Grapes

Six years ago, we had a trellis put on our deck. It was, at the time, a symbol of a future I wished to exist, not one that I actually lived. I had visions of cozy chairs shaded by some sort of well-maintained creeping vine, afternoons spent reading books and chatting, evenings with twinkle lights and deep conversations. I think, when it was built, I had two four year olds and a six year old, and life did not accommodate books, chatting, or deep conversations. That said, we could manage twinkle lights.

The vines, however, were even trickier. As first, I thought wisteria. So pretty, so fragrant! Until a gardener friend of mine indicated gently that our laissez faire style probably wasn’t up to the intense pruning we might need. So we planted hops. It seemed hip, interesting. And easy, right?

Apparently wrong. They died pretty much immediately and I still have no idea why.

So we decided to try grapes. They tend to do ok in our dry summers (even when I forget to water them) and I figured third time’s the charm, right?

We ordered and carefully planted the vines, and worked really, really hard to keep them alive. That first year, anyway. But they didn’t sprout leaves, and didn’t grow and after two years of trying, we gave up. Forrest built a raised bed around them and tried not to jostle them too much but we planted kale and lettuce and some flowers and gave up on the idea of a leafy canopy. It just wasn’t to be.

The next year, we just ignored them. A series of thin brown sticks poking up, surrounded by all the other plants that at least had the decency to either grow or die already. And we put a greenhouse on the area of the deck covered by the trellis. A “she-shed” full of comfy chairs and cozy blankets. Of course, it leaked and got cold and kind of sucked and I just gave up on the deck. Nothing was working.

But then, two years ago, the vines started growing leaves. And, well, vining a little bit. Working their way up the deck supports and railings, completely fruitless, but alive, at least. I’d been burned before. We watered and planted the beds as usual. And last year, we got our first grapes. Not many, and not large, but delicious and tangy and bearing the unusual flavor that homegrown produce always does. (Is it the compost? The water? The fact that my dogs definitely pee on the ground around them?)

This year, for our 15th anniversary, Forrest and I moved the greenhouse out into the yard to be a real greenhouse. (A joint project which conveniently tested all of our hard-earned communication skills from these last 15 years). And we bought a cozy outdoor couch for under the trellis. The vines haven’t reached the top yet, but a beige sun shade is doing its work and I have high hopes for next year.

We’ve reached the stage of life with reading books and chatting and conversations and kids who decided to name that little nook “The Grotto” while we sit out there and I hear every little grievance they have about each other. Tomorrow, we’ve got to harvest those grapes. Lots of them! Still small, and still so delicious.

I’d given up on my dream of grapes, allowing those plants the barest of care and space, and in the end, they surprised me. More than surprised, they’ve delighted me. We’ll harvest this weekend and close up our outdoor spaces and look forward to next year, when maybe, maybe, that leafy canopy will finally be here.