It’s spring, and a stranger and I are hoeing weeds around the vine stumps in the last row of the vineyard near the road that runs past my childhood home. As we move along, the soil rises up and threatens to engulf the vines, which are still bare despite the time of year. Our job becomes more and more strenuous; finally, instead of dirt and weeds, we’re hacking away at snow, then solid ice. It’s hard work, but I’m having fair success. I’m less bothered by the strangeness of the situation than I am by the fact that I don’t know who the stranger is.