Page 10 of That Summer
My body sagged at his words.
“The other farmhands are seasonal,” he stated as we started to walk toward the door. “We only need them when it’s time to harvest. Until then, it’s just me … and now you.”
We stepped out into the blistering, humid heat, and I instantly added June to my list of months that needed to be spent either in the pool or indoors like I was used to. How Duke worked in this weather was beyond me. My balls were already sweating and we’d only been out of the barn for ten seconds.
Duke closed and latched the door. “The doors are to remain closed at all times to regulate the temperature. If for some reason the power goes out, we have backup generators that will kick in so we don’t lose our crop.”
“Does that happen often?”
“No. Since we’re so far out of town, we typically don’t experience power outages because there’s very little interference with the lines. Better to be safe than sorry, though.”
“Right,” I agreed and followed him to the golf cart that was sitting outside of the door. He didn’t bother to show me the generators, and I figured it was because of what he’d said about never getting power outages. I was only going to be here for a few months.
“Doesn’t mean it won’t happen. Big storm comes through and no telling what damage it will cause not only to the power but also to the trees. Sometimes, when we have heavy rain, it knocks the apples off the branches.”
“Nothing you can do to prevent that?” We got a good amount of rain throughout the year with thunderstorms that caused a lot of wind—at least in my part of Texas.
“Not this large of a crop, but we’re lucky that we have so many trees because the wind only knocks a few off.”
Duke drove us to the far end of the orchard and stopped before sliding out of the cart. “Like I mentioned earlier, my men won’t start until next month. That gives us two weeks to feed the trees. We also need to spray for weeds that will pop up, and keep an eye on the trees for any bugs or diseases.”
“All right. What do you need me to do now?” I asked.
“First, we’re going to walk each row so I can show you the different types of apples we have as well as look for the bugs and diseases. Then, we’ll spray the weeds.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
Duke chuckled. “June is a month for relaxing. Once July hits and we start picking the apples, we’ll be putting in long hours to get everything ready for the apple festival at the end of the month.”
When my mother told me that I’d be working on a farm, I assumed milking cows and shit. Walking up and down rows of trees and spraying bug spray sounded easy. And like Duke said, it was. Everything was easy—even washing the apples for Deb each Friday.
But July …
July wasn’t easy.
6
For the past week,once Duke told us that it was quittin’ time, I’d had to peel my jeans off of me as though they were a second layer of skin. I’d thought picking apples would be easy, and I always thought I was fit with my six-pack and decent-sized biceps, but no amount of gym time could have prepared me for the repetitive motion of picking apples. My shoulders hurt. My arms hurt. My back hurt. Hell, even my ass cheeks hurt.
There was also a lot that went into plucking apples that I’d had no clue about.
First, they were picked based on their color. The redder ones were picked first, placed in a crate, and then we carried them to a waiting truck where Duke would drive us to the processing set-up they had at the back of the barn. He also inspected each of our hands before we started each day to make sure our nails weren’t too long because that could damage the apples. We’d pick apples until lunch and then afterward, we’d process the apples by inspecting them, cleaning them, and then putting them in different crates where they were treated with the gas for twelve hours in a storage unit that was seventy-seven degrees. First thing the following morning, we’d take the treated crates and stack them in the barn where they were stored for up to a year. Then everything repeated day in and day out.
The sun was starting to set, and my belly was growling as I walked into the house. As soon as I closed the front door, I expected the smell of dinner to fill the air since Deb cooked dinner for us every night, but tonight there was no aroma of food.
I kicked off my boots by the front door and then walked into the living room where I saw Deb sitting on the couch and staring out the window.
“Hey,” I greeted.
She started as though I’d scared her and then held her hand over her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Everything okay?” My gaze moved to her lap, and I noticed she was holding a picture frame.
Deb set the frame on the coffee table and stood, adjusting the legs of her shorts. “Yeah, just thinking.”
I glanced at the picture. It was of her and her deceased husband, Jeff. She’d only ever mentioned him in a few stories, and I didn’t know all of the details about his death other than almost two years ago he’d died from leukemia.
“Anything I can help with?” I asked.
