The Year Money Grew on Trees

by Aaron Hawkins

  All of our collected boxes plus Mom's groceries wouldn't fit in the trunk of the car, so we had to ride home with a few of them crammed under our feet and on top of our laps. It was depressing to think about not having a place to sell our apples, and everyone was quiet in the car, staring out the windows.

  It's funny how sometimes you can see a thing hundreds of times and never notice it. Then one day you really look at it, and it becomes the only thing you can see. That happened to me just as we were leaving Farmington. On the side of the road, people were selling something out of the back of their car. They had a little sign that said BEANS AND MELONS. All of a sudden, I remembered seeing that car almost every time we went to town.

  "Hey, Mom," I asked, "would you ever buy fruit from someone selling it on the side of the road?"

  She thought for a few seconds. "Well, maybe. It would probably depend on who was selling it, what it looked like."

  "Would you pay the same price that you would in the supermarket?" I asked.

  "No, because it would require an extra stop. So it would have to cost less. Why?"

  "Just kind thinking," I replied.

  I noticed several more cars selling fruit before we got to Fruitland. I saw someone with a WATERMELONS sign in the distance and asked my mom if we could stop.

  "I don't want any watermelons," she said.

  "I just want to talk to them a little bit."

  She pulled off and said she would wait for five minutes. I had Amy do most of the talking. We found out that the watermelon sellers were a mother and young daughter. They were selling watermelons now but would sell all kinds of fruits and vegetables during the summer and fall. They raised some of it themselves and would drive out of state to buy things like oranges.

  "Do you sell things by the pound?" I asked.

  "No, by the box," the woman answered.

  "I think that settles that," I said, walking back to the car.

  "What settles what? What are you talking about?" asked Amy.

  "How we're going to sell our apples."

  "You're going to have that lady sell our apples?"

  "No, we're going to do it ourselves. Just on the side of the road."

  "That's all I need, my friends driving by while I'm out on the road."

  "It's going to take a lot of boxes," I continued, ignoring her.

  ***

  The next day Michael and I drove down to General Supply to find out if we could buy cardboard boxes there. I waited until Jimmy was by himself before cornering him.

  "You need some more poison already?" he asked when he saw me.

  "No, I came down looking for something else. Do you have any cardboard boxes?"

  "There are some in the back that we usually just break up when they're empty."

  "No, not those kind of boxes. Well, I guess they are cardboard and everything, but I mean boxes for packing fruit into."

  "Oh, boxes you would buy, then?"

  "Yes. Maybe. If they aren't too expensive."

  "I think we order boxes for people. Let me go ask Mr. Sherwood."

  He disappeared toward the front of the store and came back carrying a piece of paper. "He says we can order them for people, but they take a while. Here's the form you have to fill out. They even say 'Grown in New Mexico,' and you can check the box here for what kind of fruit you want." Jimmy handed me the form.

  "How much are they?" I asked.

  "For apples, right?" he asked, and pointed on the form to a little box next to APPLE. "Looks like a $1.50 a box."

  "Wow," I said slowly while I looked down at the form. "How long does it take to get them?"

  "Six weeks."

  "And I have to pick them up here?"

  "No, we can have them dropped off at your house."

  "Okay, thanks. I'll have to figure all this out. I'm not even sure how many I need. Can I take this form?"

  "Yeah, just bring it back when you've decided."

  My head was swimming with numbers: price per bushel, price per box, apples per dollar. I had no idea how many boxes we even needed, maybe 100, maybe 10,000. I would have to go home and figure this out together with the person I trusted most with math—Lisa.

  Her eyes lit up when I explained the problem.

  "Okay, we first have to start by getting a count of all the apples, and then we'll figure out how many boxes we need," she said rapidly.

  "No, I want to start by saying if we want to make $8,000, how many boxes do we need to sell," I said. Then I thought about how much the boxes cost, and the spray and cans of pop. We also needed to clear well over $8,000 so I would have something for my sisters and cousins after paying off Mrs. Nelson. "Maybe $12,000."

  "Why $12,000?" she asked, amazed by the number.

  "I just think it's a really good goal. Something we should be able to do."

  "Okay, sounds good to me," she readily agreed. "How much will we charge per box?"

  "I don't know. I wonder how many boxes we could pick?"

  "That's what I wanted to figure out first."

  "No, you wanted to count all the apples."

  "It's basically the same thing."

  "No, it's not."

  We argued back and forth for about an hour. Eventually we did go out and try to count the apples—at least on one tree, which had 300 apples growing on it, relying on our multiplication skills to compute the whole orchard.

  Given what the potato guy at Safeway had guessed about the number of apples in a bushel, we estimated we'd get three bushels per tree. Figuring out what we would charge per bushel was much harder, although we knew it had to be a lot less than Safeway's price. After two days of adding, dividing, and multiplying, we decided 1,000 boxes would be about right. It seemed like a lot, but we both liked having a nice round number.

  Still, at $1.50 per box that meant $1,500 to buy the 1,000 boxes, and to make $12,000 we would have to sell a bushel for $12. Could we sell that many apples? I agonized over the box form. I didn't dare ask my parents' advice because they might dig a little too deep into the $12,000 target and how I planned to buy the boxes from General Supply. I would have liked to ask Brother Brown, but Amy said he was our competition. I asked my aunt what she would pay for a bushel of apples and all she said was "Nothing. I'll get them from you."

  ***

  The next morning, I was about to check the box next to APPLE and write 1,000 next to it when my mom called to me.

  "Jackson, do you think you can use the tractor and haul off some stuff to the dump for me?"

  "You can't take the car?" I asked.

  "Some of the stuff is too big to fit in the trunk, like that old chair in the corner. I also want to get rid of some of your father's 'treasures' he's been collecting the last few years."

  "But I don't think there's enough gas for the tractor."

  "I'll give you $5 to do it, and you can buy some gas."

  I considered her offer. "Okay, I'll go get Sam to help. He always likes riding on the tractor."

  I took her $5, and Sam and I loaded up the wagon. Sam had to sit in back with the junk to keep it from falling out.

  The Fruitland dump was a couple of miles off the main highway. The road to the dump was paved at the beginning but quickly turned to dirt and remained that way until it reached its destination, which was a huge pit dug into the ground. The dump was surrounded by brown desolate land that looked very dull compared to the many-colored garbage of the dump. We hit the first flies a few hundred feet away, and they kept getting thicker the closer we got.

  "Do you see what I see?" I yelled excitedly to Sam as we got a clear view of the pit.

  "That motorcycle? Yeah, that'd be cool to have!" he yelled back, and pointed at a motorcycle frame without an engine or handlebars.

  "No, look there!" I yelled, and pointed.

  Piled on top of each other in the pit was a mountain of cardboard boxes. I turned off the tractor and ran over to take a look. They were mostly fruit boxes that said things like Arizona ORANGES, California P
EARS, and California PEACHES. There were even a few Washington APPLES.

  "I can't believe this!" I shouted. "Why would anyone be throwing away all these good boxes?"

  Sam didn't share my enthusiasm, but he helped me look through them. You could tell they had been used, but their insides were mostly clean. They still smelled like fruit, which was a welcome difference from the rest of the dump.

  "Quick, let's unload the wagon and see how many of these we can stack up on it," I said to Sam.

  "But most of them don't say apples. What are we going to do with them, try to trade them or something?"

  "I'm hoping people don't care what kind of box the apples come in. Especially people who buy them on the side of the road."

  In an hour we had the wagon stacked high with towers of boxes. Sam found an old roll of twine someone had thrown away, and we tied down the stack. It leaned to one side, but I thought it would probably last until we got home.

  "I'll bet we can be back here in less than an hour for another load," I said as we both jumped back on the tractor. Right then I could see two cars making their way toward the dump. I looked back at the remaining boxes in the pit.

  "Hey, Sam," I whispered loudly, "how about staying here and guarding the rest of the boxes so no one gets them?"

  He looked around the dump, then back at me. "Do you really think we need to guard them?" he asked with a painful look on his face.

  "Do you realize how much these are worth? Please just stay, and if anyone looks interested in them, say they're ours. I'll be back as fast as I can and bring Michael to help."

  "Okay," he said, and reluctantly dragged himself toward the pile. I waved goodbye, and he waved back halfheartedly. I put the tractor in third gear and drove as fast as I could back home.

  I parked the wagon and tractor between our houses and ran inside both of them to find Michael and the girls. In a few minutes, we were throwing boxes on the ground and pushing them out the back of the wagon. Hardly stopping to catch my breath, I explained to the girls that they should start stacking up the boxes while Michael and I went for more.

  As we got to the dump, my heart raced when we didn't see Sam anywhere. But as soon as he heard the tractor, he popped out of the pile of boxes almost like he was hiding inside.

  "Look, I brought Michael to help!" I yelled to him. "Did anyone try to take any?"

  "No," Sam replied. "It seemed like you took three or four hours."

  "No way! I drove that tractor as fast as it would go."

  We stacked boxes again and used the same roll of twine to hold them in place. When I got on the tractor for the return trip, they both got on beside me.

  "Somebody needs to stay and guard those boxes. We need a thousand, and I don't want someone stealing any from us," I said.

  "Why don't you do it, then?" challenged Michael.

  "How about if you both stay and keep each other company. Then you won't have to help with the unloading. It'll be easy," I replied.

  They weren't very happy about the plan, and I practically had to push them off the tractor. They shouted something at me as I drove off.

  I dumped the load of boxes as quickly as possible and even brought a jug of water back to the dump with me. Sam and Michael drank it greedily and complained about being starved.

  This time when we finished tying the boxes down, Sam and Michael ran for the tractor and Sam sat in the driver's seat.

  "We've been talking, and we've decided that if you want anyone to guard those boxes, it has to be you," Michael said as I reached the tractor.

  "Come on, guys," I began.

  "I've got to get something to eat, and he's not going to stay alone," said Sam, pointing his thumb at Michael.

  "Oh, all right!" I said. "But you better drive fast, Sam. Third gear the whole way. Unload them fast, too, and just get something quick to eat."

  "Don't worry, we will," Michael called out, laughing as Sam started the tractor and drove off. I watched them until their trail of dust disappeared over a sandy ridge.

  I walked around the edge of the pit to kill time, looking at the once-valuable stuff people had thrown into it. On my fourth pass around, I saw a cloud of dust on the horizon. I hurried over to where the rest of the boxes were. It seemed too soon for Sam and Michael to be coming back, and it turned out to be a station wagon driven by an older man. He backed up to the side of the pit and pushed everything piled in the back of this car out the open tailgate.

  He saw me standing by the boxes and walked over. "You okay? You need some help?" he asked sympathetically.

  "I'm just watching these boxes so that no one takes them."

  He looked at me strangely, said, "Okay," and then drove off.

  Two more cars drove up while I was waiting. In one of them was the whole family of Darin Skinner, a kid I knew from school who was a year younger than me. They dumped their garbage, and then Darin's dad came over to me and the boxes. Darin stayed in the car.

  "Hey, what are you doing here alone?" his dad asked.

  I could feel my face turning bright red. "I'm just, just watching these boxes for someone. They want to use 'em. I'm just keeping an eye on 'em," I spluttered out, trying not to look at his face.

  "You sure you don't need a ride or something?"

  "Oh, no, I'm okay. It'll be just a few more minutes."

  He looked me over, then shrugged his shoulders and walked back to his car. Darin watched me out the rear window as they drove off.

  On what seemed like my twentieth time around the pit, I started to get angry. Where were those dummies? I should never have let them take that tractor. Sam was probably in first gear, or they were sitting at home watching TV. Then I started to worry that something had gone wrong, like the tractor breaking down. It had been a while since I had sucked out the fuel line. Maybe they were on the side of the road stranded.

  The disgusting smell of the dump made it hard to think of food, but I was beginning to feel weak from not eating anything and my mouth was completely dry. I thought of walking the five miles home and how long it would take me. Instead, I burrowed into the stack of boxes. It was uncomfortable but at least provided some shade from the August sun.

  I was drifting off to sleep when I heard the sound of the tractor engine and threw off the boxes on top of me.

  "Where have you been?" I demanded when Sam and Michael pulled up.

  "We went as fast as we could," said Michael, although he didn't sound very convincing.

  Piling up the next stack of boxes was exhausting. When we were done, we all made our way to the tractor.

  "They'll probably be okay without us watching them," I said, tilting my head toward the remaining boxes.

  Over two days we made eight trips and collected 820 boxes, which the girls stacked up pretty neatly considering that there were many different sizes. I kept telling Lisa it was like a pile of money.

  My mom came out and looked at the large stack. Next to it were the tractor and wagon, the plow, disc, irrigation barrel, ladders, and all the other equipment we had taken from Mr. Nelson's shed. "This feels like I'm living next to a freight yard. Next thing I know there'll be an actual train running through here." She thought that sounded clever and so was continually telling me to clean up my "freight yard" after that.

  ***

  Sam, Michael, and I made a trip to General Supply a few days later. We had to buy more Diazinon, and we also bought some rolls of plastic that we used to cover up our boxes in case of rain. "Oh, and, Jimmy," I said as he was adding the poison and plastic to our bill, "I brought back the form for the boxes." I unfolded it and handed it to him.

  "Two hundred apple," he said as he looked over the form. "I thought you had like three hundred trees. Is this going to be enough?"

  "That should do it. We got some others from another supplier," I replied.

  He looked up from the paper. "How much were they?"

  "A lot cheaper," I said. "So can we charge those two hundred? And throw in a case of pop." I saw Mic
hael smile out the corner of my eye.

  Chapter 13

  Money Jars

  With the boxes in place and the apples hanging fat on the trees, Lisa and Jennifer embraced the idea of selling them. They cut out red letters from some of my mom's sewing material to spell APPLES and glued them on a white background, making a kind of banner you could see from a hundred yards away. These type of projects usually produced crooked letters of random sizes, but this time the letters were shockingly straight, and the A was almost the same height as the S.

  Amy convinced her dad to push the '68 Chrysler station wagon he had recently given up on out to the road. This was going to serve as our apple sales headquarters. We would keep the banner inside at night along with any unsold boxes of apples.

  "How many thousand dollars are we going to make again?" Amy asked playfully.

  I hesitated. "At least a couple thousand each," I replied cheerfully. I thought about Mrs. Nelson's $8,000 and how much we'd have to clear to be left with even $1,000 to divide between the rest of us. "Maybe that's just a best-case scenario, though," I added, not wanting to sound like a total liar.

  I took Sam over to Mr. Nelson's shed to look for bags we could use for picking. I remembered seeing in the apple book pictures of people picking with sacks hanging at their sides. In one of the corners, we found two canvas bags that looked like what I was hoping for. They had long straps that fit over your neck so the bag hung at your side. There were metal frames at the tops to keep the bags open and at the bottom little clasps to either close the bags or allow apples to be poured out.

  The only thing we needed was ripe apples. They looked the right size and were now more sweet than sour, but I needed an expert opinion as to whether anyone would buy one. The day after the boxes from the dump were stacked, we started watching Brother Brown's orchard to see when he would start picking. Once each day, one of the six of us would walk or ride a bike down to steal peeks through his rows of trees. We were all supposed to act very casual as we went by so he wouldn't suspect us of spying. August was almost over and we hadn't spotted any action.