The Year Money Grew on Trees

by Aaron Hawkins

  I watched Brother Brown carefully during our next Sunday school class, wondering if I could ask him something without getting beaten. All the other kids were looking out the window, watching a couple of dogs in the distance. Yolanda Stock's head kept bobbing up and down as she fell in and out of sleep. Brother Brown had a croaky voice that sounded like a far-off motor sputtering and choking. He started by talking about Daniel in the lion's den and then meandered lifelessly into his favorite topic, the Sermon on the Mount.

  When class ended, all the other kids fled. I waited around in front of the door, blocking Brother Brown's exit. He had his head down and almost walked into me.

  "Brother Brown, I just wanted to say that I liked your lesson about Daniel ... and the Sermon on the Mount too."

  He kept his head down, looking on either side of my feet for an escape route.

  "I hate to bother you here at church, but you're the only person who can help me."

  He raised his head a little. His face and hands were not only wrinkled; they looked like they had been baked in an oven until there was a tough, brown shell around them.

  "I was hoping you could give me some advice on fertilizer."

  He leveled his head and looked right at me. "Like what?"

  "Like do you ever use any of those chemical types?"

  "Nah, I can't keep track of all of 'em. Stick with the natural stuff when I need it."

  "Like manure?"

  "Yep."

  "Well, where can I get some?"

  "Just follow your nose, son."

  And with that he squeezed his way around me and was gone. I would have liked to have asked him more questions, like how many cows it took to fertilize one tree. I assumed three hundred trees meant something like three hundred cows.

  There were a few places up and down the main road that looked like they had those kinds of cow numbers, including a couple of dairies. The smelliest of the dairies was about a mile from our house. On a hot summer day, if the wind was blowing just right, you could catch a whiff of it even inside. My mom would scrunch up her nose and say, "I wish they would clean up that place! It's not right that we should have to smell it too."

  The dairy happened to be on our bus route, so I got to see it every school day. Five or six kids would get off the bus near there. On Monday after school, I held my breath and followed them.

  Amy looked at me with an almost frightened expression as I walked past her.

  "I'll see you in half an hour or so," I said to her quickly before my exit.

  Looking around, it was hard to tell where humans would actually work at the dairy. There were a few wooden buildings with holes in the sides that looked like they were about to collapse. Mostly there were cows inside weak-looking wooden fences. They were standing very close together. Most of them were black and white, but halfway up their bodies they were covered in manure that was a disgusting brown-green. I wondered why they didn't all just push against those fences and get out. They all just stood there, though, chewing with blank expressions on their faces. Maybe cows liked being together like this. And when it came to making lots of manure, these were definitely the right kind of cows.

  I wandered cautiously over to the biggest of the buildings. I didn't see any movement and was afraid to go inside, so I started shouting.

  "Hello! Is anybody there? I need to talk to someone about manure. Hello!"

  A short man with a buzzed haircut came walking out. He was wearing a filthy brown jumpsuit. Like the cows, he had a coating of manure almost halfway up his body.

  "You the one callin' out?" he asked, with a big toothy smile. His teeth were perfectly straight and very white against the brown jumpsuit and surroundings.

  "Uh, yeah, it was me. I live down the road about a mile." I pointed toward my house. "I need to talk with someone about manure."

  He put his hand out to shake. "Jerry Wheeler. If there's anything I'm an expert on, it's manure." His hand was just as dirty as his jumpsuit. I hesitated, then swallowed hard and shook it.

  "So whatcha wanna know?"

  "I've got this orchard I'm trying to take care of. Used to be Mr. Nelson's—Jack Nelson's."

  "Oh yeah, I know the place."

  "So, anyway, I got a bunch of trees I need to fertilize, and Brother Brown, you know the man with the big orchard, he says manure's the best thing for 'em."

  "You're takin' care of that Nelson place all by yourself?"

  "Well, me and my cousins and sisters. But I'm kinda in charge."

  He gave a whistle. "That's a pretty big job at your age. Aren't you supposed to be havin' fun and worrying about school and what girls you like?"

  I blushed a little. "I guess. But now we've been work ing on it for a couple months so we want to make sure the trees make apples."

  "Only sounds fair." He nodded. "Wish I had some hard-workin' boys like you around here." He gave me another big smile.

  "So is there any way I could have some of your manure for the trees?"

  "Okay with me, but I better check with my pop first. Hey, Pop!" he yelled loudly. "Hey, Pop, come on out here!"

  Another short man walked out of the building. He wore the same brown coveralls and had the same buzzed haircut. He had a pot belly and looked about thirty years older than Jerry. Jerry told him what I wanted, and then he put his hand out to me. "Hoppy Wheeler. Glad to meet you."

  I shook his hand and said, "Hoppy?" without thinking.

  "Funny name, isn't it? You can blame my brothers for it," he said with a laugh. "As you can see, we make two things around here, milk and manure. Probably better known for the manure, though."

  I laughed. "Do you have any extra I could use?"

  "I'd say a hard workin' little farmer like you could have all he wants."

  "Really?"

  "'Course I'm sure you won't forget us when those apples are ready, right?" he said with a wink. "You got a way to haul the stuff?"

  "Yeah, we've got a tractor with a wagon."

  "You see that big pile at the end of the fences? Feel free to load it up down there."

  I thanked them both a few times, and they slapped me on the back, still laughing about me being a little farmer. I ran the mile back home and found Sam and Michael watching Tom and Jerry on TV Amy was holding the phone with its cord wound around her and chattering away with one of her friends.

  "Okay, guys, I'm back," I said loudly while trying to catch my breath. "Were you worried about me?"

  "I liked having you gone," said Michael, still staring at the TV I waited for him to laugh, but he didn't.

  I looked over at Amy and made a sign that I had something to tell everyone. She gave me a sour look, rolled her eyes, and started easing her way out of the phone conversation. I waited until she hung up and then said, "Sorry to spoil everyone's party, but I've been making arrangements for our next big job."

  "What is it?" asked Sam.

  "I'll tell you after we make some changes to the wagon," I said, trying to sound mysterious. "So, who's ready?"

  Amy moved grudgingly to turn off the TV Michael, who hadn't been paying attention, jerked up and whined, "Hey, what's going on?"

  The three of them followed me out to the tractor and wagon parked between our houses. "We need to figure out a way to add some sides to this wagon so it can hold some stuff."

  "What kind of stuff?" Amy asked suspiciously.

  "You'll see. But first I guess we need some boards that we could attach to the sides. Any ideas?"

  Everyone's eyes moved toward the clubhouse a few feet away that Amy and I had built when we were ten. We had had grand designs but ended up with a collection of weatherworn boards and wood scraps held together with rusty nails at crooked angles. The whole thing collapsed after a couple of swings with a hammer. We put some of the biggest boards against the side of the wagon and nailed them into place.

  "How strong does it have to be?" asked Sam as he pulled on a board, causing it to bend easily.

  "I think a lot stronger than that,"
I replied in a discouraged voice.

  My dad came walking up while we were discussing alternate designs.

  "Don't you kids have a farm to run? What are you doing hanging around here?"

  "We're trying to add some sides to the wagon so it can hold things better," I answered.

  He looked at the boards we had nailed into place, wiggling them back and forth.

  "This has got to be the shoddiest piece of work I've ever seen. Looks like it was done by a bunch of ding-a-ling kids. Where'd you learn to build?"

  "Nowhere. That's the problem. I guess our dads never taught us anything useful like that," I said. I knew I was pushing my luck with that last statement. After saying it, I hoped he was in a good mood.

  "Oh really?" he said, looking at me. "Well, if you can go convince your mother not to cook that fish for dinner like she's planning, I'll give you a lesson better than any school."

  I ran into the house to find my mom. She was unwrapping some fish just like my dad had said.

  "Mom, will you please do me a huge favor?" I asked very seriously.

  "What is it, honey?" she asked, looking concerned.

  "Okay, promise you won't laugh, but it's something about school and trying to get good grades."

  "Okay, okay, just tell me."

  "I've got this really big history test coming up on Thursday morning that is like a big part of our grade for the semester. I know that fish is supposed to be good for your brain, so could we please have it on Wednesday to help me with my test?" I looked up at her with begging eyes.

  "Of course, sweetheart! I didn't even know it could help you like that. Maybe we should have it more often. Tonight I'll just throw something else together."

  When I got back, my dad had already torn off the extra boards from the wagon.

  "Mom's cooking something else," I announced.

  "Really? Good boy!" Dad said happily. "Now, how high do you want the walls on this thing?"

  "Say, about two feet."

  "Hmm. We'll have to build some kind of braces to give them some strength."

  Once he got started, he became obsessed with making the walls sturdy and uniform. He didn't finish until Tuesday night, and all my cousins and I did was hand

  him tools and nails and hold boards straight. In the end, it looked pretty good, with walls on the sides and front and the back left open. I hoped he wouldn't tear it all apart when he got served fish on Wednesday.

  ***

  After school on Wednesday, I gathered everyone around the tractor and told them about my trip to the Wheeler dairy. There was a look of horror on every face when I told them we were going to use the wagon to haul manure from there to the orchard and then spread it around the trees. Amy was the first to speak.

  "First, let me just say I can't believe you actually went and talked to them. And second, I know I said I would help and everything, but this is just too much. I can't be involved in any manure work. I'll do something else, but I can't go with you." Her face was more determined than I had ever seen it.

  "Listen, if we don't fertilize, I'm not sure we're going to get good apples. I don't want to do it either." I turned to Sam. "Sam, how about you?"

  "I ... I ... don't know. Are we going to get really dirty and smelly? I don't think my mom will like that."

  "You can drive the tractor wherever we go."

  "Okay, I'll do it," he said grudgingly.

  I turned to Michael, who looked much more negative.

  "How about you, Michael?

  "No way. If Amy doesn't have to, then neither do I."

  "You can have a pop every day you help. Even weekdays."

  The power Shasta had over Michael was amazing, because after considering it for a few seconds, he said, "All right."

  Amy agreed to stay behind and start chopping the weeds that surrounded all the trees. It made sense to us that weeds shouldn't be getting any of the manure meant for the trees.

  I grabbed some shovels and an old tarp my dad sometimes used for covering up cars when it rained. I put the tarp in the bottom of the wagon, figuring it would be best to keep manure off as much of the wagon as possible—if we planned on ever using it again.

  Sam, Michael, and I made the slow drive down the road with Sam at the wheel. He was even more nervous than usual because cars kept whizzing past us, but we ended up safely next to Hoppy's manure pile. It hadn't rained for a while and the pile seemed to be fairly old, so fortunately the manure was pretty dry. We started out by standing at the bottom of the pile and shoveling manure up and into the wagon. My back and shoulders instantly hurt.

  Sam climbed onto the manure pile and started shoveling manure down toward us. "This is a lot easier, guys. Come up here," he said.

  I looked down at my shoes, shook my head, and climbed up. After what seemed like two hours, Sam was driving slowly out to the road, leaving a cloud of swirling manure dust behind us.

  When we reached the orchard, Sam pulled the tractor into the first row of trees and Michael and I stood in the wagon, shoveling manure over the sides. We weren't really sure how much to throw at any given spot and just kept working until the ground and weeds under each tree had a thin coating. Shoveling out took less time than shoveling in, but we only had enough manure for one row. My back was pinched in pain and my hands covered in filthy blisters as we spread the last shovelfuls.

  "Kill the motor and let's leave it here tonight," I said to Sam.

  Amy came walking over to us.

  "You look terrible, and you smell just like, well, you know what," she said, laughing.

  "Thanks, we know! And thanks a lot for helping," Sam replied angrily.

  "You better follow me. There's no way you're getting in the house looking like that."

  We followed Amy to the yard of their house and stood on the little lawn as she made us strip down to our underwear and sprayed us off. The water was freezing, and I ran hard back to my house. I met my mom at the door, dripping wet and holding my clothes.

  "What do you think you're doing without any clothes on?" she demanded.

  "Just finished some fertilizing and, trust me, you'd hate it worse with my clothes on," I said through chattering teeth. I left my wet shoes outside, put some dry clothes on, and took Michael's Shasta over to him.

  ***

  Since I only had one pair of tennis shoes, I had to wear my dress shoes to school the next day. I usually only wore them to church and told my friends at school that "my cousin said these are coming into style," because I didn't want to have to explain the manure.

  Later that day Sam, Michael, and I were on our way back toward the dairy, all of our shoes still damp. We were dressed in the very worst clothes we could find and wore handkerchiefs to cover our noses and mouths and gloves to cover our blisters.

  When we pulled into the dairy, Jerry greeted us with a big grin. We slowed down as he motioned to us.

  "Back already, huh? You must really like this stuff."

  "Yeah, we only got one row done yesterday. Got twenty-nine to go. Loading it up takes forever. I don't know how long we can last," I yelled over the hum of the tractor while shaking my head.

  "Tell you what, I'll go grab the front-loader and help you boys out."

  "Really? It's not too much trouble?"

  "Nah. I like seeing some people once in a while. Otherwise it's just me and these stupid cows."

  He walked toward the end of the pen full of cows and started up a dirty-looking front-loading tractor used to push piles of manure around. We pulled our wagon over to our original loading point. Jerry drove the scoop of the front-loader into the huge pile, backed up, and dumped it into the wagon. Its axle shuddered. We gave a little cheer and waved to Jerry.

  "Any time you need a load, just come and get me!" he shouted over the engines of both tractors.

  Not having to fill the wagon by hand, we were able to finish two rows that night and were much less tired, but still filthy. Amy was waiting with the hose when we were done, and we each took our tu
rn getting sprayed without saying a word.

  ***

  On the weekend Lisa and Jennifer joined Amy in cutting down weeds around the trees. I didn't even bother asking them if they were willing to help with the manure.

  We made good time on Saturday, and whenever we arrived at the dairy and called for Jerry, he came hustling out of his run-down building. He laughed and joked with us like we were the highlight of his whole day. We brought him a cold Shasta, and he drank it down without stopping to wipe off the top.

  It was a pretty warm day for early April, and midway through the afternoon my mom came marching into the orchard. We were spreading a load on one of the rows.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she yelled.

  "We're fertilizing, like I told you," I yelled back.

  "Do you know what this smells like?"

  "Pretty well, yes."

  "And look at you, you're all filthy! You're going to get sick."

  "We've got to do it, Mom. It's part of the job. I don't like it either."

  I guess she hadn't really understood what we were doing until she saw half the orchard now covered in manure. Her face filled with disgust as she realized we had hauled a part of the dairy to her and dumped it right in front of her house. She gave a scream of frustration as she stomped back home.

  The next day she tried to persuade my dad that we shouldn't be allowed to continue. He thought the whole situation was funny and simply said, "Well, honey, you know being a farmer is not all glamour. It's about connecting with the soil too."

  Mrs. Nelson seemed just as revolted as my mom. She caught my attention one day when we were returning from a dairy run. I shouted for Sam to stop the tractor so she could talk to us.