Monday, February 2, 2009

Carte SIM pas prete.

It’s monday morning, nine fifteen. I should be crooked over with my electro-coup 2000 attacking the grenache blanc. That’s the field we are working in now. But it’s raining out, just like it was yesterday and the day before. All weekend it has been gray, quiet. I haven’t left the house, save the small expedition for cigarettes saturday morning.

Most people complain about rainy weekends after beautiful weekdays, for me it's the opposite. I like the office to be sunny. The rain, it is a god send. But all weather is god sent, this just happened to fall on the right day. You see my back is a wreck, perhaps because of the rain. Perhaps not. Either way I can use another day of rest. There have been few times in my life when one more day of rest wasn't a good idea.

In any case there is a fixed quantity of work, so the more it gets spread out the better it is for me. The rich man-broken man, poor man -healthy cycle can only be run so many more times. I’m often curious what my children really think of my life, or more so, what they will think of it in twenty years.

It’s raining and monday and all the other kids, who slowly become my engagements too, are off to school. It’s funny my back being all stiff and twisted again. I wonder how these farmers do it all their lives. They just put balm on the pain and get back at it. They seem to be broken all the time, but they just keep going. In between there are brief moments I’ve seen that are hyper-rich. It makes me wonder if I just complain too much, or if there really is a better way.

I guess in the farm world the extreme pains are always short lived. The season is finished and the part of the body that was over used due to the constant repetitive motion demanded can rest for another year. The seasons change and another part of the body takes the brunt of the destruction upon it. In that way the entire person can keep functioning while different parts of the body withstand the brutal assault that it is weathering year after year. Funny, this desire that every living thing has to continue.

The strange thing is my desire to get back to the rows. Doing the taille is like very slowly vacuuming a very dusty rug, or for that matter doing a puzzle. They are all repetitive tasks that in themselves are not fun, but the the more you do, the better it looks. I’m also wondering if getting back into it’s proper stooped position wouldn’t ease my back a little. Whip it back into shape, as they say. It’s sometimes effective, as least in the short term. That’s all I really have. The weather is going to change.

The old farmer from St. Jean came by the other day. He has the four hectares my vigneron is working. They are nice parcels, down by the river. He wanted my vigneron to come over to the house to ‘talk’. In the field they talked hospital care for the elderly and funereal concerns, something about the daughter in Lyon. All briefly. We were working. Details take time. Hence the sit-down.

The old man is dying. His wife is dying too, he says she will probably go first...

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