“What kind of nonsense is that? This house is rented too. When you factor in your tuition and rent, we have to work without a moment’s rest. And where would a large sum like that come from?”
Dad looked at me like I was naive, but I was unfazed. Naturally, it would seem like empty bluster coming from a high schooler.
“You don’t need a fortune to buy a farm. You can acquire one with a very small amount of money.”
“Stop talking nonsense… Just focus on your studies!”
Dad waved his hand as if to say that was enough idle chatter, but I didn’t stop.
“There’s a policy for immigrants!”
“What?”
Only then did Dad meet my eyes properly.
“Listen carefully. The government has a special support program for immigrant farmers. Through the SDA—Socially Disadvantaged Applicant—assistance program, you can get forty-five percent of the farm’s price at a low interest rate, and a private bank will guarantee a loan for fifty percent. The amount we actually need to prepare is just five percent of the total, five percent of the farm’s value. That’s all we need.”
Since I wasn’t blindly insisting but laying out a clear plan and a credible system, my parents finally pricked up their ears.
“There’s really such a thing? We only need five percent?”
“That’s right!”
At that, Mom cut in.
“But how much is Redwood Farm worth? If that five percent is far more than the money we have, there’s nothing we can do.”
“You’re right. That could happen. But Redwood Farm has declared bankruptcy. So how do you think the investors feel? Wouldn’t they want to recover even a little of their money?”
“Th-that’s right?”
“Right now is the perfect opportunity to buy the farm for far less than its original value. If we actively step forward to acquire it, the investors will leap at the chance to sell. They’ll want to recover as much of their investment as they can.”
By now, my parents were exchanging strange, weighted glances. They were half-doubting whether it was really true and half-tempted.
But perhaps because he had failed once before, Dad was more cautious.
“I understand what you’re saying, but the farm went bankrupt for a reason. Let’s say we take out loans and buy the farm. What if the farming fails again? We won’t be able to handle it.”
It was a perfectly reasonable point, and in some ways, it struck right at the heart of the matter. But I was someone who had earned a PhD in agriculture from Cornell University before regressing.
“Dad, I’m studying agriculture professionally at school. You know they have programs there for jobs and business, right?”
“Well, I’ve heard of them, but…”
“Don’t dismiss it as just high school skills. They teach the latest farming methods.”
Still, Dad wasn’t easily convinced.
“You might think so. But do you think John Anderson, the owner of Redwood Farm, is some fool? That farm has over forty years of history, and John is a man who has grown grapes for thirty years. Such a man was ruined helplessly. If you say you can save the farm with skills learned in high school, aren’t you looking at the world far too optimistically?”
It was an all-too-perfect counterargument. Perhaps because of his past failure, Dad viewed things with stark realism.
“Fine. Then after I graduate high school this time, I’ll advance to the University of California, Davis—UC Davis.”
“The University of California? Is it a good school?”
Mom asked, tilting her head. Naturally, my parents didn’t know much about the university.
“They teach grape cultivation and winemaking—Viticulture and Enology—at the highest level in America. Mom, you know why Napa Valley, where we live, is famous for grapes, right?”
“Yes… I didn’t know before, but they say this place is world-famous for premium… what was it.”
“Premium wine.”
Dad supplied the words, and Mom immediately continued.
“Right, premium wine. The grape variety we pick is… what was it? Cabernet Sauvignon?”
“Cabernet Sauvignon.”
“Right, Cabernet Sauvignon. You have no interest in the farm, so how do you know all that?”
Naturally, at that time, I had no interest. It was only after ten years had passed that I did.
The special SDA program for immigrant farmers was also something I only learned about after developing an interest in agriculture.
“I just know. Dad, do you think I don’t know what kind of work Mom does?”
“How… commendable. Anyway, they say that school teaches grape farming better than anywhere else in the world?”
“I don’t know about the whole world, but it’s the best in America.”
“Ah… then it’s practically the same as the whole world.”
“Something like that. Anyway, this opportunity is heaven-sent. California Cabernet Sauvignon is a world-renowned wine, and an opportunity to buy a grape farm this cheaply in Napa Valley will never come again.”
Of course, I was only saying this because I knew the future.
“Hmm… Let’s think it over for now.”
Dad was undoubtedly afraid of failing again. Having brought his family to America, if he failed once more, he would clearly be gripped by the terror of possibly wandering the streets as a vagrant.
Though I understood his reasons well enough, I couldn’t give up.
“Dad! Please! If we’re even a little late, someone else will snatch it up. They say business is all about timing. This chance won’t come again. Please, just this once, trust me.”
Dad had probably never seen his son try to persuade him with such a serious expression since the day he was born. To him, I had always been a somewhat wayward child.
“I might consider it if you were going to college to learn farming, but we can’t let a whole year go to waste until then.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take responsibility and save the farm.”
“But you don’t know the first thing about agriculture!”
“That’s not true. While at school… I learned a lot about grape farming. If we miss this opportunity, we’ll spend our whole lives working for wages under someone else. If we become farm owners ourselves, the harder we work, the more it belongs to us, and our effort and sweat won’t be in vain. I know how to revive the farm. We must not miss this chance.”
Dad fell into a deep silence, brooding, and finally, as if having made up his mind, he looked at Useok.
“You really have confidence in grape farming?”
“Yes.”
“Then shall we go to the farm right now and see for ourselves?”
“All right, let’s go.”
Seeing his son stand up with such confidence, Dad was taken aback, but he soon rose and went outside to start the car.
“You’re going right now?”
Mom followed us out and asked worriedly, but I climbed into the passenger seat.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be back soon.”
Since they weren’t going to fight but simply to a grape farm, Mom sent the father and son off with a warning to drive carefully.
Dad didn’t say a word the entire way. His mind was surely in turmoil.
Although the farm had gone bankrupt, it wasn’t as if it had closed its doors like a shop, so Dad parked near the farm and walked ahead with heavy steps.
As we walked for some time, I—who had once been an agricultural PhD—noticed at a glance that the grapevines were in poor condition with just a cursory look. But I deliberately refrained from pointing out the problems first.
Eventually, Dad stopped firmly in his tracks.
“See? Why do you think this is happening?”
Dad asked, standing before a vine with slightly longer, taller branches than the surrounding ones. On the leaf surfaces, swollen white mold spots that looked like sprinkled powder were heavily scattered. Their hazy, shimmering forms were staining a patch of what should have been a lush vineyard in ashen hues.
“It’s powdery mildew.”
Startled by his son giving the correct answer immediately, Dad no longer looked at me as just an undergrown high school student.
“That’s right, powdery mildew. It spreads easily in early summer when the weather turns just a bit humid or too dry. It wasn’t the decisive factor in the farm’s ruin, but it was a major cause of the problems. How will you solve it?”
I stepped forward and lightly touched a leaf with my fingertips. The soft white powder drifted down like dust onto the back of my hand. In that instant, I recalled the “incomplete grape cell structure” I had seen under a microscope in the lab during the year I turned forty-six.
“You might think, well, just spray pesticides, but… I can treat it quite simply.”
“What? How?”
I swept my gaze across the vast vineyard once and spoke calmly.
“One cup of milk per vine. And ten cups of water. Mix them in that ratio and spray the vines. It reacts with sunlight to oxidize the fungal hyphae. We’ll probably need quite a lot of milk.”
Dad’s eyes trembled.
“Is that for real? Milk instead of pesticides?”
“Yes. Furthermore, if you mix natural sulfur powder with water and spray it with a sprayer, it prevents the mold spores from germinating. Its residual effect is good too. Baking soda is also used as an auxiliary agent.”
“You…”
Looking at Dad, his eyes wide with disbelief, I spoke with seriousness and resolve.
“So please, believe me now. If you just trust me, I’ll make sure we harvest the finest Cabernet Sauvignon right here in California’s Napa Valley.”