Farmer and Winemaker Living the American Dream

Last updated on October 2nd, 2023 at 06:01 pm

They’re calling this one ‘The Miracle Harvest,’ a testament to this farm’s American dream right here in Oregon. It’s late in the season; some fruit is still hanging and being picked. Some of the grape vines were zapped by frost, and frozen pinot has been thawed and crushed.

A few dozen acres of the grapes in Willamette Valley may, in fact, not be picked at all due to issues like botrytis, which, if making a late harvest white wine, is known as the “noble rot.”

We do not make late harvest and will thus receive considerably less fruit from some of the winery’s farmers than in vintages past. This is just one small challenge my wine-making husband faces for this year’s harvest.

“I just wanted to be here when things were going well, instead of not.” Was my calm and “glass half full”, husband’s response at 11:00 a.m., when I finally let go of the anger and called him at the winery.

He was supposed to stay home to spend the morning hours with us, tackling the loads of paperwork accompanying the tons of grapes received at harvest.  There are contracts, state and federal reporting, weight tags, labor contractor hours to be accounted for, and so on. Around 7:45 a.m., however, my husband received a phone call from his second in command, who had locked the keys in his car after dropping his child off at a school two towns away from the winery, where grapes were being delivered to the crush pad.

No bacon and eggs for Bryan this morning.

I abhor the term harvest widow (yes, it’s a real industry term), but I fully understand where it comes from. I prefer a different term that shows respect for those who have experienced real and permanent loss of a spouse.  After all, the partners of winemakers are this by choice, hopefully, and there is an end to this challenging season.

This harvest season, we found our beautiful relationship and close and loving little family this morning on day 17 of harvest. At least, I think it is day 17. I lose track every year after the first Saturday and Sunday are swallowed up in the hopper, then de-stemmed and crushed.

“New Normal” is the euphemism that keeps swirling around in my head and best defines my current way of being.

After I took the kids to an event in downtown Corvallis last night, on my own, and while suffering the mid-to-late stages of this nasty virus that’s trying to become bronchitis, inclusive of regular nose bleeds that I picked up while playing nurse to my little son, who got it from the kitty adoptions last week, which was also mostly me, for his birthday surprise, which was all on me. I admit to not being my kindest, loving self with my husband today.

Like an E.R. physician this time of year, the phone calls can begin as early as 4:00 a.m. for my husband and can be unceasing.

The winery buys some of its fruit from growers who are on the other end of the phone line and who tend their vineyards from as far away as Walla Walla and Ashland, Oregon. This means grape ripeness (brix/Ph/TA) measurements can differ a little to a lot in our large state, depending on the micro-climates of each region.

Sure, we get to speak of the terroir and subtle regional interesting facets of the grapes and wine, but that’s really mostly for the marketing/sales departments to get behind. What concerns my wine-crafting husband is not this business aspect of it, though.  Farming practices, growing practices, harvesting skills and efforts, timing, creativity, and courage dominate my man’s headspace.

It’s an all-encompassing feeling for me, this state of new normal. It’s when I am responsible for one hundred percent of the minute-to-minute living experiences that occur for my children and myself. A small taste of what it would be like to be a homeschooling, little farming, single parent, and all that this implies.

The new normal includes many surprises, so I never get too comfortable, even after the sun sets.

I tend to make incredible use of my time, day and night, and wait like a child on Christmas Eve for my phone to ring and answer only if it’s my husband, do very little talking myself, and hang on to his every word. This special season is also organic, a living, growing, naturally evolving present state. Harvest and crush are finite, and when the intense time spent on the pad and in the fermentation and barrel cellars comes to an end for my husband,  then it’ll be my turn to go to work.

I wait until I go in to track the fermentations and later top up the barrels. I stay busy; I get blue, and I sometimes get cranky with the children. I watch my favorite movies and drink chai while I do the laundry. I cook, bake, and care for the outside farming chores and indoor housework.

I teach my children their lessons, read and sing and tuck them in to sleep, and . . .

I miss my husband. Yet, in the midst of this challenging season, we find our strength as a family, and I can’t help but admire the passion, dedication, and courage that define our lives as farmers and winemakers living the American dream.

Shellie Croft

Shellie Croft is a wine Enologist, vineyard worker, mama, baker, cook, and living-the-American-dream-on-a-farm enthusiast. When not making wine and caring for her family, Shellie shares her experiences and incredible photography on Instagram.