“I try to put myself in people. See them, at least. I think it helps. Even though I can’t remember her, I see vines of wisteria and grape, and when they get mixed in with the few other things I know about her, I get a pretty clear picture of my grandma.
“I imagine that last little pat on the ground when she finished planting them. How she straightened up, supported her back at her hips and made this stern face. She was always stern-faced, I think. Yeah. Maybe she looks kind of upset. She can’t relax and watch it grow even for a minute.
“You should probably know that the main word my aunts use to describe her is, ‘Trabajadora. Muy, pero que muy, trabajadora.’ Which means—‘A hard worker. But a very, very hard worker.’ Except I think I’ve got emotional memories that urge me to disagree. When I was two, and she spent that year with me in Yonkers, I understood in my own way that she was a loving woman who regretted never quite learning how to express it.
“So. She was upset that she couldn’t take that minute to appreciate what she’d planted, which was, more than anything, shade for me all these forty years later. What she did instead was breathe her relief that she’d finished another thing and move on. I can’t see her as a hard worker. I see a victim of the setting sun.
“Then there’s the moment before that. Where she had to step out, feel the sun, look up, and decide that there needed to be something. It was a chain of thought that could have arrived at any vine on Earth. Or tree. And she went with two: the pretty one they planted in the city, and the one she drank daily with lunch.
“You haven’t seen it yet, but if you walk two or three minutes that way, we’ve got about an acre of grape. The same land she overwhelmed herself for a quarter of her life to save and buy. And I genuinely can’t process why. I know the thinking was that if they had more wine, they could sell more, but they only needed to sell more to make enough to buy more land. If your surplus is always tied up in savings, then isn’t that effectively the same as not having surplus?
“I’m overwhelmed when I consider the dissonance in how she felt about adding probably an extra twenty percent to her work load, with no extra time to do it in, and no extra cash. “And making wine is hard. It was weeks of walking up and down hill, pruning, years of weeding by hand until they bought the tractor, and even the tractor wouldn’t go directly under the vines, so she still had to do it by hand.
Then there’s upkeep on the barrels. You take them out in summer, wash them, one by one, that’s two days by itself. Then you have to seal them up and roll and maneuver them back inside. Then there’s the harvest. Which is thousands of individual . . . things of grapes. In Spanish they’re called racimos. I never needed to learn that word in English, so I don’t know it. Although now that I think about it, it’s probably something simple, like bunches. Or . . . groups?
“Anyway, so the grapes won’t spoil, you have to physically make the wine. That’s another, like, two days of actual nonstop hard work right after the harvest. You’ve got to lift and dump all the buckets into the lagar, which is the place where we start the fermenting. Then you step on them, press them, move them into open barrels to ferment more. Then, the next week, you’ve got to move those thousands of liters into closed barrels so they can finish fermenting. And not long after, you have to prune, and you get the point.
“And this is something they’d do even if they didn’t sell a drop. Mostly so everyone could have their daily glass or two of wine with lunch.
“Now it’s me taking care of the vines. And it just seems she could have done less and lived just as well. I mean, I make a bit less than she did. But I do way less. Like, if you weed under grapes you have a basic misunderstanding of how roots work. It’s work without purpose. I give the vines their scattered week of my time each year, and it’s already too much. I’d really just rather let the vines grow wild and occasionally reach up some long stick and knock them down to watch my ducks run up, mwap mwap mwap mwap mwap, lean over, and scarf them down. Then they just start dancing. It’s fantastic. They do this thing where one of them trills and shakes their butt feathers, and circles their neck, and always stops when their head’s far out from their body. Then they all start dancing. And—if you ever get a chance, look up Muscovy duck dance on youtube. It’s fun. They enjoy the sugar way more than I do a daily cup of wine.
“But the wisteria I like. You know, it blooms for that week or two, or whatever, but I look forward to it. You see them, and you know winter won’t stifle growth anymore. You can start to really plant out the nursery.
“Thanks for letting me vent, by the way. I try to have these conversations with my parents, and they just tune it out. They want something else out of me. I gave them a similar kind of rant once. About the wine and the wisteria. I didn’t have it this well thought out, but.
“Every time they visit I end up, like—we end up battling. I just end up trying to prove, with shouting, that they have to enjoy losing time. Or they’ll get locked into that same rundown their parents had. Where they spend their lives stressed out because they work so much, but need to work to be able to buy all the things they need. And I tell them they need to need less, but I’m trying to educate my parents. I’ve got the dynamic backwards.
“We could argue all day. They have each other to reinforce their position. So, inevitably, I have to be the one to step away and accept I won’t change them, knowing they tell each other the same thing about me. And that’s not something I’m very good at.
“After we argue, sometimes, I climb up to the attic where I can concentrate, and I stare at nothing. And before each surge of anger rises, I remind myself that in their hearts they’re just doing right by their culture.
“Out of hundreds of stories the Celts and pagans had, only the santa compaña, the magic cauldron and the lavandeira survive. The santa compaña lets us be afraid of the dark. The magic cauldron became the Holy Grail. And for the lavandeira, well, there’s even a little bird flitting about keeping its namesake.
“And it goes like this.
“When most people tell it, lavandeiras are spirits who died in childbirth, or had a child die without baptism. If you go out past a riverbank when the moon’s full, you might find her. The lavandeira will be dressed all in black, washing sheets with blood that won’t scrub out. She’ll plead for help. ‘Help. Please. Please. Can you wash it out, friend?’
“At this point, now, you have two options.
“You can just keep on walking. Just, ignore her completely. Just—‘Doo-doo-da-doo—there’s nothing going on.’
“Or you can help her clean the blood out of her sheets.
“Obviously, you know, if you walk by as if nothing’s happening, nothing terrible happens to you. So the moral goes that if you see some terrible, terrible thing, it’s best to walk on.
“But if you choose to help, it divides into two more options. When you wring out the sheets, if you wring the same way as the Lavandeira, you die. Right there. Dead. If you wring the sheets the opposite way, you survive, but with bad luck for the rest of your life.
“And something about not ignoring the terrible soothes me. I head in, look at the terrible, and wring different. But the myth must be true, ‘cause it’s unbelievable how many of my conversations become arguments. I must be unlucky.
“By the end of the night, I can climb downstairs composed. With a little help from a myth, I know that the same way that they ignore the terrible, all I have to do is take note and then change things. I can accept that they’ll work hard to make sure there’s enough to drink, but that there needs to be enough to drink because they work hard.”