La parra de mi abuelo
Cuando era chica, entre los seis y los diez años, esperaba las vacaciones de verano como cualquier otro chico: juegos interminables, campamentos improvisados, soldados de plástico, visitas al vecino y alguna que otra guerra de quinotos. Sin embargo, con el paso del tiempo entendí que lo que verdaderamente marcaba mis veranos no era solo el juego, sino un ritual silencioso que se repetía cada año hacia fines de febrero y comienzos de marzo: la cosecha de uvas de la parra de mi abuelo.
Mi abuelo vivía en la casa contigua a la nuestra. No había medianera entre ambos patios, así que el paso era libre, natural, cotidiano. Desde temprano, apenas empezaba el día, yo ya estaba del lado de su casa, parada debajo de esa parra generosa que parecía esperarme. Cortaba un racimo y lo lavaba rápidamente en una canilla cercana. “Lavaba” es una forma de decir: siempre quedaban restos de telarañas y, a veces, su pequeña dueña, a quien espantaba con la mano para seguir comiendo sin culpa.
A la hora de la siesta, cuando el calor era intenso y los adultos dormían, yo volvía a la parra. Eran alrededor de las tres de la tarde y las uvas estaban calientes por el sol. Hoy me pregunto cómo podía soportarlo, pero supongo que la infancia tiene esa capacidad: todo se vive con el cuerpo entero y sin demasiados límites.
Cuando ya no daba más, agarraba un balde y empezaba a cosechar racimos para hacer jugo de uva. Era un procedimiento simple, casi intuitivo: las uvas iban a una olla con agua apenas suficiente para cubrirlas y azúcar “a ojo”. Cuando hervían y se separaban del pellejo, apagaba el fuego, colaba y embotellaba. En el almuerzo y en la cena, toda la familia tomaba ese jugo espeso y dulce. Viéndolo hoy a la distancia, creo que durante esos días me alimentaba casi exclusivamente de uvas.
Hace un tiempo escuché a un psicólogo proponer un ejercicio: cerrar los ojos y dejar que la mente nos lleve a un recuerdo genuinamente feliz. El mío apareció de inmediato. Me vi bajo la parra, comiendo uvas, y me emocioné sin poder evitarlo. Comprendí entonces que esos momentos habían sido profundamente significativos.
Mi abuelo ya no está. Su casa se vendió y los nuevos dueños, al remodelar, no conservaron la parra. Y cuando digo que la perdí, lo digo de verdad: no se trata de cualquier uva. Era pequeña, de color violeta oscuro, lo que en Argentina llamamos uva chinche. No se compra en verdulerías; se hereda o se recuerda.
Cada vez que hablo con mis hijas sobre mi infancia, este recuerdo vuelve. Y siempre me emociona. Quizás porque algunas pérdidas no duelen por lo que eran, sino por todo lo que nos enseñaron a sentir.
Gracias por acompañarme en este recuerdo. Tal vez cada uno tenga su propia “parra”: un lugar, una persona, un sabor que nos devuelve a lo que fuimos. Ojalá este texto te haya invitado a cerrar los ojos y volver, aunque sea por un instante, a ese recuerdo feliz que todavía te habita.
La imagen obviamente no es mía la saqué de Unsplah.com a modo de recrear un poco el relato.
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My grandfather's grapevine
When I was a girl, between the ages of six and ten, I looked forward to the summer holidays like any other child: endless games, improvised camps, plastic soldiers, visits to the neighbours and the occasional watermelon fight. However, as time went by, I realised that what really marked my summers was not just playing, but a silent ritual that was repeated every year in late February and early March: harvesting grapes from my grandfather's vine.
My grandfather lived in the house next door to ours. There was no dividing wall between our two gardens, so we could move freely between them, naturally, every day. Early in the morning, as soon as the day began, I was already at his house, standing under that generous vine that seemed to be waiting for me. I would cut a bunch and quickly wash it at a nearby tap. “Wash” is a manner of speaking: there were always traces of cobwebs left, and sometimes their tiny owner, whom I would shoo away with my hand so I could continue eating without guilt.
At siesta time, when the heat was intense and the adults were asleep, I would return to the vine. It was around three in the afternoon and the grapes were warm from the sun. Today I wonder how I could stand it, but I suppose childhood has that capacity: everything is experienced with the whole body and without too many limits.
When I couldn't take it anymore, I would grab a bucket and start harvesting bunches to make grape juice. It was a simple, almost intuitive process: the grapes went into a pot with just enough water to cover them and sugar ‘by eye’. When they boiled and separated from the skin, I turned off the heat, strained them and bottled them. At lunch and dinner, the whole family drank that thick, sweet juice. Looking back on it today, I think I ate almost exclusively grapes during those days.
Some time ago, I heard a psychologist suggest an exercise: close your eyes and let your mind take you to a genuinely happy memory. Mine came to me immediately. I saw myself under the vine, eating grapes, and I couldn't help but feel emotional. I realised then that those moments had been deeply meaningful.
My grandfather is no longer with us. His house was sold and the new owners, when they remodelled it, did not keep the vine. And when I say I lost it, I really mean it: this is not just any grape. They were small, dark purple, what we call chinche grapes in Argentina. You can't buy them in greengrocers; you inherit them or remember them.
Every time I talk to my daughters about my childhood, this memory comes back. And it always moves me. Perhaps because some losses don't hurt because of what they were, but because of everything they taught us to feel.
Thank you for accompanying me in this memory. Perhaps each of us has our own ‘vine’: a place, a person, a flavour that takes us back to who we were. I hope this text has invited you to close your eyes and return, even if only for a moment, to that happy memory that still lives within you.
The image is obviously not mine; I took it from Unsplash.com to recreate the story a little.
Translated with DeepL.com (free version)