Good God, a week in the vineyards feels like two weeks in the cellar. At least when you get home after a day of sanitizing open tops, lines and presses you have a chance to catch your breath and slug down a beer or two. Growing grapes on the other hand seems more akin to attending a university or maybe running your own bussiness: no matterhow hard you bust ass there is always something to do.
These days it would seem I only have time to wake up well before the ass-crack of dawn, utter various obsenities about how early it is and then shuttle off to work for a 10,11,12 or 13 hour day. Depending on the day. Seems almost like a crap shoot.
No big difference here except a cellar crew might take a mandatory catered break or two and I often times find myself running off to Mulsberry's Market, stricken with a ravenous appetite to bring away a poor boy or a roast beef rap. If I'm lucky Honest Teas might be on sale and I'll grab a Sublime Mate to wash it down with; however adulterated it beats a second jolt of coffee at midday in 90 degree weather.
Who came up with sixty hour workweeks before overtime for Ag anyway? Sounds more to me like highway robbery. The Mexicans have a saying that they often repeat after asking me how hard I have been working (a white boy doesn't work hard he just drives a truck right?) "Mucho trabajo poco dinero amigo!" Of course I know full well they say it matter of factly with traces of indignancy in the background. After all we both know who is making more cash.
Knowing full well I had to prove myself I try each in every day to get my hands dirty while I can, whether it's helping remove leaves from picking bins, picking along side the boys to finish a row or lifting up bird netting and deleafing in front of the pickers.
My reward: food. Today a group of pickers sat post harvest devouring their prepared meals, pulling steaming soup and foil wrapped burritos from thermoses. "Tommy ven pa' aca. Comete jue eres muy flaco. Estas cuidandote tu cuerpo como una chava o que?" An invitation to eat with the boys is a compliment. If they like you they will ask you to their table, if not, then forget about the homemade tortillas and fresh camarones a la diabla.
But seriously 60 hour work week? Did Cesar Chavez cave to big Ag business and the politicos? Where are the contemporary Chicago martyrs when you need them? Where are the neo-Emma Goldmanns and Woodie Guthries. Can somebody say "living wage?"
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