Grape Season

Erie, PA has been my hometown since I was born here in 1951.  It's a good place to call home and to raise a family.  Some days are brighter than others, just like your hometown, or yours.

Unless you live in a grape belt as I do, you can't begin to imagine one of Erie's lake shore moments in September--the Concord grapes.

Open a bottle of grape juice or jam and take a deep breath...mmmm.  That is the smell that greets us in late September, maybe a week in October as the grapes ripen.  From a few miles west in Ohio to a few miles east in New York, the aroma permeates your senses.  All along route five and route twenty, but not much farther south (it turns into corn and cows), the sweetness is everywhere. Whether you are at a Walmart or a car dealer, or standing trembling in front of a produce stand to buy them, the grapes become an accustomed part of your day.

In our narrow little strip along Lake Erie, there are more than thirty wineries producing everything from champagne to Zinfandel.  We grow more than ninety per cent of the grapes for our region right here.  Acres and acres, protected from freezing too soon by the warm lake waters, some allowed to freeze later on the vine to make ice wine.

Ah, we love our grape festival, the grape pies, jellies and jams, juice and, of course, the wine. The best part is still the smell of the grapes up and down the highway in late September.  I will take a country drive on one of those days.  The sky is the sapphire blue that only happens in September;  clouds, fluffy and white, skittering along with the wind.  Sumac is turning orange and red, a few trees are starting to bronze.  It is perfection.

Many of our friends are grape farmers, and they don't appreciate these days like I do.  This time of year is their livelihood--the picking, loading, sorting, sugar-testing--it keeps them working from dawn till late at night.  I hope they all know how grateful I am that they can do this job for the rest of us!  While they labor, I sit back and enjoy the fruits.

Mouth watering, I head for the nearest farm stand, ready to buy a quart or maybe a basket.  Slip-skins, my mother called them, squeezing each orb and tossing the skin.  Not me. I eat it skins and all.  Why would I waste a drop of this succulent fruit?

My sense of smell is good enough that I can smell impending rain, warm chocolate, fresh coffee and any number of other things.

None of them are as sweet as Pennsylvania grapes in September.