When we arrive at the vineyard fields on the outskirts of Grottaglie, a small-ish town not far from the bigger Taranto, our friend Alessandra has already introduced us to her peppy grandpa, Giuseppe. He’s eager to meet us, if for a brief morning chat, and enchant us with some seven decades of life around grapes have granted him. He’s not like us, we think. He left yes, but at the same time it’s like he hasn’t. His soul and body belong to these acres.
We can’t help but marvel at the mountainous ridge backdrop. Not quite actual mountains, to be fair, but these are no hills. Indeed, is it still Salento? we wonder. Very much so: blooming olive oil trees the likes of which southerners haven’t seen in a decade remind us that, at least somewhere, the Xylella plague hasn’t fully ruined the landscape. Despite being in its own little bubble, Grottaglie is unquestionably a beautiful gem of Salento.
And then there’s the wine. Giuseppe and the wine.
He talks, stories of old running wild off his mouth. The trips to import unique grapes from Greece and the techniques to plant and grow them safely; the memories from his childhood and the hardships of growing up with nothing but dirt, soil, and their produce. The man is a walking, talking history book. We are lucky enough to be given a live, inside look. It’s quite mesmerizing. It gets hard to follow him at times, as his logos sprawls far and wide in the alleys of his memory, as intricately scrambled as the grapevine lines above our heads.
But it’s his hands we look at. He retired forty years ago, but never left the tools in the shed for good. Quite literally: whatever he says, there’s always a gesture — a cut, a carving, an incision to pair. A skilled knife juggler, he handles the roots and the branches and the trunks with such natural dexterity you can’t help but picture his fingers being made of wood. It’s his history condensed.
“Mestu Peppu”, they call him. “Chief”, if you will. But it’s not so much about seniority or reverence; there is no hat-tipping or change of tone in their voice. These workers are one and all. But Giuseppe was there first, and never went away. He’s seen them all grow, some he trained himself. And that means something. In their words is the most genuine form of respect. Indeed, the men saluting him are no spring chickens, but you can sense they value his incomparable expertise, love, and commitment.
His family hasn’t lived the fields quite the same way, however. His kids had the privilege of choice, and they chose something else. “How does that make you feel?”
“Sad.”
It’s the one time a negative feeling almost chokes him. He’s not mad, he’s not disappointed: he’s just sad. His work, his knowledge, his stories — that, more than the yards themselves (which he never owned, though he treated them as if they were his), are his legacy. Knowing that someone in your offspring won’t pick up the mantle, much like you have done with your father — and his father before him — isn’t exactly the heartwarming sendoff a lifetime of dedication one would reasonably expect to grant you. The other farmers, another kind of family, aren’t too optimistic either. Business isn’t booming, and the weight of the neverending economic crisis spares no one.
But Giuseppe is quick to shrug the sadness off. He has his own little garden back home to tend to now. “As long as I have it in me.”
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