Propagating my grapes has turned out a lot better than I thought. I was mowing the grass today and checked on my hanging sets of two liter bottles. My neighbors asked me last week, “Why are there two liter bottles hanging from your grape vines?”
When I told them, they seemed dubious. But As I checked my vines today, all the little bottles, except one, had roots sticking out of the necks of the coke bottles.
Crap. It’s 90 degrees out and I can’t leave the roots in the open air. What followed was an afternoon of carefully clipping vines loose in the vineyard, repotting them in individual pots, and trimming them to the appropriate lengths. Now I have six two liter bottles and a sack of potting soil. Just in case these die off or don’t make it next year, I’m going to redo the whole experiment. I made a chart up, telling me where my grapes came from, so I can plant them next year and know what to expect from each vine (black or bronze grapes) in three years when they start producing crops of grapes. My only problem now is finding somewhere to plant more grapes. The best spot would be right in the middle of the back yard where its sunny, but that’s a problem because it’s the only open expanse of yard I have. If I had the funds, I would clear the other acre and treat those highfalutin neighbors to some good old southern agriculture. Of course, maybe they would feel better if I made up signs saying “Monsanto Crop #3464a” and such. Those signs always scare me…
Farming is tough. But when I saw little quart boxes of muscadines in Wal-Mart today for four dollars, I realized why I grow grapes. The damn things are expensive. Plus, I pulled one off my vine today that was bigger than a quarter, and popped it into my mouth. There was a flavor explosion in my mouth that was incredible. Yep, growing grapes was worth it.
In other news, I was in Walmart this morning trying to buy food and beat the church crowd, and happened to see the yellow rope up. The yellow rope is a nylon rope they put around half the store. Because my state still exists partly in the nineteenth century, it lets religious organizations dictate when stores will be open (I know, silly concept, huh?) and when they will close. Some stores can be open, but you can’t buy certain things, because gummy worms and soda are fine, but you better not need underwear or socks; buying those are a sin against one particular god. I thought up this ditty partly on the spot:
An Ode to Wal-Mart this Sunday:
Sam Walton is my shepherd, for all we want.
He maketh me walk to greens from the pastures:
He leadeth me down to distilled waters.
He restoreth my toilet paper.
He leadeth me in the paths of cheap foreign clothes for His name’ sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the pharmacy to prevent death,
I fear no self-checkout: For Angie art with me;
Thy coupons and price drops, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a shotgun before me in case I meet mine enemies;
Thou changeth my car with oil; My cup is in housewares.
Surely long lines and the yellow Sunday Rope shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of WalMart forever.
Maybe stores should just ask before you go under the rope, “Are you a Christian? No? Okay you can shop on this side of the rope. We have to keep the faithful on the other side, buying Onesies before noon would cause them to go to Hell.”