The Year Money Grew on Trees - Aaron Hawkins [22]
"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 splinters inflicted by the wagon.
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