When I think about growing stuff for a living, I don’t think about the back-breaking work. I don’t think about the long days in the hot sun. I don’t think about the dirt under your fingernails or the many insect bites you’re forced to endure.
Maybe that’s because I figure that, if I owned such a business, I’d inevitably find some way to avoid doing any of this. You probably think I’m delusional for believing that, but I don’t care. What I think about is this: You work all year to spend maybe two or three weeks actually laying your hands on the product that will generate your revenue for the entire year.
Oh. My. God.
If I had to wait all year to get something in my hands for which I could charge money, I think I’d find myself wandering the streets muttering to myself about all the foreign infantrymen hiding behind the auto repair shop with bayonets.
Granted, there are times when my clients’ payment habits make it seem like I only get paid once a year, but at least when that happens, I can look at my receivables and dream sweet dreams about all the cash I should theoretically have in the bank. In my theories, I’m rich!
But you’re not. You grow grapes all year, essentially for free! Then you hope you make it to harvest time without any of the following happening:
• A giant tsunami (as opposed to one of those small ones) hits Northern California and wipes out all vegetation, leaving you to figure out how to market salted raisins to the masses.
• Some medieval king shows up in your vineyard while you’re sleeping and says, “Oh look, grapes!” then settles in on his royal chaise lounge while his concubines feed them to him all night long. By the time you get up, the only thing left is some fat dude with purple lips and a statue of a snake.
• The day harvest is supposed to start, the “Saved by the Bell” reunion comes to town and all your workers bail on you. The only person available to help you is the one person you know wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near it—Dustin Diamond. And seriously, how much help do you really think you’re going to get out of Screech?
• The Minnesota Vikings, facing major budget cuts, start looking for a new, more cost-effective way to turn jerseys purple. Head coach Brad Childress is sent wandering around the valley looking for a solution, and he stumbles—literally—upon your vineyard, only to get up, dust himself off and discover his impeccably white shirt is now flaming violet. Next thing you know, Adrian Peterson and teammates are rolling around in your dirt. The only saving grace for you is they didn’t end up signing Brett Favre, because he would have figured out a way to make fermented purple jerseys, and then you’d be in serious trouble.
• Squirrels.
I’m not saying any of these are necessarily likely. I’m just saying you never know, and the severity of the risk is very high if something goes wrong. That’s why (staying with football for a second) teams don’t go for it on the fourth down and only inches from deep in their own territory. Chances are, they can pick up a few inches, but the downside risk if they fail is way too high.
For you, the downside risk if something goes wrong with a year’s crops is way too high…like, say, complete and total ruination forever.
If I do something dumb, which rarely happens more than every 10 minutes or so, I have time to recover from it. My services can be generated, sold and invoiced on a constant basis. So the whole idea of working yourself crazy all year for one big payday is just a tiny bit frightening, especially since, when the year starts, you have no idea what weather conditions will be like, what market prices will be like or what cultural trends will take hold.
Hey, what if Christian Bale is seen walking down the street drinking a carrot cocktail? Next thing you know, every man, woman and child is clamoring for carrot-based beverages. Are you growing any carrots on those vines? Didn’t think so. There’s no saving you now.
I suppose I’d be psychologically attuned to the risks inherent here if I’d done it for years. I suppose I’d have insurance, a backup plan, a tried-and-true series of methods to ensure nothing goes wrong. I’m sure that, if I read a column like this one, I’d be thinking to myself, “This idiot doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s talking about.”
At least, that’s what my readers usually say.
But it still seems awfully scary to me, which is why I think I’ll stick with the safety of running a conventional business and let you grow grapes. You seem to know what you’re doing, and I seem to know what I’m doing.
But just in case one of my above-mentioned scenarios actually occurs and you’re left standing in the field surveying the ruin your life has become, just remember: Anyone can become a columnist. It requires no qualifications whatsoever.
