Free The Year Money Grew on Trees by Aaron Hawkins Page B

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, however. 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.
    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