Page 68 of Red Mountain Burning
Don’t Fall Hard
Agravel drive and a chain-link fence divided Till Vineyards from Drink Flamingo. Otis looked at it more like twenty feet of purgatory, the line between heaven and hell. Standing a few rows into his own vineyards, he marveled at the differences. Comparing the two properties might be the perfect study in wild farming versus the less earth-conscious path.
Thankfully, he hadn’t found any damage from the spray drift. All his vines looked healthy—in a more real sense of the word. His vineyard had always had a wildness to it, with grasses and weeds that he rarely mowed and grape clusters that looked far from uniform. To an untrained eye, Till Vineyards looked like it was cared for by an unkempt hippie living off the grid. But when standing there in the quiet, as Otis was now, one noticed the grasshoppers bouncing through the tall grass and the butterflies dancing through the canopies where robins had made their nests. Otis’s idea of farming was to manipulate as little as possible, planting the vines and letting them settle into the natural habitat.
And then twenty feet away…
Otis peeked over his last rows and through the fence. The division couldn’t have been more pronounced. Trying not to gag at the sight of the McMansion that now had walls and was being prepped for stucco, he looked at the bright, almost neon-green grass that had risen from the cleared soil. Synthetic fertilizers had a way of making things look so perfect on the outside while ripping the insides apart.
A ring of brown circled the trunks of the vines and trees, the evidence of spraying glyphosate, the primary ingredient of Roundup. It was such an easy and lazy way to deal with weeds. So much easier than hand hoeing or running a weed eater.
Otis wasn’t close enough to see, but he could guarantee there were no grasshoppers or butterflies making their homes over there. And there were certainly no robins’ nests with their beautiful blue eggs hidden in the leaves.
He knew exactly what those chemicals would do to the vines. They’d seep into the soil, potentially settling in for decades. The roots of the vines would soak up these chemicals and be clogged by them, which would prevent them from taking in the essence of the place. Though they might look like they were thriving, the vines would end up pushing out homogenized, lifeless berries. Grapes that tasted like every other lifeless fruit across the world.
That wasn’t the Drink Flamingo vines’ biggest issue, though. While the chemicals worked to stunt their vitality, Otis was keeping them dangerously thirsty. On watering days, he’d wait until one of their guys had done a pass to check the irrigation, and then he’d pull out his phone like he was taking out his sword. He’d navigate to the irrigation app and swipe down, closing the smart valve. He wasn’t tech savvy at all, but most farmers on Red Mountain these days were using technology to control their irrigation process. Not to his surprise, his neighbors hadn’t noticed the water deficiency. This is what happened when you hired a vineyard manager who didn’t live in the state. It served them right.
The only problem was that Otis might have been a little trigger-happy. The vines had barely grown out of their grow tubes, and he wondered if some had failed to take root at all.
“Better ease up for a while,” Otis said to himself, slinking back down into the row.
After taking a moment to appreciate a ladybug inching down a vine, he looked at the time. He’d agreed rather reluctantly to join Joan for a bicycle ride around the mountain. Didn’t she understand how much work he had to do? Who had time to go lallygagging around the mountain? He burned his calories with a shovel and an axe, not a bloody two-wheeled Mary Poppins machine.
Still, he’d been deep in the doghouse and knew he needed to shape up. There was a time when he couldn’t imagine the two of them ever having problems. It seemed like she’d put up with him forever. But apparently, the honeymoon was over. Now, she was expecting him to actually become a better person. Ugh, who had time for such things? Wasn’t it enough to make fine wine?
* * *
Otis hadto knock the cobwebs off his bike, and he felt like a damn idiot prancing around in his shorts and silly tennis shoes. It didn’t help when Joan, in her tights and T-shirt, burst into laughter upon seeing him in the driveway.
“You redefine a farmer’s tan,” she said, gawking at his legs. She had pulled their bikes out of the garage, and they were waiting behind her.
“I’m glad you’re having fun with this whole thing.”
“I’m proud of you. And I think you look adorable.”
Otis growled. “You know how I feel about looking adorable.” He wrapped a leg over his bike. “Apparently, you’ve forgotten how small this mountain is and how the only sport is talking about the other inhabitants.”
Joan climbed onto her bike. “I’m a misfit and don’t care who knows it.”
“Easy for you to say. Let’s get on with it before I change my mind.”
“Otis Till, take a moment to appreciate what you’re doing. If hanging out with me is a nuisance, I’m happy to find someone else who will spend the morning with me. Besides, your ticker could use a bit of cardio. Don’t give me that ‘my farm is my gym’ routine. Your blood pressure readings don’t justify your argument.”
Knowing he wouldn’t win this one, he resisted challenging her. “I’m very happy to spend some time with you.”
For about three minutes, as he dug in and pushed himself up the hill, he let go of most of his thoughts. It wasn’t that he achieved Zen, which was most likely where Joan was at the moment, but the required physical exertion prevented him from thinking anything other than,Well, this bloody sucks!
As he passed by Drink Flamingo’s McMansion, however, his mind returned to his war with Bellflour and a notion he’d recently been tossing around. What about a wall? What if he built a huge concrete wall that would at least protect him from looking at Drink Flamingo every time he walked his own vines?How tall would it need to be?he wondered, eyeing the purgatorial gravel road. To do it right, he thought eight feet would be best. Expensive, but well worth it. He wasn’t sure he could do another vintage with that damn eyesore lingering. A wall would also block any further drift incidents.
Otis planned the process as he and Joan cut along Sunset Road and swung right onto Van Giesen. Thankfully, seconds before his heart exploded and his lungs gave out, they reached the downhill stretch to the river. He stopped pedaling as the bike accelerated and his hair blew back in the wind. Though he wasn’t prepared to admit it to Joan, it was a wonderful feeling to be out of breath and sweating and having earned the downhill run.
Hanging a right, he followed her along the river on Demoss Road. Remi Valentine’s property came into view on the left.What a piece of land that is,Otis thought. Four stunning acres of superb farmland planted with just about every fruit and vegetable growable on this side of the Cascades. For a novice and a one-man show, Remi was doing a darn good job of taking care of it. Looking down the hill, Otis saw the overhead sprinklers spraying river water over the garden. Otis thought Remi would be wise to switch over to drip irrigation to keep the weeds down.
As that thought passed, Remi poked his head up from the bank of the river, where it looked like he was working on the pump. Joan and Otis waved back as they sped by.
Winding around several more curves, they passed Brooks’s house and the many gentlemen’s farms with horses, goats, and sheep grazing in the pastures. Once they hit a flat stretch, Otis took a break from pedaling, and his mind returned to the wall. He was thinking about how long it might take to build when Joan slowed down to let him catch up.
“What are you thinking about?” She looked like she’d barely ridden anywhere, and here he was feeling the burn of his sweat in his eyes.
