The Chardonnay Charade

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Some days I wish my life ran backward, because then I’d be ready for the catastrophes. Or at least I’d know whether there was a happy ending. I own a small vineyard at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Atoka, Virginia, where our winters are cold, our summers hot, and spring is the blissful season of growth and renewal. But not this year.

On what should have been a balmy May night, a warm air mass moving up from the Gulf of Mexico looked like it was going to smack into arctic winds sweeping down from Canada, causing temperatures to plummet below freezing. A week before Memorial Day, and Jack Frost nipping at our nose like early March. The weather forecaster on the Channel 2 news at noon recommended bringing tender young plants indoors for the night, “just to be sure.” A fine idea, unless you had twenty-five acres of tender young grapes.

A lot of science and math go into making wine, but most people don’t realize it’s also a hell of a crapshoot, meaning a hearty dose of guessing and finger-crossing figure into the equation, too. Mother Nature can always pull a fast one when you least expect it, and suddenly you’re scrambling—like we were this afternoon.

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