“So the next day she gets to take her day off. The owner of Plot 202 will repay her gesture by watering her plants.
“More and more of the plot owners are making such arrangements and only coming to work their gardens every other day.”
“Smart.”
“There are also entepreneurs now who aren’t very good at gardening but they’re good at sheet metal work or welding.
“They’re taking wheelbarrows and removing their buckets.
“Then they’re fashioning rollers that sit on the wheelbarrow frame.
“The rollers will hold up to a thousand feet of water hose.
“It’s dispensed and picked up from the bottom of the contraption.
“To roll out the hose all one has to do is to push the wheelbarrow along the path where he wants to lay the hose.
“Rolling it up is a bit more complicated, but not difficult.
“To roll it up he turns around, with the roller behind him, then picks up the handles and walks over the hose he’s collecting.
“If he has a helper, the helper walks alongside and turns a hand-crank to pick up the hose.
“If he has no helper he stops every fifteen or twenty feet and turns the crank himself.
“Either way it’s much easier than rolling the hoses out individually and hooking them all up each time.”
“Genius. How much does such a contraption cost?”
“It varies. I’ve seen them bartered for as little as a bushel of mixed produce or as much as five bushels.”
John got a puzzled look on his face.
It wasn’t unexpected.
“Don’t feel bad, John. I had to ask what a bushel was myself.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a term not used much anymore, but the Agricultural students brought it back to life for us.
“It’s how old time farmers used to measure out their crops. A bushel basket was about the same size as a modern laundry basket.
“Someone would come to them and ask how much they charged for a bushel of cucumbers, for example. It would be enough to fill up a bushel basket, level across the top.
“Nowadays they’ve gone back to using that same measurement, only there are no more bushel baskets around.
“So they use standard-sized round laundry baskets instead.”
“They barter for laundry baskets?”
John might have been kidding. R.J. hoped he was.
For if he wasn’t kidding he was incredibly dumb.
“No. The guy with the converted wheelbarrow might bring it by to show a prospective buyer. Then they’ll dicker back and forth like people used to do when they sold a used car.
“Say they decide on a price of… two bushel baskets for the wheelbarrow.
“The seller brings his own laundry basket and fills it with whatever fruit and vegetable he wants. Then he takes it home and empties it, comes back and does the same thing again.
“Many hawkers take their caches home and can them for the winter. That’s how they get their winter food stores.”
-31-
“Follow me,” R.J. said.
Before John could answer, or even ask where they were going, R.J. took off down the narrow path between two plush plots.
“Uh… okay, sure,” John replied, as though he had a choice in the matter.
R.J. led him to the San Antonio River, which snaked its way through Brackenridge Park on its way to the downtown area and the world-famous River Walk.
This part of the waterway was neither fancy nor groomed.
This wasn’t a tourist destination.
This was just an unimproved river, like millions of other rivers around the world.
As it went through the park the river was about twenty feet wide and fifteen feet deep.
It flowed at a moderate pace and was once teeming with catfish and perch, although these days many were caught upriver and never made it this far south.
Still, there were anglers sitting on its banks, lines in the water, hoping to get lucky on this particular day.
But that wasn’t what Salinas wanted to show John.
Salinas wanted to show John what the fishermen were sitting under.
The trees didn’t provide an awful lot of shade at this point in their lives.
And that was okay, for they were far from mature.
Most would live to be seventy years or more, and depending on their type, some would grow massive in their adult years.
For now though, they were small and provided just enough shade for one or two people who sat directly beneath them.
John let out a low whistle.
“I’d heard the Army was going to do this. Wow, looks like they did an awesome job of it.”
What John was referring to was a long line of fruit and nut trees, planted forty feet apart on both sides of the river banks.
The trunks of the trees were roughly fifteen feet from the water’s edge. Far enough away to prevent most of the fruit from falling into the river as the waters ran past.
But close enough to provide the tree’s root system the benefits of the river’s water.
Dave stood beneath a peach tree roughly six feet higher than his six foot frame.
He could tell it was a peach tree from its leaves and not the fruit on its branches.
For the fruit had been picked clean.
“Most of the peaches and plums,” R.J. explained, “just started bearing fruit last year.
“This year they average maybe two dozen peaches, which of course were picked and eaten as soon as they became ripened.”
“That’s not much,” John said.
“No. But next year each tree’s yield should double that. The following year it’ll double again.
“It’ll stabilize at about a hundred to a hundred and fifty peaches or plums every season.
“That’s when it’ll become a significant crop, when combined with probably two hundred or so similar trees in the area.”
“The Army brought that many trees in?”
“No. They only brought fifty. But the agronomists at UTSA have been preaching seed conservation since day one.
“They instructed the people never to throw away any seeds from the fruit and vegetables they picked or grew.
“Or, since we’re talking peaches, their pits.
“They taught everyone how to harvest the seeds, then how to dry and protect them so they could be replanted.
“The pits which came from the first peaches on these trees were conserved and were planted elsewhere to create additional trees.
“The fifty trees the Army brought with them continue to have babies, if you want to look at it that way. And while a few of the survivors carelessly toss their pits away wherever they happen to eat their peach, most have been trained not to.
“Most save them for future use.”
“Some save them to barter, which sounds silly because all a prospective buyer needs to do is go to one of the trees and pick his own peach.
“But that’s easier said than done, since the trees are usually picked clean.
“If someone doesn’t live close to one of the peach trees or is determined to plant his own tree now, he might pay a steep price at barter for a single peach pit.
“Same is true for all the other trees.”
“I’m curious, R.J. What happens when the trees get too big for the residents to pick the fruit?”
“Oh, the city has already thought of that.
“They’re already posting signs near the large pecan trees in some of the parks. Some of them are forty years old and huge.
“The signs say residents are welcome to bring their own ladders, but that the city is not responsible for injuries.
“Word is they’ve got two cherry pickers repaired and they’re hiring crews whose full-time job will be to go from tree to tree picking the fruit and nuts that can’t be reached from the ground.
“They’ll donate whatever they pick to the nuns at the Alamo or to
other similar meal centers at various places around the city.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
“It’s one of the best they came up with. Most of the city parks have playa lakes or a stream.
“They’re set up just like this one. Even the parks whose stream is too small for irrigating plots has trees planted on each of its banks.
“Obviously, as each year goes by and each tree gets bigger it’ll provide more and more food for more and more people.
“It’s a success story that’ll get more successful as each year goes by.”
“You know,” John told his friend, “Your mentioning the nuns at the Alamo reminded me that I may be able to help you with your other problem.”
“John, I’ve got lots of problems. My feet are so big it’s getting hard for me to find shoes to fit them. I have psoriasis and I’m going bald.
“Which one of my problems are you going to help me with, exactly?”
“Well, none of those for sure, sorry.
“No, I’m talking about your problem convincing people to leave the projects where they feel safe and to venture out where there’s more food available. That problem.”
“Oh. Good. How?”
“Let me check on a couple of things first. I’ll get back to you on it.”
-32-
Five years before when John left San Antonio one of the last things he did was attend Bill’s birthday party on Baker Street.
On this, the morning he was planning to leave San Antonio again and go back to Kerrville, he had a touch of déjà vu.
Rhett told him just before he turned in the night before he was planning a surprise birthday party for Scarlett.
“I got word to everyone not to say anything about her upcoming birthday,” he confided. “No one’s said a word. She’s convinced they all forgot about it.
“Including me.”
“Careful, Rhett. Husbands who forget their wives’ birthdays or anniversaries tend not to live very long.”
Rhett smiled.
“I know. It’s been driving her crazy.
“She’s been dropping little hints. A couple of days ago she asked me if I had any plans for Tuesday.
“I said, ‘No. I’ll probably go fishing. I’ve been in the mood for catfish. Why?’
“She said, ‘Nothing.’
“Then she gave me the cold shoulder for the rest of the day.
“It’s kind of fun, really.”
“Just be careful, Rhett. That kind of fun can get you a new home on the couch. Or in the doghouse.”
At eight o’clock or so Rhett knocked on the guest room door.
John slept fitfully, thinking about his drive back to Kerrville later that day, and was still groggy.
“Yes?”
Rhett cracked the door open and stuck his head inside.
“I’m getting ready to go feed Scarlett her breakfast in bed. There are scrambled eggs and bacon in the kitchen if you want some, but they won’t stay hot for long.”
Nothing wakes a man up faster than being told there’s bacon getting cold.
He was up and dressed in a flash.
Five minutes later he was in the dining room eating a hearty breakfast while Tara admired his prosthetic leg.
Every day since he’d been in San Antonio he’d worn jeans to cover it.
He wasn’t ashamed of it. He covered it because he was tired of telling the story of how he’d lost it.
He’d told the story a thousand times if he’d told it once.
These days it was just easier to hide it.
The problem was it had been unseasonably hot of late and almost unbearably so.
This was the day he was driving back to Kerrville.
The highway outside of San Antonio still hadn’t been cleared of cars.
He’d be dodging abandoned vehicles all the way to Kerrville like a slalom skier dodging flags.
He’d manage a top speed of forty miles an hour and would be in the truck for a good three hours.
And the air conditioner didn’t work very well in the truck.
Wearing shorts was the only way he could count on being comfortable.
“How come you have that instead of a leg?” Tara finally got up the nerve to ask.
He’d forgotten that Tara was a baby the last time he’d seen her.
Now she was almost six, as inquisitive as every other six year old girl in the world.
“Didn’t they tell you I’m a pirate?”
She laughed.
“You are not. I can read, you know. My mom’s been teaching me. I read Marty the Pirate.”
“So maybe I’m like him. Marty, I mean. Maybe I’m Marty’s little brother.”
Tara sighed. She was obviously dealing with a petulant adult.
“You look nothing like Marty. He’s short and fat and has a parrot on his shoulder.
“And he has a wooden leg. Yours doesn’t look like wood at all.”
“Well, some people used to drive Cadillacs and some used to drive beat-up clunkers. My big brother Marty was the beat-up clunker type. I always drove Cadillacs.”
The analogy made no sense. She didn’t get it because she didn’t know what a Cadillac was.
“Huh?”
“Never mind. I have a fancy leg instead of a wooden one because I went to the fancy leg store and bought it. Marty was too cheap.”
“Really?”
“Yep. The fancy leg store at the mall. Across from the food court.”
Again, the reference went over her head.
She looked at him as though she thought she was being played but wasn’t quite sure.
“How come you don’t have a patch over your eye like Marty does?”
“Because when we were kids I was smart enough to listen to my mom. He wasn’t.”
“I don’t understand, Mister John.”
“We had this BB gun and my mom told both of us to be careful or we’d shoot our eye out.
“I was a lot better listener and minder than Marty. I listened and minded.
“He didn’t. That’s why he shot his eye out.”
“He says in the book he lost his eye in a sword fight.”
“Marty’s a good storyteller. He can spin a yarn with the best of them. I’m not like that at all.”
“Are you sure, Mister John? Are you really really sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“How come you never say arrrh?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Pirates say arrrh. You never say arrrh.”
“I’m trying to stop. It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous. It’s pirate.”
-33-
Unbeknownst to either John or Tara, Rhett and Scarlett stood in the doorway on the other side of the room, eavesdropping.
Both were biting their lips, trying not to laugh.
They got to witness the moment their young Tara finally got the best of John.
For he’d finally run out of comebacks.
He’d matched wits with a five year old and lost.
“Okay, you got me. I’m not really a pirate.”
He looked down rather sheepishly, as though feeling guilty for trying to pull the wool over her eyes.
Or at least trying to appear so.
“Ha! I knew it! I told you!”
Scarlett and Rhett walked into the room.
“My daughter is smarter than you might think,” Scarlett proudly announced.
John replied, “Yeah. I kinda found that out. She’s smarter than the average bear.”
Tara cocked her head and gave John a sideways look and asked, “Huh?”
“What we have here,” John offered, “is a failure to communicate.”
Again she asked him, “Huh?”
John looked to his friends for help.
“She’s not understanding any of my best stuff.”
“Give up, John. She’s five. She doesn’t know the old world or all the old television and movie references
you’re making. She’s never even seen live television. Or a first run movie, for that matter.”
“I hope she can see both in her lifetime.”
“Me too. But in the meantime you might as well be speaking a foreign language to her.”
Tara was bored with these adults and the strange words and phrases they sometimes used.
She stood up from her chair and asked, “Mom, can I go find Tony and Bill? They said I could go fishing with them.”
“Sure, honey. Tell them you have to be back before lunch.
“And don’t forget your hat.”
“I won’t.”
Before she walked out of the room she went to John and took his hand.
“I like you, Mister John. Even though you’re really really weird.”
“Thank you, honey. I like you too. Even though you’re not one of us pirates.”
Tara scampered off and Scarlett commented, “You’ve finally met your match, John. You’ve always been the life of every party with your funny comments and jokes.
“But in Tara you’ve finally found a room you cannot command.”
“Maybe there’s hope yet. She did say she likes me, after all.”
“She only said that so you wouldn’t feel bad that she won the whole pirate argument.”
“Yeah, maybe.
“Hey, do you mind if I change the subject?”
“Change away.”
“Rhett, I need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“I need to borrow two of your female officers for a couple of hours.”
Scarlett feigned a look of shock.
“Well, John Castro, you should be ashamed of yourself! You’re a married man!”
“Oh, shut up, Scarlett. This is official business.”
Rhett asked, “Sure. But what kind of business?”
“Well, I’m not leaving until close to sundown so I can drive to Kerrville with the windows down.
“That gives me all afternoon to help R.J. Salinas with a problem he’s having.
“Do you guys know R.J. Salinas?”
“Everybody knows R.J. Salinas. The city gave him a humanitarian award last year. They credited him with saving hundreds of lives.
“What kind of problem is he having?”
“He says the people in the projects are entrenched, afraid to come out because they’re buying into rumors the city is out to kill them.”
The Final Chapter Page 10
