My first memory from harvesting grapes was around 1965. So small I was I could hide inside the empty baskets. My grandparents became furious “Out now! We need the baskets for the grapes.” I joined them and helped them cutting some small bunches, really miniscule, topping unnecessarily the already full baskets. Then my grandfather and father emptied the baskets and we, the children stomped with naked feet. They took the juice and made wine. When the time came to open the first barrel, my grandfather would sit around a formica table next to the colourful wallpaper and take the first sip. It was our wine and everybody thought, including me, the best in the world.
