‘Tis the vineyard, the Vineyard, the VINEYARD, Eileen!

Scott went off to the farm this past weekend, and as much as he loves farming, he hates leaving us to do it. We were supposed to be moved out there by now, to tend the vineyard from a 10-minute drive, and eventually, when we could afford to build on our ground, by stepping out our front door, not this 90 minute plus haul that happens each time something must be taken care of. And now that season has begun. The taking-care-of-the-farm time.

Things like when a band of deer (too few in my book to call ’em a herd) wander in—more than happy to nibble away on tender green vines—because some jackass leaves the gate open: Scott does the drive to take care of it. Or the mainline breaking and it about to be the hottest week of the year: since water’s an absolute must have at this time, Scott hits the road. Or weed spraying—something we hate but have to do until the native grass we’ve planted chokes those inherited beasts out—that can only happen in teeny tiny windows when you’re farming from a distance and hoping, just hoping you’ll get the right temperature and no wind conditions you need: you’ll find Scott driving down 84, watching the wind as he rounds the bend into Wasco County, fingers crossed. Or finding out that someone has been essentially stealing water from your well (call me crazy, but I don’t care who you think you are: without the proper permit for this state-controlled resource, it’s stealing): Scott will be out there pleasantly persistent until it’s remedied. Or the bird netting you paid thousands for having to be very quickly modified because the company’s rep didn’t quite pick out the best product for the circumstances you acutely conveyed to avoid such a mishap: Scott headed down the road. Or just a flat tractor tire: Scott’s gotta figure something out. Or broken blade on your mower because you hit a rock: you guessed it, Scott to the farm. Today it was the start of pruning; prep work for this year’s harvest.

Yes, yes, what I’ve listed is ultimately all that makes up farming, and some of it, like a flat tire, is really in the grand scheme of things rather trivial. Yet it can be the smallest thing that, since we cannot live there right now (Scott’s day job is what keeps this dream alive), really takes it out of us. And adds more to Scott’s pile considerably. That guy works a full-time job and can only farm on vacation days and weekends. There are emergencies that thankfully appear during the long days of summer, giving him that much more evening light to fix the problem, or an early morning opportunity before he has to drive back to Portland and go to work that day. But what’s hardest, he says, is leaving us. Leaving his little boy especially, his young son who changes day by day. Just in from the football game and his man Peyton to dish up some pizza, Scott says, “It’s like the first day back to school after summer break.” And that’s how it is.

I suppose it all matters where your heart is, because despite all that Scott has to take care of and how crazily demanding it is on him, he has a knack of taking it in stride, he knows there is a point to it, and more importantly, his heart is in it. Me, I’m not so sure at times. I mean, what if we can’t sell our wine? What if an unexpected freeze comes and takes it all? What if I just get so tired of being frazzled and can’t do it anymore? Scott calls me a fair-weather business partner. Maybe that’s just what I am.

The idea of what’s in your heart and how far you might walk for something, or someone, no matter what, reminds me of when I hauled Georgina, my cat, to Ireland, when we moved there for Scott’s work. Because I loved her so dearly, I was willing to put up with the headache and very controlled program to transport a cat from a rabies country to Ireland, one rabies’ free: a blood test from only this lab; transport on only this carrier and only this flight at this time from only this city; with pre-authorization from the receiving country’s government so they’re not processing too many animals on one day; with this certified paperwork and stamps and deworming and tick treatment and all the other rigmarole I have since blocked out. Not to mention the ridiculous expenses. AND keeping Scott waiting in Ireland ALONE for six months while the program ran its course. My friends just scratched their heads.

There was one moment when I started to rethink the idea of having her make the journey, when I questioned all the hassle involved, when we were in Ireland house hunting (another was when our plane had to make that emergency landing in Montana on our move day). It was clear that Eileen, the relo-housing agent (not her real name, but still a good Irish one) was trying to steer us to choose one of her buddies’ homes, none of which were to our liking, nor meeting our list of “must haves” we had sent earlier, one of which was a safe, quiet place for the cat, who likes to roam a bit. It was getting to the end of our time with her, and we were feeling the pressure to make a decision. I guess a phone call put on speaker for us to hear was to nudge us even further toward Eileen’s friends, when her assistant came on and said, very emphatically, the reason another housing opportunity had fallen through was that, “‘Tis the cat, the Cat, the CAT, Eileen!”

Suffice it to say, despite the housing (and emergency touch down) the cat still came. And we pushed to find and did find suitable lodgings for ALL of us. Why? Our hearts backed the endeavor. Mine towards the cat, and Scott’s for me. Hmmm. Scott’s for me. Maybe that’s what this is about. Where is mine for any of this? Scott’s heart is so entrenched in the endeavor, like mine was for the cat, and he’s willing to put up with a LOT, just like I was willing to do for the cat. Am I so selfish? Good question. Maybe I am. I mean, some days my heart is aligned with Scott’s for all of this, and I don’t even mind the little house; it really is cozy and sweet, and the fact that we’ve done this vineyard on our dime and with our vision and no investor pushing his 0-8-15 ideas on us is rather exciting. Yet other times it just isn’t there for me. That push and pull, I love it, I love it not, I love it, I love it not. Now that the taking-care-of-the-farm season has begun, we’ll see how I do.