Sortin' Grapes

Between picking and bottling, much happens, some of which requires the sort of task that would make small children who like finger painting very happy.  Grapes come in bunches to the winery, rather as they do to your local produce market.  Leaves, twigs, unripe grapes which are little green bullets:  all must be gone before David commences the art and craft of good wine-making.   As with picking, sorting is tedious but necessary.  Unlike the picking part, sorting is done in the winery itself.

The picked bunches come into the winery in these large white bins which David hoists with his forklift, up above the presser.  Here he's raking the grapes into the presser, with Opie standing ready to push the start button.

Opie pushes the start button and reaches under the presser to guide the now-pressed grapes onto the feeder table....to us sorters.

A view of the whole process.  David at the top, with the feeder table deep with pressed grapes, juicy, with the skins.  As we sort, we push the clean grapes into the bin.  Here we've pressed (ha ha) a customer into sorting duty; he's the man in the red shirt, nearest the white bin. 

This is how fast we wish we could sort, given that we have 11 or so bins to get through in one day. 

Customers looking on in awe at Peter's sorting skill.  We did have to censor our conversation in the presence of customers....and Suzanne.  Let's just say that sailors on leave in Tijuana might have blushed.  But hey, sorting is booooooooorrrrrrrrring.

Stems and twigs don't make for good wine.  Nor does the occasional grasshopper, one of which made it through the presser alive.  I released him outdoors, after he scared me half to death, but his future was doubtful.

Me working as fast as my little fingers will fly.

Move it, guys.  Move it!!!!!  Let's get through this bin.  NOW!

Still hard at work, with tanks in the background, along with boxes of brand new bottles waiting to be filled.

Poor pitiful me.  Notice the rubber band anchored plastic glove on my hand?  Remember my earlier post about pickin' injuries?  One cut hadn't quite healed over, and continued to bleed as I sorted, which I was informed was absolutely not sanitary.  I wasn't too concerned about that, but the cut did sting from the juice, so I put on the glove.  My Michael Jackson look.

Opie pushing grapes down the sorting table, while the two below us yell, "No, no!  Slow down!!!"

A definite requirement of sorting is to wear your oldest, grubbiest shirt, as you will get very juicy.

Dumping detritus into the trash.

Nowhere near finished..........

Scatological Installation

Even though I have a hard-to-get, simple to install and maintain conventional septic system, putting it in required a lot of hard work.  The house sits on a little drop, and the system had to be designed to accommodate the lay of the land.  The tank itself has to be X number of feet away from the house, and the drain field has to .... well, drain. 

Carroll Mullins had the unenviable job of interacting with me, the absolute novice in this house building thing.  After he and his brother

 

Bernard

Hauled out their equipment which I kept referring to as a tractor

They cleared more space

Carroll wondering if it will ever get done, with all the rain we'd had

They had to clear a driveway, haul in some hard stuff to keep us from sinking up to our ankles in mud.

Bernard measuring to extend the culvert, which here they tend to call a drain tile or drain pipe.  VDOT in the not-too-distant past once installed the drain tile, but no longer.  I pay for the pipe and for the installation.  And, apparently, once it gets stopped up, which it did in the last big rain, either I crawl down in the ditch and wriggle my body through it to clean it out or.....  I don't know the or.

Many of those lovely trees will be firewood in Doug's fireplace next winter, but much to my wondrous delight, their demise revealed a marvelous view, in the winter especially, of High Knob.

A sea of mud.  Too much down time for Carroll and Bernard, and they don't do indoor work.

Finally, the rain ceases and Bernie and Kevin stake out the house corners so the real job of installing the septic can begin. 

Pipe and hose which will go into the drain field trenches

Down the hill below the house site to the drain field

I do think it looks like a very odd coffin, but in fact, this is the fabled septic tank.  It sits on the edge of the small cliff where the house will be.  Its location required 60 dumptruck loads of dirt; please do not ask me how much moving all that dirt cost me.  However, I am installing a coin slot on the toilet.

 Seems a rather small pipe, but it passed inspection.

Pipe connecting to septic tank, leading down the hill to the drain field.

 The finished product, before the 60 loads of dirt disappeared it.

Finally, house plans.  Kevin, my local guy, and Dan the Man the logsetter, rendezvous to discuss the footers and foundation.

Tazewell

Tazewell is the center of the Leslie universe, although there is now only one person who still bears the Leslie name who is a descendent of the Tazewell Leslies.  I visit occasionally, and am always enriched by Lou's warmth and generosity and wealth of good conversation.  Lou loves to drive around Tazewell County, where she has lived her entire life, with a few years elsewhere for college.  And Tazewell County is breath-takingly beautiful.  On this rather gray fall day, we meandered around for several hours...

This plain Victorian is the Leslie homeplace, where my Grandmother Pearce and her siblings were born and brought up, while her father owned, published, and edited the local newspaper.  It stayed in the family until the death of Nancy, the last sibling who lived there, into her later years.  A few years ago, the paint was spiffy, but as with much of Tazewell, it has seen better days.

I delighted when we ran into these sheep, on a paved road.  They stymied our forward travel for quite some time, but we weren't in any hurry.

 We did get them turned around and headed back to the pasture from which they'd escaped,  sheep baa'ing and humans smiling all the while.  

I had not yet been to Turman's; I was going the next day from Lou's.  These logs in an old barn remind me of the heritage of which my new home is a part.

Lou's home, where she was born.  It is wonderfully comfortable, because Lou is there. 

On the way out of the area.  Even after looking at the web site, I have no idea what it means.  Is it for "primitive youth" or is it a primitive place?  Beats me.

Log Buying

This is my second trip over to Turman Log Homes.  I'd first gone many moons ago with Ron, who'd heard of it from someone via someone else at a Lutheran conference he attended over in Wytheville.  I hadn't found it during my online search; poor search skills, I guess.   That first trip was to reconnoiter; this trip was for serious decision making.   And I was flying solo, no Ron to hold my hand and tell me to breathe.

Makes it easy to find the turnoff.

Guess they framed the front so potential customers would have an idea of their handiwork.  I like it. 

My salesfeline, a sweet little kitty, who's adopted the building and its staff, who feed their top sales critter.

OK, this is Steve, the real sales person, who is very nice and very, very patient with me, though he would not allow me to cuddle him as I did the kitty.

Except for the offices, it's a great big  concrete space.

Once I've finally made up my mind about my house plan, they can begin on the logs.  They cut the trees, strip the bark, kiln dry them, and then bring them over to cut to my plan.

Behind the fan, inside the protected area, is the saw that does the actual cutting.

Another staged photo.  This young man is a salesperson for the raw timber division of Turman.  He's on his way to India for a month on a marketing trip.  They want to sell our wonderful white pine, which makes me sad, tree hugger that I am.  On the other hand, it's business.  A dilemma.

He's sitting at the computer which controls the saw which cuts the logs.

A shot of the cutting and storage area. 

What my corners and logs will look like.  They are 6 inch D logs:  flat on the inside, round on the outside.  They have to be stained with a mixture that includes color and bug juice; the latter is juice to deter bugs.

I selected my plan, got some rough estimates, and drove away in a daze, while considering the changes I was going to make.   From the plan link, click on The Franklin.

Laissez les Bon Temps Roulez: The Pearces Party!

Daddy used to say that where-ever two or more Pearces are gathered together, there is chaos, but we managed a marvelous Pearce get-together with no chaos at all.  Well, perhaps a tad, behind the scenes.

Let me start with an abbreviated scorecard of those you’ll see in the pictures below.  Daddy was number 5 of 7 siblings.  The oldest was my Aunt Anne; number 3 was Aunt Katherine.  Anne had four children, with Peggy the oldest and Carrie #2.  Peggy has one son, William married to Pam.  Carrie had three children, Betsy the oldest.  Katherine had two children, with Mike the younger; he’s married to Sheila.  Daddy and Momma have two wonderful daughters…Susie married to Harry and you know who.

The grand excuse for our get-together was the visit of Betsy Howard Elizabeth Liz Forbes, a resident of Albuquerque for the past 30ish years, on her annual Fall Family Friends Foliage Tour of the East.

 Growing up, she was Betsy, and always will be to those of us on the east coast.  Out in Albuquerque, she's Liz or Elizabeth.  I can't blame her for returning to her birth name, rather than stay with her nickname.

Peggy, Betsy's aunt, my cousin, and Daddy's niece is as sweet as she appears in this photo.  Cousin John even wondered if she was switched at birth, since we're more noted for acerbity than for sweetness and light.

William, Peggy's son, also has the sweet gene.  I am eternally grateful for his being by our side after Daddy died, including chauffeuring us to the funeral home to make arrangements and then to pick up Daddy's ashes.   His greatest gift to us was identifying Daddy's body at the funeral home.

And Pam, wife to Bill, whom we call William, just as Betsy will always be Betsy to us.  Pam is enjoying a glass of Blair White from Mountain Rose Vineyards. 

Mike, son of Katherine, who's moved down to the Wateree and captained us on a very pleasant cruise on his pontoon boat.  And Mike answered my somewhat frantic email to help us clean out Daddy's side of the garage a few months ago.  

Sheila, wife of Ted, whom we call Mike (Are you noticing a trend here??) and who makes delicious grilled tuna fish sandwiches.  Sheila looks a tad stern, but she's a cream puff on the inside ~:).

My sibling, Susie outside the family; Mary Sue within, except to me to whom she's usually Sib.

Susie's husband Harry, skipping the grape, and going directly for the fermented grain mash.

And now for more  Pearce partying.

Mother told me on pain of dire consequences not to ever put her picture on the blog, but I sneaked this one in.

Bye Bye ~:)