The End of Cherry Season

The End of Cherry Season

I was scribbling furiously in my small black notebook. I was sitting in our beat-up barn on a stack of haybales. The horses grunted softly next to me and the air was filled with the smell of fresh hay, packed dirt, and oats that were in the trough next to me. The hay formed a cushion around me, protecting me from the early spring chill along with my tough canvas work jacket.

Part of me was alert, listening for the sound of my stepfather yelling for me from the house. Another part of me was completely lost in the writing. It was a simple thing, pen and paper, but it made me feel alive in a way that nothing else could. The pages were quickly turning black as I recklessly filled them with bits and pieces of a story that was half-formed in my mind. It was about a philosophy professor that was nearing the end of his life, determined to pass on as much of his knowledge to one of his young students as he could. I was fascinated with the idea of being surrounded by ideas: pure knowledge, being passed back and forth in endless convoluted conversations. I was finishing a piece of dialogue between the professor and his student about their discussion of Wittgenstein.

“’So, he’s saying that there’s no concept of a private language?’ The student asked, eyes alight with the pleasure of understanding a new concept.

‘That’s right,’ the professor answered, pleased.

‘That’s what he’s saying in his “beetle in a box” example from Philosophical Investigations, right? We pretend that we each have an example of a beetle in our heads. We, in a conversation, may reference the beetle in our heads, and the other person also references the beetle in their head. But there is no reason to believe that we are actually referencing the same beetle! They could be completely different!’ the student exclaimed this conclusion, triumphant that she had finally mastered the concept. What greater connection is there between two people using conversation to teach and learn something, she thought. What pure knowledge is conveyed through…”

“Mooooooolly!” There it was. The long holler from my stepfather that had finally noticed my absence.

“Coming!” I shouted. I climbed down from the hay and started up the hill to the house. It was a beat-up old farmhouse with an old-fashioned tin roof. I passed through our small flock of chickens, including my favorite, Donna, that pecked my boot affectionately.

I watched Molly walking up through the little of chickens, scattering them in a flurry of clucks. I could hear the frozen grass crunching under her boots as she headed up towards the house. I inherited this little old farmhouse and land from my father, who had been the only veterinarian in what passed for a town around here. I raised our dairy cows from calves, loaded more tractor trailers than anyone can count, and even rode one of the horses in a few rodeos. That was way back, and that horse is too old to do much more than eat and sleep now. I’m older too. I can feel the coldness of the early spring deep in my body, making me stiff and tired. My hands are always cracked and calloused from decades of loading and stacking wood for our fireplace. My swollen knuckles are starting to be taken over by arthritis; another thing I inherited from my father.

Molly’s auburn hair glinted red in the cold sunlight, just like her mom’s used to, before we lost her. Molly was twelve, and since she didn’t have too much in the way of other family, I took her in. I love her like she was my own. I got to deal with all the awkward teenage years all on my own, which was hard. But I did my best by her. She was almost up to the farmhouse now.

There it is, I thought. Molly was carrying her little black notebook that she was always scribbling in, the one I got her for Christmas last year. She’d been off in her own world again. She’d always been a writer, since she was little. I’ve done my best to support her, though I don’t care much for reading or writing myself.

She walked up to me, looking sheepish.

“I’d ask ya what you were up to down in the barn, but I’m pretty sure I already know. You have hay in your hair, there,” I said, looking down at the notebook in her thin-fingered hands. Hands so different than mine, a little calloused but still soft and artistic. I made my decision. Now was the time to tell her.

“Sorry ‘bout that. What’d you need?” I looked up at my stepfather, who had a serious, determined glint in his eye.

“Molly, I need to talk to you about somethin’, he said, looking at me straight and plain, his gray eyes like flint. “I’ve been thinking. I think you need to head on out to college.”

“Oh, you know I can’t do that.” I said. “Who would take care of things around here? You can’t do it all by yourself. We have more than a dozen dairy cows out there.” I gestured to the field behind me, where a few cows grazed.

“I know I can’t.” he said, pausing.

“Besides, you know I got that scholarship to that school up north, but I can’t live there. I don’t think I could work full time, and I sure can’t afford room and board at the college. And the only one’ll give me a loan is Steve in the next town over, and everyone knows if you borrow from Steve, you’ll never pay it off.”

“Hush up now, Molly. I’m getting somewhere with this.” He took a deep breath. “I’m taking Tommy from next door on as a farmhand. He’s plenty old enough now.”

“That’s still gonna be too much for the two of you. Tommy’s young and doesn’t know much about cows.” I said.

“I know.” He grimaced. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and it’s taken a lot out of me the last few years,” he said. “Now, don’t you look at me like that. I love this land and I love these animals; I wouldn’t change a thing. But it’s time for me to slow down a bit.” He breathed out a tired sigh.

“Molly, I done sold the dairy cows.”

“What?!” I said, a little too loud.

“Just ten of ‘em. The rest I’ll keep on for milk for me and the neighbors. I got near $20,000 for the lot of them. They’re good cows.” I opened my mouth to object, but he held up his hand for me to stop and listen. “That should be enough for you to stay at the dorms up north and eat besides. I want you to go on and study writing, like you’ve always wanted.” I smiled.

“But you know I’m not good enough for all that,” I said, embarrassed.

“I don’t know much about writing, but I’m pretty sure it’s good. All your teachers said so. Molly, you need to do this. This life is for me, but I know that this is what’s gonna be best for you in the long run, no matter how hard it is for the both of us right now. Now I’m not gonna force you, but you think long and hard about it. I want to do this for you, and I already got the money together for you. Think about it.” He finished and turned to go inside.

I stayed behind, shivering a little in the chill. Could I really leave the place where I grew up, and always thought I’d live out my life? Could I move to a small city – and would I do well there? I would miss so much here. One of my favorite times of the year is when our two cherry trees would offer up their fruit. I remember I would climb up the thin branches to pick the cherries when I was a kid, with my mother standing beneath me holding a big bucket for me to throw them into.

“You keep on missing! Don’t waste them, now!” she’d shout, laughing, moving the bucket around to try to catch my poorly thrown cherries. “And don’t eat them! We got to make pies!” she said as I tossed a handful of the sour reddish ones into my mouth, savoring the tartness and then spitting out the pits.

But those times are long over. I can’t bring my mother back by picking cherries. I looked back towards the barn. Behind it, pink strands of sunrise spooled across the sky.

It was time to go.