temperature above 31 so that the leaves would stay alive and could keep sending carbohydrates to the grapes. It partially worked. The goal wasn’t just sweetness; it was ripeness.
A crew will start at 7 a.m. today.
The netting protected the grapes from starlings. I have seen swooping murmurations this year, but so far little damage. A neighbor used up a box of shotgun shells blasting away at the starlings this past weekend. They have discovered our side-by-side vineyards. He frightens them, and they fly away, but return. He said he fired one shot into the tall tree next to the vineyard and eight birds fell. In another context I would be sympathetic to the birds, but not now, not here. They want my crop and I want to protect it. We are in a competition. I would have an animal-lover’s live-and-let-live attitude if they were eating blackberries or anything else besides my crop. I don’t hate the starlings; it isn’t personal. I am in the most ancient and fundamental of struggle: a fight with another species over a resource. I have hardened my heart. The grapes are mine.
Today, amid the back-to-back-to-back commercials for candidates, I will likely see a heart-wrenching ad seeking donations for starving animals. I will feel sorry for them, which is the point of the ad. Meanwhile I am happy my nets are up and that my neighbor scares starlings with a credible threat of death. Some animals I want to feed; others I want not to feed. Irony is not dead.
We are in an era where my mixed-emotion sympathy for the birds may come across as lacking the testosterone-infused warrior spirit that Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth says is the proper way to approach battle. If I encounter a bird trapped in the net later this morning, and it is frantic, trying to escape, should I let it go? Should I wring its neck? Should I kill it and hang it on a T-post as a trophy and warning to its fellows in the flock? Hegseth would have the public display: It would be deterrence and a display of triumph. Achilles dragged the body of Hector behind his chariot. Achilles did not need a testosterone boost. But even the gods who favored the Greek side were offended by his disrespect to the vanquished Hector, and Achilles came to grief.
(I will let the bird escape. The nets did their work. I am trying to protect a crop, not get vengeance.)
























