Concord Time

September 13, 2018

Just the faintest whiff was carried on the breeze as I topped the rise into Silver Creek yesterday morning. Had I been in the truck, I would have missed it, but there it was—an unmistakable portent of the season and the harvest to come. The Concord grapes are ripening; it will be a few weeks yet, but the sweet aroma of the vineyard filled the air, welcoming me to the village. 

Winter’s chill doesn’t deter the vinedressers who are in the fields pruning last year’s growth to the requisite six or seven canes with their buds. Springtime has its own special charm as the vines begin to bud and the vineyards slowly transform from spindly brown to lush green. But as summer wanes, the leaves turn a greenish-golden, signaling the future bounty. 

The acres of Concord that have been the staple of the grape industry in this area are the fruit of 19th Century Methodism’s Disciplinary requirement that unfermented fruit of the vine be used in Holy Communion, in turn a product of the Temperance Movement of that era. Mr. Welch made a fortune in his grape juice, which in turn, led to the proliferation of the Concord along the eastern shore of Lake Erie. Today temperance has fallen on hard times, and though Methodists still use unfermented juice for the Sacrament, the area vineyards are slowly being transformed into small scale craft wineries, with all the varieties enthusiasts have come to expect. 

But Concord is still king even though its territory is shrinking, and the fragrance of yesterday is a taste of days to come when the Bailey household will be filled with the aroma of the grapes I will be processing. Sixty or more quarts will sit in the basement cupboard before the season is over, and we will enjoy the fruit of the vine for months. I love living here where the change of seasons brings such pleasures our way, am thankful for the harvest, and for the sweet nectar we will enjoy till next year’s crop  is in.

The Bible tells us a harvest is coming when God brings in that for which he has labored for generations. Sometimes I can almost catch its faint fragrance drifting through the air, and know that the reward of all the labor will be worth it as God’s divine soul-pantry is filled and he looks with pleasure upon the work of his hands.