The sun topped the horizon firing rays over a tribe of men. Swish Hish Swish Hish. Small sickles of steel flicked over whetstones. Ebony eyes flashed in ochre faces. The air was charged with the pent-up energy of athletes before the event.
The farmer started the tractor and pulled a gondola out of the barn. The men walked out into the vineyard ahead of the machinery. The vines were heavy with fruit.
The vineyardist turned down a row and stopped in the middle. The ten men spread out -- one on each side of five rows.
"YEEEAAHH!" A war cry cleaved the air. The men dropped the plastic tubs and threw themselves into the leaf canopies, snaking their arms in around the canes.
Slash Slash Thump Thump.
Grape clusters dropped into the pans, maneuvered side-to-side by sliding feet.
As the group advanced, a chieftain emerged. Built like a bull: a vortex of agile energy. "ANDALE MUCHACHOS!" Paco bellowed, as he swung the 40-pound tub onto his head and charged to the gondola. A flick of thick wrists, and the first batch of grapes dropped hit steel. Paco pranced back and the men attacked -- lifted the tubs -- dashed on.
"COME ON, MEESTER WILLIAMS, COME ON!" they called to keep the gondola ahead.
The vineyardist was plucking leaves from the rising mound of Chardonnay. "Pick clean, pick clean!" he admonished.
Armando, Paco's brother, edged ahead. Paco increased his pace and the whole pack was caught up in the surge. 7:30 a.m. Sweating, I struggled to keep up.
Like a flock of birds, they chatted rapid-fire. Snatches of songs created work tempos. No love songs, no ballads. Songs of fierce pride, songs of Mexico.
The vineyardist stepped down from the tractor and walked back a few paces. "Not gett'n 'em all. Look here -- and here!" He held up small clusters as if they were coins. Armando shrugged. Paco barked an order and heads went in closer to the vines.
Bees clung to oozing grapes. Curses -- as hands were stung.
As the full gondola was towed away, an empty one rolled in over deep tracks.
"ANDALE MUCHACHOS!!"
Slash, slash, and on to the next vine, row after row, deeper and deeper into the vineyard. A jack rabbit was flushed. it chivied down the row: a helter-skelter of ears and legs.
Tub after tub poured into the gondola. The air was an amalgamation of sugar, dust, and sweat.
"Nine tons," the farmer said to Paco. Lunch.
The men took sacks from their battered cars and sat under a shade tree. They drank more than they ate.
The sky was a cobalt dome. I watched the leaves on the tree. No breeze.
When the tractor rolled out with the gondola, a few of the younger men trotted behind. The elders shook their heads and walked slowly. The sun pressed like stone on the head. Harsh light bounced off the soil and pierced the eyes. It was 100 degrees and rising.
Talk was infrequent. Paco led; no one challenged. I lingered under the leaf umbrellas sucking air, slashing haphazardly. The furnace heat tested the tensile strength of each man. The sun seemed stuck in the sky. Perspiration pools for eyes, I glanced at my watch. It appeared melted a la Salvador Dali.
Contorted faces. Lungs labored like bellows in a forge. Sweat rained onto the soil: salt of the earth.
The wise farmer sent a friend for cases of cold beer, and he made certain the crew saw the delivery.
"CERVEZA!!!" Second wind. Smiles. Songs again. A frenzied finish.
Dull knives were dropped. Each man slammed down one-two-three beers to douse the fire. Bone-tired, but they tried hard not to show it. Machismo must be held up. The farmer announced: "13 tons." $65. per ton amounted to $85. per man.
Incidents were reviewed and laughed away. How the Anglo cut more hand than grapes. How Armando almost overtook his brother this day. How at the end the Anglo missed the entire gondola when he dumped his tub.
More beer. The talk turned giddy. The big cars filled up and pulled away. Manana is another day. . .
Wine labels were the only pictures of Napa I saw before I moved here. I was enchanted by the stately stone wineries, by the hills with the lilting names of Stag's Leap and Mt. Eden, by the bucolic scenes like Silver Oaks. I was enchanted and a bit deceived. The labels garnish the outsides of bottles.
What it takes to get grapes inside the glass is another story. It is Mondavi, Martini, Krug who win the blue ribbons, score the points, but it is the Mexicans -- the men of the trenches -- who get them there.
There is talk of trying to automate even the vineyards. Already mechanical harvesters shake down the grapes. Replace temperamental Mexicans with machines you can control. Cold steel and computers belong in the wineries. The soil should be left to men.
For five years, Richard Kauffman managed the 110-acre vineyard on the Stanly Ranch. "One day, a Mexican dropped down behind a vine. The next thing I knew he's got a rabbit by the back legs. He skinned and dressed it all in one motion. In the time it took for that, the others had a fire going. In many ways they are the Indians, still in touch with nature. Some of them have a great feel for the plants. They instinctively know what's going on in the vines."
Vineyardist Ira Lee: "You couldn't get a crew of white guys to pick if you paid them triple! They won't touch this kind of work. They're not hungry enough. This is the land of milk and honey to the Mexicans. We gripe about how many are coming, but I'd hate to think where we'd be without them."
Wanting a break from cerebral pursuits, I helped Ira put in irrigation pipes. Mid-Napa Valley topsoil goes down about 12 feet, but in Carneros it extends a mere 12-36 inches, topping hard pan.
The back hoe couldn't lift out the heavy clay, so it had to be removed by hand. The ditch that the hoe outlined was about 70 yards long. I started in on one end; Armando at the other. The ditch was so narrow that you had to keep one foot in front of the other, jab the shovel into the clay, stomp it down, then heave the load up and bang it on the ground to dislodge the muck. And we had to hurry before the sun made adobe of what the hoe turned over.
Armando and I talked back and forth as we inched closer. I inquired about the Mexicans' chances of slipping into and staying in the United States. "Es easy! Anyone comes and can get a green card -- if you pay. The cards have your name but all the same face. No matter. You Anglos think we all look the same."
I asked him why so many Mexicans who live here don't try to learn English. "No, no, you better learn Spanish! Dis was our land. You took it but now we're here much as you." The upraised steel of his shovel clanged against mine. Both a challenge and a toast to hard work.
When vineyardists find a good man, many offer him a house on the property. He can settle down; have his family with him. These workers become the respected foremen of the crews.
Ira and I were putting in the last of the pipe when a big Monte Carlo rolled in. Paco got out wearing a suit coat over a wrinkled T-shirt and a Panama straw hat. Paco lives on the Stanly Ranch, but he and his crew, who pick all over the valley, came to negotiate the price for this year's grape harvest. Ira agreed to $65. a ton, and they sealed the deal with a handshake.
As in Paco's case, the oldest sons usually come up first. Once they secure jobs, they scout openings for brothers, cousins, uncles. Vineyard work is plentiful throughout the year: planting, weeding, budding, pruning, picking, plowing. Nine hour days, six days a week. $6. per hour -- $7. if they move up to driving the tractor.
In the winter, with the vines dormant, many workers return to their small home towns throughout Mexico -- heroes with their rolls of money.
After this year's harvest, Dick Kauffman, Paco and the crew threw a party. The Mexicans bought a pig from a farmer. They butchered and roasted it themselves. Dick supplied the ever-present cerveza. It was a friendly mingling of Mexicans and Anglos, workers, families, and owners. The labor was over in the grape valley, and the time for a well deserved fiesta had come.