Every time she starts to tell it, her voice softens and her eyes take on that special sparkle, as if she were once again standing among the brambles, scissors in hand, the sun warming her back.
"We gathered in the morning, when it was still dark," he starts in the same way. "In the courtyard, you could hear the rattling of buckets and baskets. Someone was already making coffee and another had brought fresh bread. Everyone had something in their hands - scissors, a basket, a hairbrush. As we walked towards the vineyard, the grass was wet with dew, the air was cool, and the sun was already peeking out on Pohorje. Those first steps between the briars were always magical."
As you walked through the vineyard, you could see the vines bending under the weight of ripe grapes. The strawberries glistened in the morning light, as if they were calling out to be picked. The work was exhausting - back arched, sticky hands and baskets that were getting heavier. But in reality it didn't seem hard because they were working together. "If a basket slipped, the others picked it up. If someone fell behind, we waited. If someone was tired, a neighbour would encourage him: 'Just a little more and it will all be over'."
There was no shortage of mischief during the work. Men joked about who could squeeze more grapes than they could eat this year, women told each other stories from the village, and children secretly competed with each other to see who could find the biggest strawberry.
Once, my uncle was carefully filling his basket, but in reality he was throwing in half the grapes he found on the way, pretending to be the fastest worker. When the baskets were weighed, everyone immediately realised that something was wrong, and the vineyard shook with laughter.
And then came the moment that my mother described with the greatest warmth - the moment when someone called out, "Pause!" Everyone put down their scissors and sat down in the grass. Baskets of bread, sausages and cheese were opened. Bottles of last year's wine were passed from one to the other. Nobody cared who brought more or less - it all became a communal affair. "At that time it seemed that we were all one," says my mother. "Young and old, relatives and neighbours - we all shared the same sunshine, the same bread and the same joy."
In the afternoon, as the sun began to sink towards Pohorje, the vineyard calmed down. The baskets were taken to the press, where the grapes gave up their sweet juice. The courtyard smelled of freshly pressed cider and the pleasant scent of autumn wafted through the air. People were tired, there were blisters on their hands, but there was a warmth on their faces that only comes from working together.
But the best part was yet to come. As the day turned to evening, everyone gathered together in the house. "The table was full," recalls my mother. "Roast, potatoes, homemade bread, apple strudel. Everyone sat together, laughter echoing around the room, a song finding its place among the dishes and glasses. No one looked at the clock, no one measured who had eaten more or drunk less. In those moments you felt that the meaning of life is not in what you have, but in the people who sit next to you."
When he tells this story, he always adds that the harvest in Ritozno was not just about wine. It was a school of life. "It taught us that every cluster is important, just like every person. That work is easier when you share it. That the real wealth is not in full barrels, but in being able to get along with your neighbours and friends."
Zala Krupljan, 19 Aug 2025
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