After looking at possible vineyard sites in the hills of the northern Willamette Valley, we found what seemed the perfect piece of land in the Dundee Hills, about thirty miles southwest of Portland. The area, known for its giant, sweet Brooks prune plums and hazelnuts, is a series of gentle hills ranging from three hundred to a thousand feet in elevation. Our eighteen acres, at the five-hundred-foot level, had been an orchard, destroyed by the Columbus Day Storm, a powerful windstorm famous for its devastation. The old prune trees sprawled across the land in haphazard fashion, few still upright. Local lore was full of stories of the damage and death caused by that tempest, which we assumed had happened recently because it was such a common point of reference for local farmers. We were shocked to learn that it had occurred in October 1962, almost a decade earlier. The stories told with so much immediacy showed the long-term impact of weather on a farming community. We weren’t deterred. Perhaps because we hadn’t lived through its ferocity, the storm seemed a remote, one-time event.
The old orchard had been waiting for us, the downed trees obscured by a labyrinth of blackberry vines and common vetch that had blanketed the hillside over the years. Knowing that fruit trees had once flourished, and that Dave and Diana Lett’s new vineyard was just down the road, cinched our decision to buy the land. Even with our limited knowledge, we knew that the presence of an orchard meant the hillsides would be frost-free in early spring when those trees blossomed and thus would be safe for grapes, which leafed out at the same time. We bought the land for eight hundred dollars an acre and hired a local farmer to clear it. It had been just five months since the subject of a vineyard had first come up.
From the beginning, the vineyard was Bill’s baby. I mirrored his excitement and didn’t want to disappoint him, but it was years before I experienced the passion that he felt from the start. I didn’t flinch at the challenge, the commitment, or the money we put into the project. But it took time for me to feel that it was a genuine partnership.
Our rented house in southwest Portland, so far from our property, became increasingly inconvenient. With Bill teaching at Portland State University, we had only weekends to work the land. We found a farmhouse to rent about a mile from our property, and our family—Bill and me, baby Nik, and our cats, Cadwallader (Caddie) and Tigger, moved there in May 1971. The house had a long, narrow front yard ideal for rooting grape cuttings in nursery rows. The small bushy plants would then be planted as dormant rootings the following spring.
California, with its nascent wine industry, was then the only source for wine grapes, so when Bill visited his folks in Oakland, he and his dad drove to Wente Vineyards in Livermore, hoping to buy some of Karl Wente’s certified, virus-free Chardonnay cuttings. Bill was thrilled when Karl himself greeted them warmly in his small office. “Gonna grow grapes in Oregon, eh?” he said. “Great idea. I always wondered why no one was trying the cool-climate grapes farther north. I think you have a chance to make some great wines up there.” These words of encouragement from a successful third-generation winegrower further motivated Bill. He and his dad returned home with cuttings of all the varieties we thought might grow in our cool climate—Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Pinot Blanc, Riesling, and Müller-Thurgau (a cousin of Riesling). Bill always remembered Karl Wente’s welcome and encouragement, but never saw him again. The great man died suddenly at age forty-nine, six years later.
The big white farmhouse we rented sat beside the old state highway, a picture-book place with its tall, shady trees along the front and old, untended cherry and prune orchards along the sides and back. But any romantic notions we had about country living quickly dissipated. From across the narrow road, one of the area’s major turkey farms assaulted every one of our senses from the day we moved in. Hundreds of white turkeys lined up at the fence to clamor at us, red jowls bobbing and beady eyes staring. From time to time huge trucks went by carrying stacks of large cages crowded with turkeys. White feathers floated to the ground long after they had passed. The odor of turkey manure, ranging from pungent to gagging, depending on the heat and wind direction, maintained a constant presence. The gentle breeze that cooled me while I worked in the vegetable garden also enveloped me in the rank smell of turkey.
Bill and I had often talked about what fun it would be to buy an old farmhouse and fix it up. Realizing what it would take to make our rented farmhouse comfortable ended that fantasy. We were told that our house, like a number of others in the valley, was the work of some barn builders who came through in the early 1900s. They built houses the way they constructed barns—framing studs set more than two feet apart, little attention to detail, no insulation. My homemade cotton curtains fluttered in the wind even with the windows closed, and the smell of turkey manure leaked in through the cracks. Over the years, residents had added sections to the original house, so that by the time we moved in, what had once been an animal shed in the back had become part of the house.
The cats roamed freely through the abandoned orchards, sleeping by day, hunting by night, and wreaking havoc on the mouse and gopher population. After Tigger was run over one gruesome night, Caddie did the work of two. She was a fearsome hunter and ate most of her prey outside, leaving the front teeth, whiskers, and large intestine on the doormat to show us her prowess. But occasionally she thought they’d taste better inside; one night she leapt up and came flying through the open window above the head of our bed. I opened my eyes in time to see Caddie, clutching a giant gopher in her mouth, pass over me, inches from my face. I listened to her chewing her prize for a few minutes, and then turned over and went back to sleep, making a mental note to watch where I stepped in the morning.
For the first few months, until the cats pared down the population, the mice were the most active inhabitants of our house. I learned to put my feet in my slippers slowly after once feeling a living fur ball cowering in the toe. When my mother visited from Wisconsin, I sat with her at the kitchen table trying to keep her engaged in conversation so she wouldn’t see the mice scampering across the floor. She turned and saw them, of course, as soon as I stopped talking to take a breath. They only reinforced her belief that Bill and I were living in the wilderness. She must have enjoyed herself anyway (or else felt I really needed help), because by the end of the decade she and my father had moved to McMinnville, seven miles from us, where they spent the rest of their lives.
Our house stayed warm because we kept the huge brick fireplace in the living room going fall, winter, and spring. We had plenty of firewood from downed trees, and a big fan in the fireplace sent waves of heat through large vents to warm the rest of the house. We splurged on new carpet for the living room, a gold shag found at a discount warehouse. Shag was in fashion, and we bought a special rake to make the long threads lie in the same direction. But even with the carpet neatly combed, the place was never more than tolerable. We were near our vineyard and the rent was only a hundred dollars a month, so we put up with it.
As an urban girl, my gardening experience had consisted of growing a sweet potato propped on toothpicks in a glass of water, a grade-school science project. In Oregon, surrounded by fruit trees and plenty of land, I felt compelled to have a vegetable garden. I went wild with the Burpee seed catalog, inspired by page after page of captivating photos of pristine vegetables. The seeds I planted would surely grow into that picture-perfect produce if I followed the instructions on the seed packets. But did “plant in full sun” mean I should plant the seeds on a sunny day, or in a sunny spot? One gardening book advised, “Harvest during the full moon.” Should I pick my vegetables under moonlight, or could I pick them in daylight if there was to be a full moon that night? I laugh now, but at the time I was genuinely confused.
That first spring, after savoring the catalog descriptions all winter, I planted everything that looked interesting, from peas to pumpkins. I kept the growing season going right into fall, but I was way out of my league. Overwhelmed by the successes—I’d never seen so many zucchini—I was also befuddled by pest problems. I had no idea whether the cute little bugs I saw crawling around the plants were going to help me or destroy the garden. I knew ladybugs were good, but how about the ones with black spots that were yellow instead of orange? Captivated by the wonder of working with the earth, I came back every year with a little more knowledge and renewed hope. My garden taught me that every year gave me another chance, the secret to a farmer’s optimism.
While our grape cuttings in the front yard sprouted leaves and roots, we searched