A nice morning spraying the vineyard - we did well, for once. There is always something, but at least for now, we know how to prepare for hiccups and adjust accordingly. The last time the f**** Stihl cannon didn't start - it started fine eve before - and the General was so furious, burning through all of his energy in the two hours he's tried to get it going. Our neighbour literally died, trying to get a motor going in the middle of their vineyard. In the meanwhile, Rock and I took little cans and sprayed from each our own direction, the old-fashioned way. The thing is, once the sun comes up, it is so hot and so uncomfortable, people have been known to vomit from overheating. By people I mean me. Those with more dignity just sit down and get drowsy. 

     The most important thing is to start in twilight - we thought we'll need to make the mix ourselves, but it was already made when we arrived. Sis's beau - a car mechanic - arrived exclusively to start the Stihl, because, for some reason, it just starts without a hitch when he tugs the cord. Don't ask how or why, it just does. It doesn't start when G does it. The scheme is, G uses the cannon to blow mist into the leaves and Rockstar runs back and forths, supplying him with buckets of chemicals. On this side, I use a 5 litre can to do it manually, slowly, making my way through and over and under and around at a bend, the lines which have over time crumpled and are all nasty. Since dad's been gone, nobody can mow the grass so it would be visible where you're walking, and often you have to walk backwards, and Emi, mum's dog, has an adorable habit of dissing foot-size holes at random places. It is more than common to just yelp and fall back on several occasions because you can't see the hole for the clover having overgrown it. The lines are also low, sagged, collapsed or leaning one to another, so a small person with a small can is much more likely to get through than G with his motorised mist-maker on his back. 

     Obviously, his method is 50 times better. The mist distributes flawlessly evenly on every surface, blowing the leaves over, reaching everything, from root to curlies. But now, with half of the left-side vineyard removed, if everything goes well, we are done by 7:30. 

     The work itself reminds me of dad so much, I really want to do it. I almost enjoy doing it, even though it's toxic as fuck and really strenous. The good thing about being an adult is, you are not surprised by the fact two hours of work feel like you've been beaten. The boys just shower and go back to sleep and are confused why they can barely move. I offed to the store to get some fancy new granola, barely managed to get back up the stairs. I will never understand how dad managed to maintain two vineyards by himself, with a little help from mum and a lot of traps from Emi. We are three - plus mum, occasionally, plus Emi, constantly - and we neither manage to mow, we don't have time to remove the parasite-infested leaves, we don't have time to trim the tops, we don't have time to remove the bottom leaves now, to allow for sunlight to colour the grapes; we will barely find time to put on anti-hail nets when the bottom leaves are removed. There's also a topmost terrace, a walkway, that needs to be reinforced, and the bridge between both vineyards has collapsed and will need to be remade. It's been, like, one fucking year since dad's no longer with us, and the place appears as it's been forlorn for a decade, even though we are there every other weekend, working our butts off.