Parts of the vineyard were a jungle—unruly vines, leaves thick and moist, cloaking the grapes in a humid green veil. Perfect habitat for mildew to incubate and thrive. So, doing what any good farmer must, I spent hours thinning extra shoots and pulling excess leaves, and opening the canopy, allowing the grapes to breathe. Fresh air is a great organic antidote to powdery mildew, the mostly incurable cancer of grapes.
The green clusters looked happy in the aftermath—shiny, vibrant, newborns, inhaling the morning’s cool breath under a shroud of June Gloom.
Fog seeped down the hills, down the drain of the Pacific. The sun blazed.
By afternoon, many of thos
e same grapes—had burned. No trip to the ER could help them now.
In farming, there’s always something. The sun giveth and the sun taketh away. Blessed be the rays of the sun.
Still, plenty of grapes were spared, nestled in just enough shade to avoid the scorch. We’re early in the season. And despite the casualties, the 2025 vintage still holds promise—like baseball on Opening Day, full of hope, potential, waiting to unfold.
