The Year Money Grew on Trees - Aaron Hawkins [29]
"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