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Authors: Stacey Lannert
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suburban girl who enjoyed neighborhood streets and big schools filled with different types of kids. At that time, I just knew the country was different. I saw trucks and tractors everywhere in Alhambra, way more than I’d seen in Creve Coeur, Missouri (where I was born), Cedar Rapids, Manchester, or Kansas City. The fields were big and sprawling, and not just near the interstate roadways. People actually farmed here. Some had barns instead of garages. They lived on vast properties, and you couldn’t just walk to your neighbor’s house to play. Mom was right; it all seemed so slow and gentle.
The day we arrived at our house with all of our stuff, Daddy walked me outside to the fruit trees. Apples dangled from every branch. He plucked one off and gave it to me. He’d read my mind, and I smiled. The move, the house, the yard—it was all surreal, like the magical village on The Smurfs . I mean, we had snacks right there in the front yard, and all we had to do was look up.
“We can grow whatever we want now,” Daddy said. “And anytime you want an apple, we’ll just go and get you one.” I couldn’t pick apples by myself. They were out of my reach. While I waited for my parents to move furniture and boxes, I sat under that tree for an hour eating my piece of fruit. I still remember the way it tasted, kind of tart.
Later that day, out in the front lawn, I told Daddy, “Promise me I can stay here until I go to college. Promise me we’ll never leave.”
His cutoff jean shorts were dusty, and he was tired but happy. He said, “I promise.” Then he held me, and everything was great.
My father and I started becoming even closer then. He worked out in the yard all the time. He came home earlier from work, and he hung around the house more. So I’d help him whenever I could. We cut the sprawling fields of grass together. He put me in his lap on the tractor, and I’d get to drive. I helped him in the garage with his tools when he needed to fix stuff. This was special bonding time for us. I felt grounded, like I belonged in the world, and like I had a real home.
We had Barron, a little beagle-collie mix, for only about a week. I adored him. One summer morning, Christy and I were waiting at the bus stop in front of our house. We squealed happily when Barron ran through the front yard to tell us good-bye before we left for school. He was so excited to see us. But our house sat up on a hill—one of those steep, fast inclines that thrill-seeking drivers raced over so their stomachs lurched up into their throats. That morning, a young guy about twenty-four years old crashed into my cheerful, innocent dog. In an instant, Barron was killed—his body spread all over the road. I couldn’t even find his tail. Christy and I screamed and cried. The driver stopped his car and tried to apologize. Mom had been at the bus stop with us, and she was as shocked as we were. She told us to stay back.
Dad hadn’t gone to work yet, so he heard the commotion and came running out of the house. He told us to look the other way while he found a trash bag. The bus came, and he made us get on it. We were still crying, but it was probably better for us to get out of the way. Daddy and the young dog killer cleaned up the mess and buried Barron in the yard.
Later that night, Daddy told us, “These things happen.”
Mom tried to comfort us, too. “We know you’re hurt right now, but you will feel better soon.”
I know they felt bad for us. Mom took us to the pound a few months later, and we picked out two dogs, nice-looking mutts, one for each of us. I chose Prince, and Christy got Benji. We were both overjoyed. I fell madly in love with Prince, and he was my constant companion while I tried to find my way in Alhambra.
I don’t remember playing with Christy that much after we got to Alhambra. She definitely didn’t hang out with me and Dad. She always went off to do her own thing or went on errands with Mom. She liked to play outside
The day we arrived at our house with all of our stuff, Daddy walked me outside to the fruit trees. Apples dangled from every branch. He plucked one off and gave it to me. He’d read my mind, and I smiled. The move, the house, the yard—it was all surreal, like the magical village on The Smurfs . I mean, we had snacks right there in the front yard, and all we had to do was look up.
“We can grow whatever we want now,” Daddy said. “And anytime you want an apple, we’ll just go and get you one.” I couldn’t pick apples by myself. They were out of my reach. While I waited for my parents to move furniture and boxes, I sat under that tree for an hour eating my piece of fruit. I still remember the way it tasted, kind of tart.
Later that day, out in the front lawn, I told Daddy, “Promise me I can stay here until I go to college. Promise me we’ll never leave.”
His cutoff jean shorts were dusty, and he was tired but happy. He said, “I promise.” Then he held me, and everything was great.
My father and I started becoming even closer then. He worked out in the yard all the time. He came home earlier from work, and he hung around the house more. So I’d help him whenever I could. We cut the sprawling fields of grass together. He put me in his lap on the tractor, and I’d get to drive. I helped him in the garage with his tools when he needed to fix stuff. This was special bonding time for us. I felt grounded, like I belonged in the world, and like I had a real home.
We had Barron, a little beagle-collie mix, for only about a week. I adored him. One summer morning, Christy and I were waiting at the bus stop in front of our house. We squealed happily when Barron ran through the front yard to tell us good-bye before we left for school. He was so excited to see us. But our house sat up on a hill—one of those steep, fast inclines that thrill-seeking drivers raced over so their stomachs lurched up into their throats. That morning, a young guy about twenty-four years old crashed into my cheerful, innocent dog. In an instant, Barron was killed—his body spread all over the road. I couldn’t even find his tail. Christy and I screamed and cried. The driver stopped his car and tried to apologize. Mom had been at the bus stop with us, and she was as shocked as we were. She told us to stay back.
Dad hadn’t gone to work yet, so he heard the commotion and came running out of the house. He told us to look the other way while he found a trash bag. The bus came, and he made us get on it. We were still crying, but it was probably better for us to get out of the way. Daddy and the young dog killer cleaned up the mess and buried Barron in the yard.
Later that night, Daddy told us, “These things happen.”
Mom tried to comfort us, too. “We know you’re hurt right now, but you will feel better soon.”
I know they felt bad for us. Mom took us to the pound a few months later, and we picked out two dogs, nice-looking mutts, one for each of us. I chose Prince, and Christy got Benji. We were both overjoyed. I fell madly in love with Prince, and he was my constant companion while I tried to find my way in Alhambra.
I don’t remember playing with Christy that much after we got to Alhambra. She definitely didn’t hang out with me and Dad. She always went off to do her own thing or went on errands with Mom. She liked to play outside
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