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Authors: Aaron Hawkins
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little defensively.
"I've been hearing that for years."
"I'm sorry to hear your mom has cancer," I said, trying to sound sincere and thoughtful.
"Shoot. She's had cancer so many times I've lost count. Any little pain she gets, she's always blaming it on cancer. I wish she'd at least think up some new disease to blame."
Tommy stared at one of the piles of branches in the middle of a row. He gave an admiring whistle. "So how many trees go into each pile?" he asked.
"Oh, about three or four," I answered proudly.
He said it reminded him of the pile of wood he had seen at a bonfire. "Be pretty amazing if you lit all of 'em up at once."
I agreed with a little laugh, and then he waved good-bye and strolled off. All and all, it was a strange conversation. Instead of being mad about what was going on in the orchard, he didn't even seem to care.
***
We finished the last tree on March's final Saturday as the sky changed from blue into a pale pink sunset. I told everyone to wait while I ran back to my room to get my map of the orchard. We crossed off the few remaining trees and gave a little cheer.
"We're right on schedule. Can you believe it?" I asked giddily.
"So do we get paid now?" asked Michael.
Sometimes I couldn't tell whether he was serious.
"No, but I'm pretty sure the hardest part is over." Five pairs of eyes looked at me hopefully.
Chapter 6
Learning to Drive
The relief of finishing the pruning was short-lived. After church on Sunday, all six of us went outside to the orchard to think about how to get rid of all the branches piled next to the trees. We had to assure my mom that we wouldn't be working, only thinking.
The orchard formed most of the view from the front door of my house. Out the back door was what my dad called "desolate land." It had some tumbleweeds, sagebrush, and wild grasses, but mostly it was rocks and dirt. If I went walking out there, my socks would always come back full of stickers and my mom would make me
sit outside and pull them out before I was allowed into the house. The desolate land must have been owned by Mr. Nelson, because when he was alive he would pile branches in random places on it. I had never realized where he was getting the branches until we started pruning.
"Let's just take the branches out there and leave them with the older ones. I wouldn't even ask Mrs. Nelson either," Amy said forcefully as we walked through the orchard inspecting piles.
Amy seemed so determined to avoid a conversation with Mrs. Nelson that I was afraid to question her. "Yeah, she probably isn't going to care, anyway," I said, "as long as we don't drag them through her yard."
"Drag them? I'm tired of dragging them!" Lisa yelled. "Plus, it's probably half a mile from here to where we could leave them. Dragging them could take the rest of the year!"
"That's not even close to half a mile," Sam said thoughtfully.
"More like a whole mile," said Michael.
We ended up walking off the distance to end the argument. The closest possible drop zone turned out to be about a hundred yards away.
Dragging a few branches at a time did seem like a very bad idea. I told everyone that we had no choice but to turn to our "secret weapon." I knew that we would
have to use it at some point, I just didn't realize it would be that soon.
Parked between my house and my cousins' house was a 1946 Ford tractor. Our families had never used it for anything agricultural. Mostly it was driven once or twice a year on what Uncle David called "hayrides." Everyone was forced to ride on a flat, rickety wagon attached to the tractor while it was pulled along the highway. No actual hay was involved. These trips usually took place around Christmas so we could look at and judge our neighbors' Christmas lights. Hayrides also took place around the Fourth of July, which seemed to be the only other time my dad or uncle remembered the tractor. Amy hated those rides and would duck her head when cars would drive by and complain about the
"I've been hearing that for years."
"I'm sorry to hear your mom has cancer," I said, trying to sound sincere and thoughtful.
"Shoot. She's had cancer so many times I've lost count. Any little pain she gets, she's always blaming it on cancer. I wish she'd at least think up some new disease to blame."
Tommy stared at one of the piles of branches in the middle of a row. He gave an admiring whistle. "So how many trees go into each pile?" he asked.
"Oh, about three or four," I answered proudly.
He said it reminded him of the pile of wood he had seen at a bonfire. "Be pretty amazing if you lit all of 'em up at once."
I agreed with a little laugh, and then he waved good-bye and strolled off. All and all, it was a strange conversation. Instead of being mad about what was going on in the orchard, he didn't even seem to care.
***
We finished the last tree on March's final Saturday as the sky changed from blue into a pale pink sunset. I told everyone to wait while I ran back to my room to get my map of the orchard. We crossed off the few remaining trees and gave a little cheer.
"We're right on schedule. Can you believe it?" I asked giddily.
"So do we get paid now?" asked Michael.
Sometimes I couldn't tell whether he was serious.
"No, but I'm pretty sure the hardest part is over." Five pairs of eyes looked at me hopefully.
Chapter 6
Learning to Drive
The relief of finishing the pruning was short-lived. After church on Sunday, all six of us went outside to the orchard to think about how to get rid of all the branches piled next to the trees. We had to assure my mom that we wouldn't be working, only thinking.
The orchard formed most of the view from the front door of my house. Out the back door was what my dad called "desolate land." It had some tumbleweeds, sagebrush, and wild grasses, but mostly it was rocks and dirt. If I went walking out there, my socks would always come back full of stickers and my mom would make me
sit outside and pull them out before I was allowed into the house. The desolate land must have been owned by Mr. Nelson, because when he was alive he would pile branches in random places on it. I had never realized where he was getting the branches until we started pruning.
"Let's just take the branches out there and leave them with the older ones. I wouldn't even ask Mrs. Nelson either," Amy said forcefully as we walked through the orchard inspecting piles.
Amy seemed so determined to avoid a conversation with Mrs. Nelson that I was afraid to question her. "Yeah, she probably isn't going to care, anyway," I said, "as long as we don't drag them through her yard."
"Drag them? I'm tired of dragging them!" Lisa yelled. "Plus, it's probably half a mile from here to where we could leave them. Dragging them could take the rest of the year!"
"That's not even close to half a mile," Sam said thoughtfully.
"More like a whole mile," said Michael.
We ended up walking off the distance to end the argument. The closest possible drop zone turned out to be about a hundred yards away.
Dragging a few branches at a time did seem like a very bad idea. I told everyone that we had no choice but to turn to our "secret weapon." I knew that we would
have to use it at some point, I just didn't realize it would be that soon.
Parked between my house and my cousins' house was a 1946 Ford tractor. Our families had never used it for anything agricultural. Mostly it was driven once or twice a year on what Uncle David called "hayrides." Everyone was forced to ride on a flat, rickety wagon attached to the tractor while it was pulled along the highway. No actual hay was involved. These trips usually took place around Christmas so we could look at and judge our neighbors' Christmas lights. Hayrides also took place around the Fourth of July, which seemed to be the only other time my dad or uncle remembered the tractor. Amy hated those rides and would duck her head when cars would drive by and complain about the
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