The Year Money Grew on Trees

by Aaron Hawkins

  Explaining where the tractor came from requires explaining my dad and uncle's one bedrock philosophy. It was something I grew up hearing at least once a week and was forced to repeat. In its simplest form it was this: No one should pay more than $300 for a car.

  In order to live by this principle, each family had to have three cars. In the ideal case, two of the cars would be running at any given time. This would allow transportation options, while the third was cycled through for repairs. Often it was the other way around, though, and one working car would have to spend its last few good miles searching for parts for the rest of the fleet.

  Inevitably, my dad and uncle spent a lot of time fixing cars, and I wasn't sure they were all that good at it. Most every weekend was spent cursing carburetors, alternators, or fuel pumps. It was like a second job for both of them that they paid money to do and grumbled about the whole time. Besides fixing cars, they also spent a lot of time finding cars. That was how the tractor arrived.

  My dad found someone selling a 1964 Plymouth Barracuda really cheap. When he went to look at it, he found that it didn't run but was pretty sure he knew what the problem was. The seller was willing to throw in the tractor for an extra $100 so that my dad could pull the Barracuda home. Eight hours later my mom was greeted by the sight of my dad on a tractor pulling another nonworking car. I was never sure where the wooden wagon came from. It just showed up one day.

  My cousins, sisters, and I took a vote, and it was five to one in favor of using the tractor and wagon to haul the branches. Michael was against it because he just wanted to burn them. He had probably overheard my conversation with Tommy.

  "Now we just have to convince our dads to let us use it and teach us to drive it," I said to everyone.

  "Let me do the talking," Amy replied boldly. We found both dads inside my uncle's house. He had bought a TV that came with a remote control, and they were both admiring it as we walked in the house.

  "Watch how fast I can change the channels," said Uncle David as his thumb-clicked the little button as fast as it would go.

  "You know, I'll bet this would be even more impressive if we got more than three channels." My dad laughed.

  "All I really like to watch are football games and when they show movies, anyway," Uncle David responded defensively.

  Amy went in and sat next to her dad.

  "Can I try?" she asked, and he handed her the remote. "This is neat," she said after giving it a few clicks and handing it back.

  "Daddy?" she asked.

  "Yeah, honey?" he said, only half paying attention.

  "Remember when you said you were going to teach me how to drive?"

  "Uh-huh," he replied without taking his eyes off the TV.

  "Well, I was thinking maybe you could show me how to drive the tractor to start, and then I could even use it to help out Jackson with his apple work."

  Uncle David now turned his full attention to her.

  "Huh? Now, what are you asking?"

  "Can I learn to drive the tractor?" Amy repeated in her sweetest voice.

  "And what are you planning on using it for?" asked my dad, who had now taken an interest in the conversation.

  "If I can drive it, I was going to help out Jackson with his apples."

  My dad and Uncle David both looked at each other. I could tell my dad wanted to say no. Uncle David, however, was thinking more about Amy, so he looked away from my dad.

  "Well, I think that might be okay. You can't really go too far or too fast on a tractor," he said, looking at his daughter.

  "Let's see if you can get it started first. That will prove you're ready to drive it," my dad added.

  "Well, how do you start it?" Amy asked.

  "We'll tell you, and you go see if you can get it running," my dad said with a little chuckle.

  My dad and uncle began to describe things like "put it in neutral" and "pull the throttle all the way down" and "push in the starter button" and "push in the choke." All six kids listened closely, trying to remember all of the instructions.

  "All right, you got all that?" They both laughed.

  "Got it," Amy said confidently, and the rest of us kids followed her out of the house.

  She led the way out to the tractor and climbed up on the bouncy metal seat while we all tried to stand behind her on the rear axle or on the running boards beside the seat.

  "Okay, so what are we supposed to do first?" she asked as she grabbed the wheel.

  "Put it in neutral," I replied before anyone else.

  "Pull the throttle," said Lisa.

  "Give it a choke," said Sam.

  "Punch the starter," said Michael.

  "All right, all right," Amy said, holding up her hands. "I'm not even sure what any of those things are!"

  We sent the younger kids back into the house one at a time to ask where to find neutral, the throttle, choke, and starter. After fifteen minutes of confusing answers from our dads, we were ready to give something a try. We all held our breath as Amy reached toward the starter. I grabbed on to the metal wheel wells in case the thing lurched forward.

  GRRR, GRRR, GRRR. The tractor made the very familiar sound of a car not starting. I knew it could have been worse, though. It could have made no sound at all.

  "Maybe now a little more choke," I said.

  Amy pulled the little choke lever all the way out. "All right, it's all choked. What's a choke, anyway?"

  "I don't think anyone really knows. Something magic," I replied.

  This time when she pushed the starter, there was a little different sound. A slightly faster GRRR. On the third try the engine sputtered a little, trying hard to start.

  "Try half choke, half throttle, and hold the starter down for a whole minute," Michael said matter-of-factly, as if he had started tractors hundreds of times.

  "Let me go ask them," I said as I climbed down and walked toward the house.

  I could tell my dad and uncle were enjoying this. Trying to get them to tell me the right combination of throttle and choke was like trying to get your lunch back from a couple of school bullies. Except that most school bullies are more sympathetic. I walked back to the tractor not sure if I knew any more than when I went into the house.

  "Let's try throttle down and full choke. When it starts to turn over, push the choke in and give it full gas."

  Amy tried and for a second the engine sputtered and blew out a puff of exhaust.

  "I think I just have to be faster," she said before trying again.

  Seven attempts later the engine was running. We all jumped up and down and cheered.

  "Now go forward! Go forward!" Sam yelled above the motor.

  Amy looked over her shoulder at me and mouthed, "Now what?"

  I ran into the house and was told about a clutch and how you had to push it in and push the gear stick into gear. I relayed this information into Amy's ear, and she pushed the clutch with her left foot, shoved the stick into position 1, and then yanked her foot up off the clutch. The tractor jumped forward a few feet. Michael flew off the back axle and the engine died. This scene repeated itself several more times, except that Sam was the only one who dared stay on the tractor with Amy.

  Finally she marched toward the house, gesturing for me to follow her. We both walked into the living room, where both my uncle and dad were fighting back laughter.

  "Daddy, please just come show me how to get it to move once you get it started," Amy said with a pout, looking at her dad.

  "Honey, you just have to let the clutch up a little slower. You'll get it."

  Just then my aunt came into the room after realizing what was happening outside. She pointed a finger at my uncle and dad. "If they get that thing started and drive it into something or someone, I am holding you two knuckleheads responsible!"

  Through the windows we heard the sound of the tractor starting up. Amy and I looked at each other and hurried toward the door, followed closely by our dads.

  We arrived outside just in time to s
ee Sam behind the wheel and the tractor moving slowly forward. He was shouting triumphantly and turning onto the dirt road in front of our houses. Very quickly, he seemed to lose his nerve. I think he realized that he didn't know how to stop. He swerved toward our house, and the tractor rammed into the '64 Barracuda my dad had parked out front. Luckily it wasn't in working condition. The tractor sputtered to a stop, and Sam jumped off, his eyes wide.

  There was some mild swearing from my dad and uncle. Then my uncle started laughing, probably because none of his cars were hit. My aunt kept repeating, "I knew this was going to happen." Surprisingly, our dads agreed to show Amy and me how to drive the tractor after that, including shifting into all the gears. I think they must have felt a little guilty. By the time it got dark, we could start it, back it up, and make all kinds of turns. There was something thrilling about going down a road in third gear at ten miles per hour, the wind not exactly blowing in your hair, but at least whispering in it.

  ***

  Monday afternoon we drove the tractor and wagon into the orchard for the first time, barely missing trees as we pulled into the first row. We loaded up one and a half piles of pruned branches into the wagon, drove them out to the desolate land, and pushed them off next to some sun-bleached mounds of branches that looked like they had been there for twenty years. After two or three rows, Amy and I had gotten pretty good at turning around trees and avoiding ditches. When it got dark, we left the tractor in the orchard for the night and headed home.

  When we tried to start it the next day, it wouldn't turn over. We tried every combination of choke and throttle we could think of, but nothing seemed to work. Uncle David arrived home from work before my dad, and we begged him to come help us get the engine started again. After a few attempts of his own, he jumped off the bouncy metal seat.

  "I was afraid of this," he said in disgust.

  "What?" Amy and I said at the same time with worried voices.

  "This thing has a weird problem that we've never been able to figure out." He looked in the gas tank. "Yep. She's got plenty of gas," he said, shaking his head. He looked at me, then at Amy, then back at me. "Okay, Jackson, watch carefully. I'm going to show you what you have to do if this happens." He went to the side of the tractor where the engine was exposed and loosened a screw that was holding a flexible hose line in place. He pulled the end of the hose out from where it was connected and turned back to me.

  "I don't know why, but the gas line gets clogged every so often. There must be dirt or something in it. You have to suck on this end until the line gets clear and the gas comes out." He held the line out to me. I backed up and shook my head.

  "If you're going to use the tractor, you have to be able to keep it running."

  I looked around. My cousins were staring at me with their eyes bugging out, watching to see if I would take the hose. I really wanted to say no, but I knew I couldn't ask anyone else to do it.

  "All right," I said weakly.

  I put the hose in my mouth. It tasted like a terrible combination of rubber, oil, and dirt. I closed my eyes and sucked. Suddenly my mouth filled up with a burning, awful-tasting liquid. I dropped the hose and spit. Bending over, I kept spitting to try and get the taste out of my mouth. I wanted to throw up.

  When I looked up again, my uncle was putting the hose back into position.

  "Very good," he said, "now just stick it back in and screw it tight."

  "Is swallowing gas bad for you?" I gasped between spits.

  "Oh, probably. It hasn't killed me yet," he said without much concern. Amy, Sam, and Michael looked down on me with sympathetic eyes. Amy tried the tractor again, and it started right up.

  "Thanks, Daddy," she called.

  ***

  My mouth tasted like gas for the next two days. We made good progress on the branches, though, especially on Saturday when Lisa and Jennifer joined us. Sam kept pestering Amy and me to teach him to drive the tractor, and finally during our afternoon Shasta break we agreed. The other kids all wanted lessons too, but we said the cutoff age was eleven, mostly because we didn't want Michael driving.

  After his run-in with the Barracuda, Sam proved to be a very careful driver. He was always a little nervous and would drive so slowly, the rest of us would become impatient. Amy pulled him out of the seat before any long trips to the drop-off area.

  Sam was driving the tractor into the orchard's last row with a few hours of sunlight left. Before he could pull up close to a pile of branches, the tractor sputtered a little and then the engine cut out. Instantly my stomach hurt. Amy turned to me and put her hand on my shoulder. I moved reluctantly toward the engine.

  "What's he going to do?" asked Jennifer, who hadn't been around for the first gas line episode.

  "You don't want to know," Michael answered solemnly.

  I unscrewed the hose and pulled it out. When I put the hose in my mouth, the taste of gas came flooding back. I tried sucking very quickly then pulling the tube away so the gas wouldn't have a chance to fill up my mouth. Nothing happened. I tried sucking a little longer. Still nothing. I sucked until my cheek muscles hurt and still nothing happened.

  "Amy, can you go get your dad?" I said in a defeated voice.

  Ten minutes later she was back with Uncle David.

  "I tried sucking really hard, but I just can't get anything to come out," I explained, holding up the tube.

  Uncle David pulled off the gas cap and looked inside the tank. "That's because you don't have any gas." He stood back and looked at all of us, shook his head, and laughed. "You look like a bunch of war orphans living in the forest or something. If I had some gas, I would give you some just because you look so pitiful." We did look ragged. Almost everyone had a runny nose and scratched-up skin. Sam and Michael both had on "Hang Loose—Hawaii" T-shirts that were almost shredded. My sisters had tiny apple branches stuck in their blond hair.

  My uncle thought for a moment. "Jackson, follow me. I'm going to teach you a little trick your grandpa taught me."

  I followed him alone out of the orchard. He found a two-gallon gas can sitting near one of his cars and then a four-foot length of garden hose. We walked over to my house.

  "I don't think your daddy would mind you borrowing a little of his gas, do you?"

  We ducked behind the car my dad drove to work, and he unscrewed the gas cap. He slid the hose down the pipe that led to the gas tank.

  "This is what we call siphoning. You've got to suck on the hose to start the gas flowing and then put the sucking end of the hose as low to the ground as possible. The gas will start flowing, and then you can fill up the can. Now, I know you have experience with this sort of thing"—he looked at me with a grin—"so I'm sure you can do it. Try to be as fast as you can so you swallow as little gas as possible."

  I wasn't exactly sure whether he was joking or not, but I took the hose, anyway. I gave it a quick suck and then pushed it to the ground.

  "You're going to have to do it a little longer than that," he said with an encouraging voice.

  On the second try, my hands felt the cool gas filling the hose, but I lost my nerve and stopped sucking too soon again. On the third try, the gas poured freely. I spit and coughed as I moved the hose to the gas can.

  "Get any in your mouth?" my uncle asked.

  "A little. Not as much as with the tractor."

  We both giggled as the can filled up, and then we pulled the hose out of the car's gas pipe. He even carried the can out to the tractor for me and helped pour it into the fuel tank.

  We finished with the branches and parked the tractor back in its spot between our two houses. "So what was it my dad showed you?" asked Amy when we were alone.

  "I'll teach you the next time the tractor runs out of gas," I told her. And I did. For the next six months, my dad and uncle unknowingly provided gas for the tractor. We would alternate taking it from both of their cars. We tried not to take more than two gallons at a time so they wouldn't be suspicious. I'm not sure they didn't know, h
owever. On more than one occasion, my uncle asked my dad, in a voice that he was sure I could hear, "How's the gas gauge in your car? Mine seems to be broken since the weather's been getting hotter."

  I figured we could make it up to them in free apples.

  Chapter 7

  World's Stinkiest Shoes

  Before going to sleep on the night we finished hauling branches out of the orchard, I checked the things I had copied out of the apple book. I couldn't help feeling proud of myself for getting the pruning done. To be honest, I never thought we would get this far.

  The apple book had not given dates for when things should be done, but I had made a list of what should follow what. After pruning came "preparing the soil," which included fertilizing. The book had talked about a few different fertilizers. Some of them had chemical names that sounded like they came from a secret government lab. The other kind of fertilizer was manure. I had never thought about it before, but the book said different kinds of animals made different kinds of manure. Cow manure seemed like the popular choice for apple trees.

  Choosing the right fertilizer, and then getting my hands on it, was probably going to be difficult. It was something I would like to have skipped altogether, especially if manure was involved. But those trees had been ignored for five years and probably needed all the help they could get. Maybe I could use some of that clean, man-made chemical stuff if it worked. And after all that pruning work, it would be a shame if apples didn't grow.

  My dad had said that there were plenty of apple farmers around, but it didn't occur to me until we started pruning that I actually knew one of them. My Sunday school teacher, Brother Brown, had a place with at least three thousand trees. I didn't think of him right away because I had never actually talked to him. He wasn't one of those teachers who bought into ideas like class discussions or nurturing learning environments. Our class was full of a dozen seventh- and eighth-graders, but after two years together I'd bet he didn't know any of our names. He was short and wrinkled with only bits of hair left on his head, and we were terrified of him. For some unspoken reason, we were sure that if we made any noise, he wouldn't be afraid to cane us, even if we were in a church class.