Asylum Heights

by Austin R. Moody

  They had only to actually construct one in its permanent location and to camouflage its presence with the available limbs and foliage of the parent tree plus additional materials from other sibling trees as needed. In preceding days they had found six of the largest trees bearing vines spaced as far from one another as possible to reduce the density and further avoid disturbing the visual line of foliage that might give their locations away.

  Perhaps this was overkill, because no one ever came into the woods without one or the other being in close attendance. Primary fermentation would only take three weeks at most.

  Papa hummed, “Rock-a-bye baby in the tree tops when the wind blows the cradle will rock.” He knew the next line, “When the bough breaks the cradle will fall and down will come baby, cradle and all.” He didn’t sing it as he knew that it might be prophetic.

  Neither Papa nor Glen could recall when someone had ventured beyond the back door of the house, but they would take no unnecessary risks that might divulge their entire operation.

  Glen went through the equipment in the wagon and into the tool shed. He brought out two pairs of work gloves and some chicken wire that might be needed for attaching foliage to cover the houses. Satisfied, they drove the wagon along the trails that were already overgrowing from disuse.

  Henceforth, they would need only the few paths to the selected tree houses using alternate trails each time to prevent damage to their protective underbrush. They found their first host tree. Glen removed the ladder and once again placed it upon the trunk. He carefully climbed to the highest level that had limbs strong enough to support the platform to be constructed for the hidden little houses that would protect their treasures. Glen had taken the pulley and rope up with him along with a loop of chain to be used to attach it to a limb above the roof of the prospective house. The limb had to be strong enough to support the weight of the lumber and most importantly the heavy fragile ceramic crocks.

  The tree house had already been prefabricated behind the barn before being loaded onto the wagon and each of the boards had been identified with letters and numbers to keep the “tree time” to a minimum during final assembly in their lofty nests. Glen found a limb above the roof, hooked the pulley to its horizontal portion and lowered the rope to the ground for Papa to attach the lumber and pull the first section up into place. After it arrived back in the tree, Glen quickly went about the business of identification of the appropriate pieces, then nailing the platform into place. Once he had a level floor he called for Papa to send up the next pieces and nailed them into place. By the end of the morning the little house set firmly in the embracing arms of the surrounding limbs and leaves barely visible from the ground.

  Finally, Glen put the roof in place and attached the easily removable half. The entire roof had been made of tongue-in-groove lumber to prevent rainwater from leaking through and diluting the bubbling contents within the crocks. The detachable portion was held with screen door hooks and eyes and was quite snug when snapped into place beside the permanent portion.

  Glen had a cramp in his back when he climbed down from the construction from having leaned in an awkward position for an entire morning, but he was very pleased with his work. He felt that it was a true work of art and that no one but himself would really ever see it. That was just the way he wanted.

  They had a quick lunch then they both lay down. They were back at the project within less than two hours from their break not entirely rested, but that didn’t matter right now.

  They began to improve their technique through repetition. By the time that the forest had grown dark, they had finished the second and had moved into position to begin the third house. They were now racing against the time of veraison. They went home, ate and were in bed within an hour.

  Glen was the earlier riser, and Papa made his slightly tardy appearance at the table. Glen said, “I thought that I would pay you back for letting me sleep the other morning. I’m really not hungry because everything I put in me is going to have to be carried up into the trees this morning. Do you want any eggs, bacon, grits or toast for breakfast?”

  Papa replied, “No, I’ll just have to haul it around in my stomach too, and besides, we have to get out there as early as we can this morning.”

  They were soon at work again. They did not make any further light conversation, but rather communicated in grunts and terse statements of their requirements to complete the task.

  It was near lunch time and Mama had made sandwiches. They consumed them then rested in the cool of the forest. After they had finished their lunch, they took the remainder of their sandwiches and spread the crumbs about as a diversion to the ants.

  They went through the lettered and numbered boards and hauled the boards from the ground upwards to the platform’s level. The boards swung gently back and forth, like a hanging man, awaiting Papa’s arrival.

  They completed their third tree house by late afternoon and went home a little early in order to prepare them for tree house number four.

  Glen felt much better the following morning. Papa had loaded the wagon with more supplies and the trip out to the job was uneventful. After some time Glen was able to install the floor platform. Papa climbed up and they worked together in order to complete the construction of the walls and the building roof by mid-afternoon. Papa had to move down the ladder to load the supplies contained within the wagon into the pulley system and raised them up then climb back up and help Glen nail them into place.

  After the tree house was completed, Papa said, “Let’s quit for the day. I know you are tired, and people start making mistakes when they work up this high after a full day. We’ll go home and get to bed early. I’m sure you’ll feel better at sun-up.”

  Glen was grateful but didn’t show it. He simply said, “O.k., Papa, if you are that weary I’ll let you off the hook for today, but don’t expect any mercy from me up here in the tree tomorrow.”

  Papa smiled derisively, “If you’re feeling this snappy then you won’t need me up in the next tree when we get back out here tomorrow. We only have two left to build and I’m sure that you can work alone in the tree. With my help on the ground we’ll still be finished before the day is done. Let’s move on to the next tree and leave everything there in the wagon. We can lead the horses back to the barn for the night. That way you can be back out here and get cracking just as day breaks in the morning. We’ll pick up all the remaining lumber and supplies that we will need to finish the last one when we go in for lunch.”

  Glen responded, “Why don’t we just ask Mama to fix our lunch. That way you can spell me in the tree while I eat and rest for an hour or so and we won’t lose any time getting this nightmare finished by tomorrow night.”

  Papa replied, “You’ll get thirty minutes and be very lucky and grateful for that.” He was talking with a lot of bravado, but he knew that he would be there to help Glen. The entire project was finished on schedule the following evening as the lengthening shadows cast by the sun heralded the completion of another day. They rested the next weekend, assembling everything necessary to make wine.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE VINTNERS

  Saturday night their preparations were completed, and they were ready for the coming days. Soon after supper they all went to bed in order to get to church sufficiently early the next morning. Papa wanted to find less prominent seats than the ones that they had occupied, and bolted, during the last services that they had attended.

  When the service ended they returned home and Mama prepared lunch. Glen cut a watermelon that had been lowered into the well the previous night. The floating green object was nicely chilled when he fished it out, netted it with the well bucket and pulled it up onto a work board on the lip of the masonry cylinder at the top of the well.

  Papa inserted the long, sharp kitchen knife through its skin, plunging it deeply into the melon’s heart. He turned it one hundred and eighty degrees, inserted and carried the second incision through the opposite side
of the flesh and through the remaining intact heart, separating the two halves completely. Each side now lay upon its rounded skin, exposing bright crimson surfaces of sweet, firm watermelon meat that was cool, inviting, and ready to be sliced into crescent moons for each to enjoy to the rind.

  It was nice to be able to consume the meal at a leisurely pace, being under no pressure to begin or to complete the day’s planned activities, simply eating, drinking, and resting. The meal was nourishing, heavy, and soon completed. They were lulled into drowsiness, and retired to their bedrooms for a nice Sunday afternoon nap.

  They greeted the following pre-dawn with excitement, and both Papa and Glen got quickly out of their beds and put on their work clothes. Mama got up too and prepared a good breakfast that would provide the sustenance for this day, the busiest and most physically active that they were to encounter since the first morning Papa discovered the squirrels in the tree at the river bottom just outside of Quitman.

  They had contrived a sling to encompass the crocks, in order to assure their safe arrival into their new residences, the little houses that would be their hidden domiciles within the trees for the better part of the coming month.

  A large metal hook was secured to the end of the pulley rope to hoist the crocks into place. The supporting sling was made of four short guy wire cables crossing one another at equal angles and tied at their centers with baling wire. The cables had a steel turnbuckle eye, also wired to each end, affording quick, easy attachment on the ground, and removal in the tree houses above. Glen climbed up and attached the pulley rope to a large branch above the tree house’s roof opening then lowered the hook into proper position upon the ground.

  Papa set the crock in the center of the cable wire rig, pulled the wires up and attached each eye to the hook on the end of the pulley rope. The crock set firm and secure in the sling thus created. Papa waved up to Glen, grasped the other end and hauled away. The pulley rope tightened and became taut. The crock raised and ascended upward, until positioned sufficiently above the little building’s roof to allow Glen to grasp and move it into position and signal Papa to relax the pulley rope. The crock passed easily through the open roof, and settled down upon the floor of the tree house. Glen released the enfolding cables and pulled them from underneath the bottom of the crock to the pulley hook and Papa lowered the rig back to the ground. Having gained this experience, Papa extracted the second crock from the wagon, repeated the positioning and raised it to Glen for lowering into the house next to the first crock already in place.

  After both were nestled comfortably within the tree house interior, Glen removed the platform upon which he had been standing, placed it over the hole in the roof, slipped the tongue of the platform board into the groove on the adjacent roof slat until it fit snugly, then hooked it into place. The roof was now secure and waterproof.

  The entire procedure for both crocks and the roof had taken less than twenty minutes meaning that all of the crocks could be raised or lowered with approximately two hours of labor time. Having solved the problems related to the placement of the crocks, they climbed up on the seat and drove the short distance to the second tree site. Each knew their part and they moved rapidly to accomplish the placement of the two crocks and the replacement of the roof at that location. From thence they moved to the next, and then the next until all of the crocks were nestled into position, ready to receive their juice and yeast.

  Glen got into the wagon bed and found the pruning shears for clipping the clusters from the vines and placed them into his belt. He put on a pair of leather work gloves, climbed back up to the vine, and located the first succulent bunch of grapes.

  Glen called down to his father to send up the wicker basket hoppers to begin the harvest. Papa pulled the first empty basket up, and Glen set it on the platform beside him. He quickly began his work selecting and clipping the heavy, sweet clusters and placing them into the hopper.

  Meanwhile, Papa removed the metal washtubs from the wagon that would be used to hold the grapes for crushing to release the juice. As soon as the first basket was filled Glen motioned and lowered it. Papa took the basket of clusters from the pulley rope, attached another empty basket to the hook, and sent it up.

  Papa dumped the hopper, removed his shoes, and stepped into the tub. The soft, warm grapes yielded to the weight of his feet and burst forth their juice. He continued to tromp around the inside of the tub in short steps. As soon as he was satisfied with the crush, Papa grasped the rope and let it down, then repeated the process until all of the grapes had been harvested. At the end of that day there were five full crocks, with three tree houses and seven crocks still awaiting their heady cargo.

  Mama had supper ready when the vintners opened the back door to the house. Trying to help, Mama had pulled up two buckets of cold well water for them. They began to eat but were too tired for conversation and Glen fell asleep with his mouth full of mashed potatoes.

  Papa admonished, “For God’s sake Glen wake up and eat your food then go to bed. We’ll have more to do tomorrow than we had today.” Glen complied without a word, without even opening his eyes. He swallowed, got up and left the room for the night.

  Papa smiled at my grandmother and said, “This morning when he was in a tree I told him that he was getting as wiry, strong and agile as an orangutan. I told him he was starting to smell and think like one, too.” He confided to Miss Ellie, “Actually I think he is becoming a man.” Then he, too, arose from the table and left. Mama thought about this while she cleaned up for the night then she followed her husband. Every muscle, tendon and joint ached when Glen awoke the next morning, still surrounded by the pre-dawn darkness. Every day thereafter they made the rounds of the tree houses inspecting the fermenting liquid in each crock. They pushed the cap down with a cruciate buttermilk plunger that also was borrowed from Mama Hailes’ kitchen. This accelerated the conversion process and imparted more intense color and flavor to the mash. Glen would remove the cheesecloth covers, inspect and listen to the volume and rate of the carbon dioxide gases as they audibly broke the surface of the active fluid.

  He took a small amount and tasted the contents of each crock. It was green, raw, and had a terrible taste every day, but it never tasted worse than that of the preceding day. That meant the wine wasn’t going bad and that was progress. On the eleventh day, Glen noticed that the activity within the crocks was beginning to subside, indicating that the primary fermentation was nearing completion.

  Papa and he had been working all the previous week, thoroughly washing the glass jugs and drying them in the sun. These transparent containers would be the homes and resting places of the yeast while they acted upon the remaining sugars during the next several months.

  Papa had not been idle on the ground beneath the activity above. Each day he recorded the early morning and late afternoon temperatures and noted the amount of sunshine and cloud cover in order to gain some predictability during future seasons and production. He made daily notations of Glen’s reports of the yeast activity, i.e., the bubbling rate and intensity each day along with a “taste sample” report of the wine’s progress. Glen had taken hydrometer daily readings of these indications of the relative concentration of the sugar within the juice.

  As soon as the specific gravity of the first crock’s sugar concentration approached and finally reached the desired level, Glen dipped out the new wine into a 5-gallon steel milk can and lowered it down. Papa took the milk can and siphoned its contacts into one of the new glass jugs in the wagon. He attached a greased rubber stopper into its neck, sealing the bottle for transport back for storage in the barn.

  After the second crock, Glen then tidied up the tree house and replaced the platform roof, then climbed down moving to the next houses until all the jugs filled with wine and crocks rested in the bed of the wagon. Papa removed the remaining sediment, including the dead yeast, skins, seeds and stems of the grapes, washed each crock thoroughly and gave the fertile remnants to Mama Hailes for the v
egetable garden and for her flowers. They pulled the wagon into home. They had not yet decided where the jugs were to be located for the resting period.

  They had already assembled the stoppers and glassware in the barn in order to allow continued gaseous expansion within the jugs. They replaced the sealing stoppers with these new ones, each fitted with carbon dioxide escape tubing and an air trap beneath a column of water. Shortly thereafter it began its slow gentle bubbling through the water trap to the surface. Finally, they got down from the wagon and left the jugs, crocks, and work tools to be dispensed the following morning.

  At supper, they talked about the required camouflage of the jugs and crocks. They agreed that the secondary fermentation rate was so slow that it would hardly cause any wine scent in the confinement of the barn. After several different ideas were considered they decided that they would build a protective wall, a screen around the bubbling jugs with bales of recently mown hay then cover it all with straw that was stored in the loft for feeding the horses and the other stock.

  The loft was the highest level within the barn, and the jugs would be placed near the loft door, allowing the smallest collection of venous gases to be wafted into the outside atmosphere, dissipating even the slightest odors that might accumulate from the water traps.

  Glen laughed and said, “The sheriff could have a woman up there on that very straw in the loft, and never know what else was cooking just beneath him.”

  Mama poured each of the men another glass of iced tea as their deliberations continued. Each glass could be afforded only one piece of ice. Papa put a spoonful of sugar into the vapid, almost cool tea and stirred.

  He continued, “What do we do with the crocks while we wait until next season? People normally don’t have twelve ceramic crocks of twenty gallons each just sitting around the place without a purpose.”