Our fourth harvest season starts with the picking of apricots. It is early morning and I am writing this blog while sitting in the shade of our pergola laden with large bunches of plump, yet unripe grapes. I listen to the harvesters chatting; I hear the muffled sounds of fruit being dumped from basket into crate; I revel in the bright cascading song of a nearby bird; the washing machine hums in the background. All is well; just a quiet domestic scene in the country!

I have put in a full day’s work already; picked fruit to make liquors: a French one from apricot pits, ‘liqueur de noyaux d'abricot’; and a Dutch one, ‘boerenmeisjes’ (farmers girls), which are brandied apricots. At dawn I deliver crates, tarps, ladders and baskets to the field. At eight I pick up the first load and truck it over to the buyer. By nine all housework is done, the liquors sit in glass jars in the sun, coffee and laptop are at hand; and I feel exceedingly happy. This relaxed scene is a far cry from our first year here, when everything was an effort, all faces unfamiliar, and many obstacles hindered our path. Then, I often felt like crying, now I go smoothly with the flow. I realize I have adjusted; adjusted to the climate, which is hot and dry, adjusted to the people with their friendly and outgoing ways, adjusted to the cultural customs and agricultural practices which are reminiscent of Italy and Spain a century ago. Adjustment!  It has been a long haul, but with stamina and energy we moved over and through many hurdles to reach the other side, where the fruit of our labor is sweet. 

AND THEN………DISASTER STRIKES……. my quiet reverie of domestic bliss and rural contentment is shattered to pieces in one single stroke of ill-tempered weather. On Decembers 20, amidst preparations for the upcoming holidays we are hit by a hailstorm so powerful and fierce that it rips all crops from the trees and damages the vineyard beyond recognition. We lose it all for the season in one blast of nature’s fury.

The morning starts normal enough; we make a third pass through the orchard assisted by one harvester; full cases are delivered to a nearby distribution center. We eat a late lunch and, despite being tired, we decide to forego our siesta in order to prepare for Christmas. We write cards, hang ornaments; just the usual, simple. The air feels unusually heavy and Arn has been complaining the entire day that something does not feel right. He is not far off the mark as we are about to learn. When he returns from a walk with the dogs he announces the approach of very severe weather. White clouds (the bad kind) have gathered overhead and despite the fact that we still see a stretch of clear sky, he is not fooled. We get as much ready as we can: we bring the animals to safety; ledge and lock as many doors and windows as possible in the short amount of time that is granted, but no sooner are we safe inside our house or the storm releases its pent-up anger. A brief period of complete silence is followed by deafening clangs of stones beating on iron; huge rocks are hurled with force against our roof. The sound is terrifying, but I have learned that our sink roof amplifies any sound and I am not too concerned. Until I look outside that is; then I watch in horror as chicken-eggs size hail tears through our heavily laden arbor and bounces off the patio; arm-thick branches are ripped from their trees; and a thick canopy of leaves is shredded to smithereens as if delicate fabric is pelted with a thousand heavy golf balls. A lightening spectacle sets the sky aglow in yellow streaks; and thunder claps, like a drum set on full blast, hurt our ears. The wind is violent; it shakes the peaches loose and hurls them in the mud.  I know nothing else to do then to sit with the dogs, and comfort the one that is shaking like an aspen leaf. The ferocious force of the wind and the terrible sound of the hail subside 20 minutes after it has begun. I open my eyes and see water enter our living room and hear the electricity go out with a bang.

Outside we find nothing but destruction; the red patio has turned green with leaves and is covered with broken furniture; the ground is littered with ripped-off branches and splattered fruit. It is eerily silent; no sound breaks through the air. Initially we react by rote, clear a path to drain water; call in the cats who preferred their own shelter during the storm, inspect beams near the house for breakage and clear the gutters from debris to avoid further water damage inside the house. Signs of life reappear after about an hour: I hear the plaintiff call from a mom-bird whose fledgling chick I have rescued that same morning from the jaws of one of our dogs, obviously the chick did not make it; we hear the muffled sounds of people calling and crying; we hear a continued trickle of water draining off any remaining surfaces. Next we check our crops: the peaches which were ready for harvest lie bruised and battered on the ground; the lush foliage of the vines is tattered to pieces and the vineyards look like a bunch of scrawny cats; my vegetable garden has been leveled to the ground. It has seen better days.

That same evening we listen to the first devastating assessment of a neighbor grower: vines are damaged beyond repair for this year and up to the next two years to come; the few hanging peaches, which were scheduled for a first pass of harvest, are so severely bruised that the factory will not even want them; the plums have so many broken branches that they are at severe risk for an attack by any existing micro organism. We will have to start spraying immediately and we must plow as soon as a tractor can enter the fields. That evening, with the stroke of a pen we are declared a disaster area, which will make governmental funds available to aim for survival of the farmers and their workers. How many will achieve that goal remains to be seen.

The aftermath of the storm brings a mixture of sorrow and joy. It is such a time of raw emotions that any misplaced or misperceived word; any moving event brings tears or anger, both barely kept at bay, to the surface. We experience incredible support of people who rally around us and offer us what they can. Yet, despite it all, we show signs of shock and depression. When the first helpers march onto the property, shovel in hand so to speak, I break down and cry.

It is a week later; we have heard many stories; how the storm was heard and seen for many miles around; we have seen with our own eyes how the storm has cut two paths of incredible destruction around a peaceful center, the eye of the storm, which suggests a tornado. We have received calls from people who saw the storm and its devastation on the evening news. The area of Calle Larga has been the center of the world for a brief period of time; then life moves on, even though it remains the center of our world, a fragile one at best.

This time I see no silver lining, perhaps it should be ‘no silver lining yet’; I know times will turn better again, yet I cannot see or feel beyond the ‘here and now’ of this devastation. Outside Christmas reigned, hopefully with good cheer for many people; there is a New Year to come. If we failed to send you a holiday card, for whatever time is left of it I wish you the best. Above all, to you and to our ailing world; may the New Year bring peace, health, happiness and a measure of prosperity. I wish each of you good times to come, Helena

Helena Louwe

Calle Larga Vieja, Atuel Norte

Mendoza, Argentina

hlouwe@hotmail.com