Farm Hands

Day after day our hands dig in the soil, the vines and the weeds. Pulling out the unwanted, pushing around the nourished, and pampering the blessed. Our hands are showing the toil of our work.

Tried wearing gloves, but the barrier between vine and skin is as if it is a vast desert of leather that can never be crossed. Ergo, the hands are naked. Exposed without shield to the elements of nature.

After working with hundreds of plants, our hands our permanently stained the color of green and dyed that of black dirt. Our fingernails look as if we just finished up a long hard day at the mechanic's shop. The blisters that are upon even deeper blisters, no longer hurt at the surface because the rawness is so deep.

Thorns from thistles and small pieces of wood from dead grape vine trunks embed themselves into our flesh, but the skin needs not to react to the intrusion. The tips of our fingers are so calloused that they have no more wrinkles. And the rest of our hands have now have more wrinkles than can be counted. Our fingernails our non-existent, smoothed down with the sandpaper of life in the vineyard.

We soak our hands nightly in vaseline, and attempt to suppress our pain with wine and pain killer. But the throbbing soreness still interupts our dreamless sleep.

The life of a worker in a vineyard. Even more of a reason to relish the flavors of the grape.

Remember enjoy and imbibe.