Page 24 of Miss Humbug
My report required more research on the respite services. Data. I wanted all of it. I looked at publicly available reports first, digging into county budgets. I enjoyed finding patterns in data and examining projections of that data.
I expanded my search to news articles. I found a pattern of a gradual loss of funding for the respite center. Attempts at new programming led to pivoting a year later after new, underfunded programs fell through. At the same time, their service area widened, with more and more families requesting help.
I noticed an article on a pharmaceutical factory and its expansion into a larger business park in Rockford, the nearest larger town to Crystal Cove. A huge multi-million-dollar project the article predicted would bring in new jobs and tax revenue to surrounding areas. I couldn’t get the image of the old, worn toys and humble activity space at the social services building out of my mind. How one industry seemed to be made of money, and the other struggled to meet even basic needs.
Something about it all itched at me, but I didn’t know what to do with any of it. It just made me feel uneasy.
I spent a few hours organizing my presentation into a slideshow with a planned script I added to note cards found in my old desk. Come to think of it, I had a lot of old stuff to sort through in this room. With Grans moving out soon, I’d have to clear out my bedroom anyway.
A perfect distraction to put off baking for another day or possibly forever.
I got to work sorting and tossing. Out went old school notes and folders, childhood toys that survived past donation rounds, and abandoned clothes from high school. I filled several boxes and large plastic bags with items to donate.
My bookshelf was another story. I planned to keep all my old books. After all, they still sparked joy, and according to organization expert Marie Kondo, you were supposed to keep what made you feel joy. Useless Christmas decorations? Not so much. Old picture books and a paperback series about a group of tweens and their show ponies?Yes, please.
A wooden birdhouse served as a bookend against my fantasy novels. One of Ethan’s 4-H craft creations. I removed it from the shelf. On the back, he’d carved his initials into the wood along with the year he’d made it. Another keeper I’d hang onto.
The following day, reality hit. I needed to get cracking on this bake sale or I’d never have a chance at winning. Ethan was counting on me to expand his family tree farm.
Ethan, who knew how to bake.
I texted him.
Me:You made a pumpkin pie. I need to learn your ways. Any free time this week?
Ethan:What are you up to now? I’m at the tree farm. Come on over.
The tree farm? I needed a kitchen and baking supplies. Cookbooks. Aprons and mixers, probably. Ah, but Ethan had a job and a life besides me. I’d have to meet him where he was. Literally.
At a freaking Christmas tree farm. With holiday music and festive shoppers. Hopefully, a weekday morning meant low tide for tree shoppers.
I ventured to the farm. Murdoch, the town car, pointed me the right direction, due north, like the famous star. Well, more like northeast, but whatever. Down the road and around the corner.
More cars than I expected filled the front lot of Sawyer’s Tree Farm. How many people could possibly be buying a Christmas tree on a weekday morning?
Turned out, many. I parked a ways out to avoid clogging up the good spots. The farm extended beyond the front area set up for buyers. A charming, rustic sign displayed the Sawyer family name.
For some reason, I expected to see Ethan at the gate waiting for me. I definitely needed to get over myself. Ethan wasn’t waiting around to teach me a basic life skill. I could feed myself, sure, but baking anything more than box brownies was beyond me.
“Is that Marlowe Holly?” a deep voice questioned.
“Mr. Sawyer.” The sight of Ethan’s dad made me smile on instinct. His round, ruddy cheeks and salt-and-pepper beard gave him a young Santa vibe.
Not that I was into Santa vibes. Just, well, the man was jolly. Facts stated.
He lifted a plaid flannel arm to pat me on the back. “Good to see you. I assume you’re here for Ethan.”
“Only if he’s not busy.” With the shoppers milling around and loud machinery noises coming from the nearby barn, my baking lesson seemed even less important. “I can always text him later.”
Ethan buzzed by, giving me a head nod. “Let me take care of a thing and I’ll be right there.”
He wore a navy blue work coat with a gray sweatshirt hood peeking out. His skin had a natural flush from the cold. He seemed at ease. Happy. Like he existed in his element.
“We run another lot out by the highway,” Mr. Sawyer told me. “Rob is there today training a seasonal hire. We sell a lot of trees there, but some folks still want to come to the farm. It’s their family tradition. We can’t seem to convince them otherwise.”
“That makes sense. Grans gets her tree from you. Does she come out to the farm for it?”
Light danced in his eyes. “Ethan delivers one to her every year on December first.”
