When the warm air of early spring had spread throughout Napa Valley, my father and I were on our way somewhere, leaving the farm work behind.
“Do we really need to go this early?”
My father, driving the old pickup truck we had bought used, looked as if he found it all troublesome, but I firmly disagreed.
“Connections are important in farming, too. Especially with wine, the price isn’t decided just by tasting it and saying it’s good. Wine is a product, and trust in the brand matters just as much. Sales are determined by how you market it.”
“That’s... true, I suppose.”
“So at events like this, we absolutely have to show our faces and make it known that we’re working hard to produce good wine. Think about it. Which would you buy: wine from a farm that stayed quiet as a mouse and suddenly put out a bottle, or wine from a farm that kept promoting how it was making a quality product?”
“You’re definitely right.”
My father, who was striving for success, immediately accepted what I said and erased the look of annoyance from his face.
The morning of the event was bright and clear. As if today’s seminar were heralding Napa Valley’s bright future, the vineyards stretching along both sides of the road to the venue glittered with green leaves, showing off their freshness to the fullest.
Dad and I parked in front of an old winery building in Sonoma County, where the Napa Valley Vintners seminar was being held. From the entrance, I could see various farm owners and local experts who had come to the venue warmly shaking hands and chatting.
“Wow, there really are a lot of people.”
Dad looked around with a somewhat surprised expression. Since this was his first official event after entering the wine business, I could sense his tension. I patted his shoulder and gave him a slight smile.
“The information you get at seminars like this will be really useful. It’s a good opportunity, so don’t be nervous.”
As we entered, an outdoor garden bathed in warm sunlight and an elegant old brick building behind it spread out before our eyes. The seminar venue was a cozy auditorium made of old brick and wooden pillars, and it was already bustling with people. The atmosphere, filled with people joking, laughing, and talking as if they knew one another well, gave off both seriousness and warmth.
At the front of the auditorium hung a large banner that read, [Sustainable Grape Cultivation and Winemaking, Napa Valley Vintners], and on the stage, the seminar presenters were checking their presentation materials. Seeing even cameras from a local broadcasting station set up made me realize all over again how important this event was to the local agricultural community.
When the seminar began, the host greeted everyone with a bright smile and a calm voice.
“Thank you all for attending the Napa Valley Vintners seminar despite your busy schedules. Today will be a valuable time for sharing a variety of ideas and information for the development of Napa Valley’s wine industry.”
With applause, the seminar proceeded in earnest. First, a soil science professor from UC Davis, the school I hoped to attend, came out and clearly explained recently researched methods for soil and water quality management, the importance of eco-friendly organic farming, and the regulations local farms needed to follow.
The next presenter was the representative of an environmental protection organization. He mentioned the recent incident at Silver Oak Farm and strongly argued that farms could no longer maintain competitiveness while ignoring sustainable farming and environmental protection. In particular, when his sharp remarks came out, a quiet murmur spread among the audience along with a sense of tension.
“The incident at Silver Oak Farm is no longer only an issue for one part of our region’s agriculture. If we fail to follow sustainable farming methods, it may deal a major blow to the reputation of the entire region in the long term. Now is the time for all of us to be alert.”
As soon as that presentation ended, Dad and I used the break to head toward the back of the auditorium. Just then, a familiar face appeared at the edge of my vision.
“Huh? Father, that person...”
“Ah!”
It was Elowen Pike, the owner of Silver Oak Farm. And beside him stood Elaina, whom I had seen at school, and a boy who looked about my height.
Elowen looked shockingly haggard. Though not as much as Jacob, he had once been a large, confident man, but perhaps because he had gone through so much mental distress, he looked as if he had lost a lot of weight. It was easy to guess just how great the damage he had suffered from this incident had been.
He seemed to have spotted us as well, and approached with a hesitant expression, though even after losing weight, that condescending look in his eyes remained unchanged.
“It’s been a while. What was your name again?”
“I’m Woody Choi.”
“Ah, Woody. A name that suits Redwood well.”
Dad held out his hand out of courtesy, and I also gave a slight bow. Only now did he ask our names for the first time, then turned his gaze to me.
“Good to see you again. I hear you’re quite clever?”
“......”
“Thanks to you, two hundred thousand dollars went up in smoke.”
My father, who had been listening, stepped forward.
“Are you saying that’s because of my son?”
“Ah, don’t misunderstand me. Listening to the seminar presentation just now gave me a lot to think about. Our farm paid a great sacrifice for the sake of Napa Valley and California, but since that will make many farm owners more vigilant, I thought perhaps it was for the best. Of course, since this result came about thanks to your child, I felt I should let you know the truth.”
It was blatant pressure, but I smiled instead.
“I see. That’s unfortunate. At the next harvest, you’ll be able to receive a high price for good wine, so in the long run, it will be a great benefit to Napa Valley.”
In other words, I didn’t know or care that he was screwed, but either way, it seemed good for us, and his face looked as if he had taken a hit.
“...Indeed.”
“We were hit hard by disease and pests last year, and Silver Oak had its troubles because of pesticides, so this year’s harvest should let us compete fair and square. I’m already looking forward to seeing how the results turn out. What do you think?”
“What? You’re saying you’ll compete with us?”
“Yes. We’re planning to enter our farm’s grapes in Table Grape this year.”
A fierce heat rose in Elowen’s eyes.
“I’ll look forward to that. Let’s see who wins.”
“I’m very much looking forward to it too!”
After cheerfully getting under Elowen’s skin, I smoothly avoided the sharp glares of his children and led my father away.
Afterward, at the seminar, we met many people involved in winemaking and distribution and exchanged business cards. Although we had decided to leave grape distribution to the former farm owner, John Anderson, for two years, it was still good to secure many contacts just in case.
And the most important thing was to make them aware that the owner of Redwood Farm had changed and that we would be producing grapes of far better quality than before.
After finishing all that work, on our way back to the farm, I said to Dad,
“Please take me to UC Davis.”
“Why there?”
“There’s something I need to pick up.”
“Got it.”
The campus under the California sun was full of life in the spring weather, and the Agricultural Biology research building bustled with students coming and going.
“Wow, a university really is different.”
Suppressing my excitement, I walked down the hallway of the lab building. On both sides of the narrow corridor, in front of the tightly lined-up laboratory doors, various posters and research papers were posted, and from here and there came the voices of researchers enthusiastically discussing something.
At last, I found the lab with a sign that read [Soil & Plant Microbiology Lab]. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
A gentle, mellow male voice came from inside. When I opened the door and entered, a middle-aged professor with short silver facial hair lifted his head from among the piles of documents on his desk and looked at me.
“Oh, a student? How can I help you?”
“Hello, Professor. I’m from Redwood Farm in Napa Valley. I’m here to receive the pure microbial cultures I mentioned over the phone last time.”
When I carefully brought it up, the professor nodded with an “Ah” expression and rummaged through his documents.
“Ah, right. Brian Choi? You said you were a high school student?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The professor set down the documents, slowly rose from his seat, and walked toward a refrigerator on one side of the lab. A moment later, he returned holding three small glass bottles he had taken from the refrigerator. Inside the bottles were clear liquids, each labeled “Azospirillum brasilense: nitrogen-fixing bacteria,” “Bacillus subtilis: hay bacillus,” and “Pseudomonas fluorescens: fluorescent bacteria.”
“Here, these are the pure microbial cultures you requested. But I am curious why a high school student wants to take these.”
The professor asked, looking at me with curious eyes.
In that moment, I didn’t panic and naturally gave the answer I had prepared in advance.
“One of the projects our school’s Agriscience Club is conducting is researching the soil-improving effects of microorganisms. My role is to experiment with how much the grape-growing environment can be improved using microbes.”
The professor raised his eyebrows slightly, seeming interested.
“Agriscience Club... That’s a good activity. I didn’t know high school students were doing research like this these days. Who did you say your supervising teacher was?”
For a second, I was flustered, but I quickly smiled and improvised.
“Mr. Miller, the teacher in charge of agriculture class... He emphasized that this kind of research was essential for our club.”
The professor nodded and carefully placed the bottles containing the microbial cultures into a protective foam box before handing it over.
“All right, keep them stored properly on your way back. Don’t forget to maintain the right temperature and environment. Azospirillum, in particular, is sensitive to oxygen conditions, so make sure it doesn’t come into contact with air as much as possible.”
“Yes, Professor. Thank you.”
I quickly accepted the box of cultures, bowed my head, left the lab, and ran to the pickup truck where Dad was waiting.
“Let’s go!”
Dad, not knowing what was going on, let me in first and started driving.
“What did you bring out?”
“I’ll show you later.”
After we arrived home like that, I called out to my father and mother, who were resting for a moment.
“Mom, Dad. Gather around for a second. I’ll show you one more new thing.”
My parents, who already understood from the biochar compound fertilizer that I wouldn’t be farming only with fertilizer sold on the market, came out with curious expressions.
“Is it that thing you brought earlier? You have something new besides the biochar compound fertilizer?”
When Dad seemed to realize his son was about to teach him something new again, he came out holding a camera, while Mother had a notebook and pen in her hands.
“Biochar compound fertilizer is basically like a smart sponge you bury in the ground. The charcoal powder holds moisture and nutrients for a long time, while the fully matured compost supplies organic matter and microorganisms, raising the soil’s stamina, you could say.”
“And?”
“What we’re going to make this time is a little different. Kind of... like an air-fertilizer pack?”
“An air-fertilizer pack?”
“When I said we’d enter Table Grape and win, I wasn’t just bluffing. You know what has the biggest effect on fruit quality, right?”
“I do. Isn’t it nitrogen?”
I pointed at the plastic bottle I had brought from the school and smiled.
“Yes. The air-fertilizer pack we’re going to make now will put nitrogen into the soil.”