A Child of the Grape

My grandfather, Zvonimir, is out for an early morning stroll along the vines in June 2000. (Submitted by Tin Belinic)

On evenings like these, when I sit here at my desk, under the glow of a dim light, I think about home. Has it already been three years, three years since I walked along the vines, three years since I tasted freshly picked grapes in the cool summer shade with my dog at my side? The memories come as I wait patiently, just like I learned to do when I was a child running alongside my grandparents. Patience, all good things come from patience.  

This was the lesson I learned on my grandparents’ land, where generations before me were born and raised among the giant apple and pear trees, the red currant garden, and sunflower gardens with their gentle smell. Back then, the vines, older than my grandparents, were still spreading their wires. The grapes had been a constant on the land that belonged to my grandfather, Zvonimir Jelić, who was known to friends and family by a simple nickname, Zvonko or Zvone, a Croatian word which means bell in English.  

He inherited the land from his parents and gave it the nourishment it deserved. The land was located on the hillside of Zagreb, Croatia’s capital, on a street that long ago flourished with trees and plains, but over time had been filled in with apartment buildings and houses. Our vineyard served as a reminder of what once was; people would pass by our green front gates overlooking the vineyard and the joined houses and pause to admire how our land had somehow resisted all these changes and still thrived.  

Zvonimir with his daughter Zrinka in the old wine cellar below the garage in September 1978. (Submitted by Tin Belinic)

Zvonko was tall and athletic, with a slim build. Always clean-shaven, he went gray early in his thirties. I love to say that, physically, he resembled the actor Clint Eastwood, as he was ruggedly handsome and a class act. My grandfather will always be the example of the man I strive to be, a man who works and provides, always smiling and never complaining. He treated all aspects of his life with respect and care: family, work, friends, and his approach to nature. Any free time was spent outside plucking weeds, mowing the lawn, helping my grandmother with her small garden, and chopping wood; the list is endless. But the vineyard occupied a special place in his proud heart until the end, each vine marking a year of our family’s history. 

There were three vineyards stretched around the property like open arms, drawing us into a gentle hug. The oldest was to the left of our green front gate, a place where I spent my childhood running, young and wild, under the blazing sun of the long summer afternoons, the leaves brushing against my cheeks as I snatched unripe grapes from the vines and fed them to the birds. The other two vineyards were smaller patches tucked to the right and behind the houses; their large harvests made up for what they lacked in size.  

We grew two kinds of grapes; both were widely popular in Croatia. The first was Graševina, or Welschriesling, a white grape so sweet and juicy that its origins are still questioned to this day. Some say the Ancient Romans brought it to our lands. Others claim it was born in the Eastern Balkans or that it was gifted from the French region of Champagne to the Austro-Hungarian Empire; the truth is lost to time. The second type was Portugizac, or Blauer Portugieser. A tender red grape, its taste and smell are that of violets blossoming in the early spring. They are wildly refreshing and bright. It was a wine enjoyed early, only weeks after fermentation. 

The main vineyard overlooking the house early in the year, circa 2019. (Submitted by Tin Belinic)

Looking back, even as a child, I understood the rhythm of the vineyard. By late spring, the vines would stretch their arms wide; the grapes would begin to take shape, however small. This was the time my grandfather would prepare his backpack sprayer, and I was forbidden to play outside for a day or two. It was a mixture of smells I still remember. Sharp and metallic, it would linger in the air long after he sprayed all the rows. I would trail behind him at a safe distance in the yard as the fine mist of the spray gun fizzled into existence and settled softly on each leaf.  

Throughout the summer months, I would visit those vines daily, checking on the grapes, watching their colour and shape mature. Each week brought a change as the berries began to swell; there was a sour sweetness in the air that could only be tasted, not described. When September finally arrived, the vineyard came alive early in the morning. I would wake up, jump to my bedroom window, and gaze out at the sunny day ahead. Family members and friends were already in full motion, spilling out through the gates carrying baskets, gloves, and vine cutters. Everybody was smiling and talking. This was more than just work; it was tradition and celebration. I would rush outside to pick up a small pair of shears and a basket.  

We would begin in the main vineyard and move slowly from row to row. I would follow my grandfather as he inspected the grapes before gently snipping them away from the vine that gave them life. Now and then, he would glance at me, his lips flashing me a gentle smile as I tried to mimic his every move. He never hurried. He never made anybody rush. He believed everything had its own pace; this applied to both the people and the land. 

The overflowing baskets would be carried back to the house, to the large, worn red cauldron-like barrel, the paint peeling after decades of harvests. We poured basket after basket, the grapes landing with a satisfying thud as sweetness filled the air. When it was nearly full, we would take turns turning the heavy metal crank of the grinder inside. This part of the process always felt ceremonial to me.  

As a child, I could barely turn the wheel, but my grandfather would place his hands over mine and guide the motion. I heard the crushing grapes, skin peeling, juice gushing, and stems snapping. The juice gently flowed out through the small nozzle at the end of the grinder and poured into smaller barrels beneath. I remember kneeling beside them, mesmerized by the stream of deep red and pale green juices. My grandfather would hand me a glass and tell me to taste the sweet nectar of the grapes. 

The barrels would be sealed and marked before they were carried down into the basement wine cellar hidden below the garage, where it was cool and smelled faintly of stone and earth. Humidity lingered in the air, and the room was decorated with my grandfather’s sports trophies, tennis rackets, and photographs. The barrels were lined against the walls. The juice would sit there in the dark for weeks or even months, silently maturing. When the time finally came, the wine was bottled with a simple and clean-designed label. His photo and name stamped on it in bold letters: “Vino Zvonimir.” The bottles were all identical and had a polished shine. 

After hours of collecting grapes, we would all gather under the shade of the old apple and pear trees. My grandmother laid out a feast, and, as always, the main dish was a roasted pig with an apple stuffed inside its mouth. The table was adorned with fresh bread, cheese, warm tomatoes glistening under the sun, and homemade sausages cut evenly. We ate with our hands, and my grandfather would pour what was left of last year’s wine. I was allowed to dip my finger into the rim of the glass and taste it.   

Friends and family gathered outside the vineyard, sharing a laugh and tasting a fresh batch of wine. Zvonimir is pictured in the centre wearing a blue shirt with his back turned to the camera as he holds a cup of wine, September 2003. (Submitted by Tin Belinic)

As the years passed, my grandfather fell sick and moved more slowly down the row of vines. The spray grew too heavy as well, and the task was passed onto my cousin. Nature, too, made its mark. Harsh winters and late frosts threatened the vines; they began to give less fruit. My grandparents accepted this as the natural course of life. The vineyard they worked so hard to maintain was aging alongside them.  

The harvests became quieter until they stopped entirely. My grandfather would walk alongside the vines every morning, even when he could no longer carry tools. I would walk alongside him in silence; there was no need for words to explain what we felt. It was a poetry of mutual understanding. My grandfather passed away, and the tradition of winemaking ended with him. Eventually, the vineyard, the apple and pear trees, and the bushes filled with currants, all of it, began to fade as well. A couple of months before I left for university, my family sold our old house and the patch of land with it. We still have some bottles saved for special occasions. 

Now, when I return home from my studies to a small Eastern Canadian town, I pass by our old house from time to time, where construction is buzzing, and the vines have been buried under the steel wheel of a bulldozer to make room for an apartment complex. I feel the loss, but I know it’s part of me now, and in my soul, I carry my grandfather, the lessons of patience and the vines, and the unforgettable taste of sour wine.