Sitting in the calm of an early Spring evening, gazing across this soon to be Vineyard Two, I am acutely aware of all that is different about this farm since the days when I used to walk these tractor roads barefoot after supper. The first thing I notice is the background noise-that cacophonous dim of not-quite-discernable sounds just at the edge of hearing: the soundtrack for the modern world. There are so many sounds I no longer hear. Once I could hear a train blowing at a crossing in Pilot Mountain: it was the signal to get on my bike and pedal up to Mitchell's Crossing, still with enough time left to look for spikes and tie plates before train time. At one time I could hear a car turn off Chestnut Grove Road and let my ear follow it down the hill on Priddy Road. In quiet anticipation I would then listen for the inevitable acceleration at the bridge over Danbury Creek and the climb up the steep grade on Goff Road past our house. Difficult now to distinguish one car from the hundreds following each other like an army of mechanized ants.

Vineyard Two has survived all of this. It has survived the death of the Saura tribe whose pottery and arrowheads we collected as children; it has survived the death of its original caretaker, my grandfather. Once known as the lower field, it also survived the death of the tobacco that sustained my family for two generations. Vineyard Two sits here surviving, enduring, still lying gently across the same knoll as it has for time without end.

Vineyard line posts now march across the knoll, over the center and out of sight. The posts are laid out in a geometric pattern, equally spaced in all directions so that in every direction one looks, one sees a straight line. It looks like some giant Rubik's Cube made out of toothpicks. Small red and white survey flags mark the plant locations between the posts: red for Cabernet Franc, white for Chardonnay. Soon the first-quarter moon will cast a soft white glow on Vineyard Two, turning the marching rows of posts into sentinels with dark, pencil-thin shadows.

But for now, Vineyard Two is sleeping. Even though an hour of daylight remains, I suspect Vineyard Two closed its eyes long ago, sometime soon after the last tobacco leaves were harvested. This field never asked for much: sunlight and water: a warm summer and a winter cold enough to freeze the land out for a month or so.

Vineyard Two is about to break out of its slumber in a mighty way. In two weeks, sounds both human and mechanical will create such a dim as to make ordinary conversation impossible. The line posts that have wintered in peace will suddenly become obstacles to work around. Fumes from three planting augers will mix with the earthiness of the red clay to form an aroma of intoxicating pungency. Tractors hauling plants and water will crisscross the knoll like bright red spiders spinning a web.

The birds are beginning to quiet down now in anticipation of the coming night. A small, single-engine airplane drones away toward the horizon on the right. I hear a dog barking a couple of houses away. Across Danbury Creek from Vineyard Two another dog barks; this time the barking is answered by the lowing of cattle headed toward dinner; toward days' end.

Vineyard Two is quiet today as it has been for the past few years. Plant-marking flags flap in all directions in the breeze while the line posts maintain their at-attention vigil. The flags flap more energetically now, trying to distract the posts, like a mischievous child trying to make a somber adult laugh.

The sun shines brighter between breaks in the lifting cloud cover. It rained another quarter inch last night. We will need to see these daily rains abate somewhat in a couple of weeks, but for now, as they say, every little bit helps.

Sometime after the sweat and toil, Vineyard Two will settle down to its business again; sustaining us as always in times good and bad. It will become attuned once more to endless cycles of heat and cold; sunlight and rain; hope and anticipation.

This is the view from Vineyard Two-fourteen days and counting.