Read Online September Song by William Humphrey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Humphrey
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stumps three feet tall.
Now the bulldozer was brought on. It lumbered up to a stump, lowering its blade like a buck his antlers to engage a rival. For a minute the contest was a stand-off. The tree resisted, clung to its hold. Then as though in mounting rage the engine growled deeper and deeper as the operator summoned up its lowermost gears. Its treads dug into the ground. The tree yielded, toppled, its roots tore loose and surfaced. One after another the stumps were attacked. Then they and their limbs were pushed into a pile. The holes left looked like bomb craters. The pile was doused with kerosene and set afire. Being green, the wood smoked thickly. Soon the scene was like one of those days when fog from off the River blanketed the Valley.
It was not that he had never before seen an apple tree uprooted, even whole sections of the orchard. Space was valuable, spray and fertilizer expensive, and when trees became old and unproductive they had to be culled out. But they were replaced with young stock.
And so, although their working days were over and they might have slept late now, they were up as early as before, awakened by the roar of the bulldozers and the snarl of the chainsaws on all sides of them. It was as though they were surrounded by packs of lions and tigers prowling from dawn to dusk.
Up and down the roads all around he went on his motorcycle, calling on his neighbors. His message to them was, âI tried to sell it as a going farm, keep it together like itâs always been. It was advertised that way in the paper for months, and that paper is read the length and breadth of the Valley. The real estate agent shared the listing with other agents in six counties. My family has farmed it for four generations and I was ready to sell it for a lot less if only it could be kept intact. Not an offer did I get. Not a prospect. I donât know what the world is coming to when nobody wants to farm anymore.
âI never expected it would come to this. I expected my daughters to marry farmers and carry on as always before. Out of three, one at least one would. But those girls of mine all fell far from the tree. How it hurts me to have to say that!
âPut yourself in my place. I planted those trees. I fertilized them. I protected them against their enemies. Whenever the radio warned of an invasion of insects or mold, I was up with them all night like a father with a sick child. Only I had ten thousand children to nurse. To see them being uprooted breaks my old heart.â
You can cry all the way to the bank : those who did not say that to his face looked it.
âBelieve me, itâs not the money,â he said. âThe money means nothing to me. Whatâs money at my time of life?â This was the point on which he was most anxious to be believed.
Then their looks said: What kind of a fool do you take me for?
He was ruining life for everybody. A housing development next door, hundreds more cars on the roads, snowmobiles, the whine of lawnmowers, barking dogs, the summer-evening air smelling like Burger King was not what Eugene Crockett had in mind in retiring to the country from the city, restoring his antique farmhouse, trimming his woodlots, landscaping his grounds, planting lawns and keeping them like billiard tables. Bob Johnson was saddened by the loss of his old hunting grounds. âWhat trophies came out of those orchards of yours! Well, thatâs the way the world is going. Itâs progress, I suppose. Canât stand in the way of it.â Progress: the dirtiest word in his vocabulary! Howard Simms said, âWell, Seth, you wonât have to be out on that tractor at all hours of the night anymore.â But out on that tractor was where he wanted to be. It was what he was. Or had been.
Ed Smith asked how much it had cost him.
âHow much did what cost me?â
âSeth, you and me have lived here all our lives. We both know how things get done. How much did that
Now the bulldozer was brought on. It lumbered up to a stump, lowering its blade like a buck his antlers to engage a rival. For a minute the contest was a stand-off. The tree resisted, clung to its hold. Then as though in mounting rage the engine growled deeper and deeper as the operator summoned up its lowermost gears. Its treads dug into the ground. The tree yielded, toppled, its roots tore loose and surfaced. One after another the stumps were attacked. Then they and their limbs were pushed into a pile. The holes left looked like bomb craters. The pile was doused with kerosene and set afire. Being green, the wood smoked thickly. Soon the scene was like one of those days when fog from off the River blanketed the Valley.
It was not that he had never before seen an apple tree uprooted, even whole sections of the orchard. Space was valuable, spray and fertilizer expensive, and when trees became old and unproductive they had to be culled out. But they were replaced with young stock.
And so, although their working days were over and they might have slept late now, they were up as early as before, awakened by the roar of the bulldozers and the snarl of the chainsaws on all sides of them. It was as though they were surrounded by packs of lions and tigers prowling from dawn to dusk.
Up and down the roads all around he went on his motorcycle, calling on his neighbors. His message to them was, âI tried to sell it as a going farm, keep it together like itâs always been. It was advertised that way in the paper for months, and that paper is read the length and breadth of the Valley. The real estate agent shared the listing with other agents in six counties. My family has farmed it for four generations and I was ready to sell it for a lot less if only it could be kept intact. Not an offer did I get. Not a prospect. I donât know what the world is coming to when nobody wants to farm anymore.
âI never expected it would come to this. I expected my daughters to marry farmers and carry on as always before. Out of three, one at least one would. But those girls of mine all fell far from the tree. How it hurts me to have to say that!
âPut yourself in my place. I planted those trees. I fertilized them. I protected them against their enemies. Whenever the radio warned of an invasion of insects or mold, I was up with them all night like a father with a sick child. Only I had ten thousand children to nurse. To see them being uprooted breaks my old heart.â
You can cry all the way to the bank : those who did not say that to his face looked it.
âBelieve me, itâs not the money,â he said. âThe money means nothing to me. Whatâs money at my time of life?â This was the point on which he was most anxious to be believed.
Then their looks said: What kind of a fool do you take me for?
He was ruining life for everybody. A housing development next door, hundreds more cars on the roads, snowmobiles, the whine of lawnmowers, barking dogs, the summer-evening air smelling like Burger King was not what Eugene Crockett had in mind in retiring to the country from the city, restoring his antique farmhouse, trimming his woodlots, landscaping his grounds, planting lawns and keeping them like billiard tables. Bob Johnson was saddened by the loss of his old hunting grounds. âWhat trophies came out of those orchards of yours! Well, thatâs the way the world is going. Itâs progress, I suppose. Canât stand in the way of it.â Progress: the dirtiest word in his vocabulary! Howard Simms said, âWell, Seth, you wonât have to be out on that tractor at all hours of the night anymore.â But out on that tractor was where he wanted to be. It was what he was. Or had been.
Ed Smith asked how much it had cost him.
âHow much did what cost me?â
âSeth, you and me have lived here all our lives. We both know how things get done. How much did that
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