My neighbors and I live in a community in which luxury is ubiquitous. Day spas, boutique tasting rooms, and fine dining abound. Being married to a winemaker does allow for occasional indulgences to those luxuries, but during harvest what counts as luxury is redefined. Last Saturday, for example, was one of the most luxurious I've had this fall: I went grocery shopping by myself.
My kids and I spent the afternoon at a friend's house- a friend whose husband also makes wine- and before I left, she offered to keep the kids for another hour so I could buy the week's groceries. This time of year, doing anything by myself is cause for celebration- but getting away, alone, and getting the grocery shopping done at the same time? I don't think my friend had finished putting the question mark on her offer before her screen door was closing on my gleeful exit. That grocery trip? Pure bliss.
But this post is not about a trip to the grocery store, or the relative nature of luxury. It is about the spirit behind my friend's kind gesture, a spirit in which I am determined to abide this harvest season. It is a spirit that gives life instead of draining it away. So many families depend on one adult to run the household alone this time of year- why don't we go it alone, together? Why not re-frame "harvest widow"? This year, I'm determined to be a harvest sister-wife. Hear me out.
In a Fresh Air interview, Pulitzer Prize-winning historian Laurel Thatcher Ulrich explained that feminism actually flourished in Mormonism's early days of polygamy. It sounds counter-intuitive, I'll admit. But Ulrich argues that the arrangement for sister-wives "also reinforced an already well developed community of women to share work, to share childcare... in some sense strengthened bonds that were already very much present in their lives."
I already share my husband with Mother Nature. I get him three seasons of the year, and she takes her turn every fall; at least I have the upper hand. But while he is trekking through vineyards and handling the lush ripeness of wine country, who is going to help me with the dishes?
I am not the only wife (or husband or grandparent) in my community who could use a hand this time of year. But so many of us hunker down and go it alone for months, only to come up gasping for air mid-November. "Does anyone remember my name?" we ask, "I haven't seen another adult since August." That's no way to survive. But I find that when I reach out to arrange a play date, or I offer to bring over a meal, my kids and I end our day more refreshed than when we began. Not unlike Ulrich's claim, I build a better bond with someone else in the process. What if that's the way to approached harvest widowhood- not as an annual trial in solitude, but an exercise in depending on one another?
This reflection isn't unique to me, or even to other wives in the wine industry. I recently read an article in which TV exec Sarah Teem poignantly wrote, "When I finally sent out an SOS call, I learned there is a whole underground railroad of women who are primed and ready to respond. We are all fighting the same fight. But for some reason, we believe we have to endure it alone."
So there's my take on the 2017 vintage. Don't go it alone, do it together. I am a harvest widow, seeking to redefine my status as a harvest sister-wife. Because camaraderie is a luxury we can't afford to lose.