"What kind of nonsense is that? This house is rented. When you think about your tuition and the rent, we have to work without rest. And where would money like that even come from?"
Dad looked at me as if I were being immature, but I wasn't bothered.
Since it was a high schooler speaking, it was only natural for it to sound like reckless bravado.
"You don't need a huge amount of money to take over a farm. Even with a very small amount, you can acquire one."
"Stop talking nonsense… Just focus on your studies!"
Dad waved his hand as if to tell me to cut out the pointless talk, but I didn't stop.
"There are policies for immigrants!"
"What?"
Only then did Dad really meet my eyes.
"Listen carefully. There's a special government support program for immigrant farmers. Through a subsidy program for socially disadvantaged groups called SDA—Socially Disadvantaged Applicant—you can receive 45% of the farm's price at a low interest rate, and get a guarantee for a 50% loan from a private bank. The money we actually need to prepare is just 5% of the total amount. Five percent of the farm's value. That's all we need."
Since I wasn't just stubbornly insisting but laying out a clear plan and a plausible system, my parents finally began to listen.
"There's something like that? You really only need five percent?"
"I'm telling you, yes!"
That was when Mom spoke up.
"But how much is Redwood Vineyard worth? If five percent of that is still way more than what we have, then there's nothing we can do."
"That's true. That could happen. But Redwood Vineyard has declared bankruptcy, right? So how do you think the investors feel? Wouldn't they want to recover even a little of their investment?"
"I… suppose so?"
"Right now is the perfect time to buy the farm at a price far lower than its original value. If we step forward aggressively and say we want to acquire it, the investors will happily sell it off. They'll want to recover as much of their investment as possible."
By this point, my parents exchanged strange looks with each other.
Part of them wondered if this could really be true, and part of them felt a vague sense of intuition.
But perhaps because he had failed once before, Dad approached the matter far more cautiously.
"I understand what you're saying, but there's a reason that farm went under. Let's say we take out loans and acquire the vineyard. Then what if farming fails again? We wouldn't be able to handle it."
It was a perfectly reasonable point, and in many ways, it struck at the very core of the issue.
But I was someone who, before regressing, had earned a PhD in agricultural science from Cornell University.
"Dad, I'm studying agriculture professionally at school. You know our school has programs for employment and business, right?"
"Well, I've heard of them, but…"
"Don't dismiss it just because it's a high school program. They teach the latest farming techniques."
Even so, Dad wasn't easily convinced.
"You might think that way. But do you think John Anderson, the owner of Redwood Vineyard, was some kind of fool that his farm failed? It's a vineyard with over forty years of history, and John has been growing grapes for thirty years. Someone like that still went under without being able to do anything. If you're saying you can revive a farm with nothing but techniques learned in high school, isn't that seeing the world a bit too optimistically?"
It was a flawless rebuttal. Perhaps because he had failed once, Dad viewed things with an extremely realistic eye.
"Alright then. I'll graduate from high school this time and go on to the University of California, Davis—UC Davis."
"The University of California? Is that a good school?"
Mom tilted her head as she asked. Naturally, my parents didn't really know much about the university.
"They teach viticulture and enology—grape growing and winemaking—at the top level in the U.S. You know why Napa Valley is famous for grapes, right, Mom?"
"Well… I didn't know before, but this place is world-class for pre… what was it?"
"Premium wine."
Dad chimed in, and Mom immediately picked it up.
"Right, premium wine production, they say. And the grape variety we harvest is… what was it called? Caberne Shovining?"
"Cabernet Sauvignon."
"That's it, Cabernet Sauvignon. You say you're not even interested in farming—how do you know all that so well?"
Of course, back then, I wasn't interested at all. I only developed an interest ten years later.
The special SDA program for immigrant farmers was also something I only learned about after I became interested in farming.
"I just know. Dad—do you think I wouldn't even know what kind of work you and Mom do?"
"Well… that's actually quite admirable. So anyway, you're saying that school is the best in the world at teaching grape farming?"
"I don't know about the whole world—just the best in the U.S."
"Ah… then that's basically the world."
"You could say that. Anyway, this opportunity is something heaven has given us. California Cabernet Sauvignon is a wine recognized worldwide, and there will never again be a chance to acquire a vineyard this cheaply in Napa Valley."
Of course, I was saying this because I knew the future.
"Hmmm… let's think about it for now."
Dad was clearly afraid of failing again.
Because of him, the family had immigrated to the U.S., and if he failed once more, he must have feared that we might end up wandering as drifters.
I understood his reasons well—but I couldn't give up.
"Dad! Please! If we're even a little late, someone else will snatch it up. They say business is all about timing. This chance won't come again. Just trust me this once."
It was probably the first time Dad had ever seen his son wear such a serious expression while trying to persuade him of something.
To him, I must always have seemed a little crooked, a little unreliable.
"If you were going to college to learn farming, that'd be one thing—but we can't just throw away a whole year waiting."
"Don't worry. I'll take responsibility and bring the farm back to life."
"You don't know anything about agriculture!"
"No. I've learned a lot about grape cultivation while I've been in school. If we miss this opportunity, we'll spend our whole lives working for wages under someone else. If we become farm owners ourselves, the harder we work, the more becomes truly ours—and our effort and sweat won't be wasted. I know how to revive the farm. We can't let this chance slip away."
Dad fell silent, as if sunk in deep thought, then finally looked at Woo-seok as though he'd made up his mind.
"You're really confident about grape farming?"
"Yes."
"Then shall we go to the vineyard right now and check it out?"
"Alright. Let's go."
Seeing his son stand up so confidently actually caught Dad off guard, but he soon followed, went outside, and started the car.
"Right now?"
Mom came out after us and asked worriedly, but I climbed into the passenger seat.
"Don't worry. We'll be back soon."
Since it wasn't a fight but a trip to a vineyard, Mom sent the father and son off with nothing more than a reminder to drive safely.
The entire drive, Dad didn't say a single word. His mind was clearly a tangled mess.
Even though the farm had gone under, it wasn't like a shop that simply shut its doors, so Dad parked the car near the vineyard and walked ahead with heavy, deliberate steps.
As we walked for a while, I—someone who had once been an agricultural PhD—could tell at a glance that the grapevines were in poor condition. Still, I deliberately didn't point out what the problem was right away.
Before long, Dad stopped abruptly.
"See that? Why do you think this is happening?"
He asked while standing in front of a vine whose branches were longer and taller than the others around it.
On its leaves were countless patches of white, swollen mold, as if powder had been sprinkled over them. That hazy, pale sight dyed a corner of the once-lush vineyard a dull gray.
"Powdery mildew."
Dad flinched at his son answering correctly the instant he saw it. Only then did he stop seeing me as just an underdeveloped high schooler.
"That's right—powdery mildew. It spreads easily in early summer if the weather is even slightly humid, or sometimes too dry. It wasn't the decisive reason the farm failed, but it was one of the major problems. So how would you deal with it?"
I stepped closer and lightly brushed a leaf with my fingertips.
The white powder fell onto the back of my hand, soft like dust.
At that moment, I was reminded of the imperfect grape cell structure I had once seen under a microscope in a lab when I was forty-six.
"Some people might think you just spray pesticides… but it can be treated very simply."
"What? How?"
I slowly swept my gaze across the vast vineyard and spoke calmly.
"One cup of milk per vine. And ten cups of water. Mix them in that ratio and spray it on. When it reacts with sunlight, it causes oxidation in the fungal hyphae. We'll probably need a lot of milk."
Dad's eyes shook violently.
"Is that for real? Milk instead of pesticides?"
"Yes. And if you mix natural sulfur powder with water and spray it, it prevents the fungal spores from germinating. It lasts longer, too. Baking soda can be used as a supplementary treatment."
"You—"
I looked straight at my father, whose eyes were wide with disbelief, and spoke seriously and firmly.
"So trust me now. If you trust me, I'll make sure you harvest the best Cabernet Sauvignon in all of Napa Valley, California."