Recently retired from the California Department of Education, Andrew Laufer is writing a book about his life including periods as a butcher's helper, food service worker, construction laborer, animal research assistant, seasonal fire fighter, and janitor. In his youth, he hitch-hiked up and down the coast and out to Colorado numerous times providing context for hundreds of short stories.
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Pruning Grape Vines
Spiritual Farming at 44
Pruning Grape Vines
Spiritual Farming at 44
In 1998, we bought a small house on five partially landscaped acres—complete with sprawling lawns, fruit trees, ornamental plants, and about 50 thorny rose bushes. Tucked in among the foliage was a small vineyard of roughly 40 grapevines.
Over time, I taught myself to make wine—nothing fancy, but good enough for cooking and perfect for sangria. Some friends have even offered to buy it. I also learned to make jams and jellies, inevitably producing far more than I can consume. Now, my extended family looks forward to a bounty of homemade wine, jams, and jellies each Christmas.
I also taught myself to prune the fruit trees. It's not my favorite task—the branches are stiff, stubborn, and sometimes difficult to reach. But pruning is essential if the trees are to remain healthy and productive. It’s also necessary if I want to maintain my family’s growing expectations.
For the first couple of years, I neglected the grapevines. But once I committed to making wine, I realized vineyard management couldn’t be an afterthought. So I took a few classes and began to learn the techniques of proper vine pruning.
Grape pruning, I discovered, is very different from pruning fruit trees. It’s a slower, more thoughtful process. Vines must be cut back not only to ensure a good yield the following year but also to foster strong starter buds for the year after that.
It’s a full-day job—but one that I’ve come to cherish. Pruning the vines is meditative, almost spiritual. Unlike fruit tree limbs, grapevines are light and pliable. Each precise snip increases the chances the plant will survive the winter. As I move through the rows, vines brushing against my skin and clothes evoke a subtle, almost sensual sensation. The touch reminds me of a gentle caress, like fingers lightly grazing my arm. Sometimes, I think of my wife’s touch. One of these days, I’ll invite her to prune with me—maybe she’ll feel what I feel.
I recall one afternoon wine tasting in the Amador County hills. Chatting with one of the pourers, I shared how spiritual the pruning experience sometimes feels. She raised an eyebrow and scoffed. “Yeah, right,” she said. “Go prune 200 acres of vines and tell me how spiritual it is.”
She had a point. Even in my tiny vineyard, the practicality of getting the job done eventually snaps me out of my transcendent reverie.
Still, I look forward to the annual ritual. I’ll prune with care, take in the stillness of the day, and savor the quiet joy of the task. Maybe someday, with a little luck and a lot of learning, I’ll produce a truly fine bottle of wine.* Adjusted tone for consistency—slightly more polished but still personal.
~ Andy Laufer
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