Democracy kicks up dust near the beets...

I've never been overtly political. The only explanation I can offer is my profound belief that the larger an organization gets, the less effective it is delivering a product or service. And I ask you, what organization is larger than the government? (Perhaps Wal-Mart.)

But my lack of interest in political posturing has not precluded me from believing strongly in the process of affecting change through constitutional activism. I love the fact that a group of like-minded people can petition its neighbors in an effort to put forth a candidate for public office -- however unlikely it is they'll succeed. Idealism never examines the odds.

It was in this spirit of supporting the constitution that I welcomed three mild-tempered, respectful, (and most undoubtedly) former '60s hippies to the Farmers' Market to seek the signatures necessary to get their candidate's name on the ballot for the Green Party. Their pitch to passersby was docile: You don't have to vote for her, they said; we just need 2,000 names to get her on the ballot.

All was well with the world until the crabbiest farmer at the market demanded they leave. No politics, he barked. This is a vegetable market.

The Green Party volunteers respected his stance and left quietly. But I was disappointed by the farmer's take on things. His view seemed short-sighted and restrictive. They were not campaigning nor were they promoting an agenda. And none of them had detracted from his sales of onions or beets. Besides, if anyone will take up the positions of the Green Party, it's likely to be people who frequent farmers markets.

For my part, I was just thrilled to watch the process by which they collected names; it felt good to participate in an effort meant to keep the heart of democracy beating. And frankly, the best part about hanging around a community market (or square) is listening to people exchange ideas and debate issues that mean something to them, even if some of them don't mean anything to me.

Sadly, farmer B doesn't share this sentiment. Never mind the free and open exchange of ideas. It's a vegetable market. We should all act like vegetables.

With heavy eyelids I write...

I’ve discovered a piece of routine for my new self — my new fully-settled-on-the-farm, just-me-and-them-animals, surviving-just-fine-without-air-conditioning, don’t-need-to-be-out-the-door-before-eight, self. And this routine involves music — spacey, sultry, sometimes scintillating music. Seriously.

I stumbled onto a music program that plays Monday through Thursday nights from 9 p.m. to 11, on KMSU called Echoes. You can learn more about the program at the Echoes web site, where its sound is described as cross-cultural and trans-millennial, merging cultures and forms, technology and tradition, the ancient past and the possible future. You can see why I’m attracted, now, can’t you?

Even the host has a voice that sounds like it originates from deep within the planet.

I’m finding these Echoes compositions so mesmerizing that I can no longer climb the stairs toward bed before 11 p.m. lest I miss the journey through just one more amazing soundscape.

It’s worth noting that six months ago I couldn’t stay awake past 9:30 if my life depended upon it. Now, I schedule online research or video or graphics work for after sunset. And so my new routine is to sit, illuminated only by the glow of an LCD computer monitor, and find places in cyberspace to visit while this music sweeps my new, nocturnal self, through the solar system.

Then a brief window opens for me when John Diliberto signs off. I must run to bed quickly then. For if I remain in my chair until 11:01, well, I’m doomed. That’s when the jazz starts.

It's the scale of it that hits them first...

I've noticed a pattern with visitors to Four Cedars.

It first shows itself in the way the car slows just after turning into the driveway. It's hard for them to focus on the gravel drive when their necks are craned to take in the long rows of hybrids shooting skyward from ribbons of black soil.

Then, about 75 minutes into whatever "chore" they enthusiastically volunteered for, it becomes clear to them that commercial viticulture is neither gardening nor yard work. I usually offer them a snack or a nap then, feeling bad that they haven't yet acclimated to my reality: yes, there are 40 plants per row and 16 rows.

It's a lot, I know. Have a cookie.

Finally, after a hearty meal, or two, and a good night's sleep, there's the glow of accomplishment that washes over guests when they realize that perseverence does reap visible rewards. They are then free to assume ownership over their portion of the three year process of turning roots into wine.

Every step along the way is a vital one, after all. And all volunteers are held up as heros around here.

This is Steph, who volunteered to help remove grow tubes. Tony likened the process to taking training wheels off of a child's bicycle. The tubes acted like individual greenhouses for the root stock, giving each plant warmth and protection to get off to a good start. But now the vigorous plants need to start the hardening process before winter hits. So, it was off with the tubes.
Some of the vines surprised us with how much vigor they actually delivered inside the tubes. Here, a Marquette had developed a cluster of grapes. Steph pinched these off whenever she found them.
And, try as we might to get every weed away from every vine, every now and then, Steph found one worthy of noting.
At the end of a weekend, there was only one word to describe it: Beautiful!

With great thanks to Steph (and Amos) and Tony for donating a weekend to the cause.