The Vineyard Sleeps

For several months we have had occasional hoarfrost in the morning, crystalline frost on dying foliage, a smattering of flurries and squalls.

But one day the first heavy snow of the season arrives, and stays, and the vineyard finally slumbers.

There is something remarkably peaceful about the first snowy vineyard sunrise of the season. The snow muffles all sound, the ground is covered, the lake partially frozen.

That is our signal that the post-harvest work of the vineyard is mostly finished. What did not get accomplished will wait until another season, for these are the days when we start to look ahead.

In a few short weeks the crucial work of pruning begins, when last season's growth is removed and we choose how many buds to leave on woody spurs. Latent in each bud, is next years's life: rampant shoots, lush foliage, delectable fruit, for these few months slumbering in a quiet, snowy vineyard.

November Slant of Light

Strong weekend winds whisked the last of the dry leaves from the vines.

A full November moon gave way to a brilliant orb at sunrise, and suddenly, standing on the sunny slope of the South vineyard, or beside the lake on the North, there are clear lines of sight.

A five acre vineyard somehow seems a lot smaller, no longer contained by green walls of leafy trellis.

Today's wind crests in white-peaked waves across the spring fed lake. The swan family, resident ducks and passing Canada geese bob along in the current, nonplussed. A spindly legged doe, perfectly camouflaged against tawny apple tree trunks, munches contentedly from late-ripening fruit, lingering yet on denuded orchard boughs.

These are days to catch up on trellis repair, to inspect the growth and development of woody trunks and cordons, and to think back on the season that was, and look ahead to the one yet to come.

Somehow, something as simple as the grape leaves finally being clear from the trellis wires opens the mind from day-to-day concerns, and clears space to reflect back, and to look forward.

There is something about a November slant of light: it changes by the minute beneath rapidly advancing clouds. Neither as intense as the full summer sun nor as austere as winter's meager yet welcome rays, it colors newly opened vistas, illumining a brief pause from the immediate needs of hundreds of vigorous vines.

A Perfect November Tree

Give a child an especially vivid box of crayons, and ask her to draw a perfect fall tree. She might come up with something like one of the small maples bordering our North Vineyard lawn.

Maybe because the sky was gray today, yet with open pockets where the sun shone through.

Maybe because for being so late in the season, it is surprising such brilliant colors linger.

Maybe because it's a perfect lollipop of a tree canopy, a dollop of bright orange from a distance, yet in close range, individual points of crimson, gold and orange.

Maybe it is the growing carpet of shed leaves at its base, a reminder that nothing gold (or crimson or orange or scarlet) can stay.

For whatever reason, this is the tree that captured my eye this fall.

My third autumn in the vineyard, and I anticipate the seasonal change: The startling scarlet of Virginia Creeper climbing gnarled tree trunks, harbinger of all the colors yet to come.

The buttery yellow and gold and red of the shrubby sassafras, with its cheerful mitten leaves.

The corky bark and brilliant foliage of the otherwise inauspicious sweetgum.

Every year, I anticipate the vistas surrounding the vineyard, watching one species steal the thunder from the last, taking mental photos of the perfect fall vista, when everything seems at its peak.

For whatever reason in this wet and wacky growing season, the colors did not seem to change in their usual succession.

The vistas I anticipated never seemed to arrive, as the cottonwood lost all its leaves before the tamarack turned tawny. 

So, I had pretty much written off this fall's foliage season. 

Until November 1, when this perfect maple chose to reveal itself.