Mr. McCreedy

The old barn creaks overhead. He stands at the precipice looking out over the orchard. The first light of the sun rises above the valley. The tree limbs rustle as a warm wind carries their sweet scent into the barn. The old man breathes deep, “picking season,” he thought.

He turns and looks into the dark of the barn. As a child, it’s grand emptiness had filled him with dread, as filling it was daunting. Now in his old age, the open space filled him with excitement for the potential of a high yield. But, the days of his youth have passed. Years of climbing ladders and carrying bushels upon bushels of fruit have taken their toll on his body. His sun-kissed skin has small spots of melanoma. Finding honest workers had become hard. Many of them had moved along when surrounding farms had been bought to build neighborhoods and condominiums.

The sound of crushing gravel fills the air. He turns as a car pulls up. On the side of the car reads – Busy Bee Construction. A young woman steps out and waves, “Back again,” he thought, “She is a persistent one, I’ll give her that.”

“Howdy, Mr. McCreedy!”

“How can I help you today, Ms. Bee?”

“Well, I came by to see what you thought of our offer?”

“Like I’ve told you Ms. Bee, McCreedy Orchards ain’t for sale. We were the first to settle here and I’m telling you, I will be the last to sellout.”

“Mr. McCreedy, I have been authorized to double our last offer, I implore you to reconsider. It’s a lot of money. More than enough to take care . . .”

“Take care of what? A dying old man?”

“That’s not what I meant. . .”

“No, it’s exactly what you meant. I may be old, and time hasn’t been kind to me, but I still have my wits. I know snake oil when I see it.”

“Mr. McCreedy, if you would please look. We’re not trying to push you out. You’d still live here when construction was done.”

Ms. Bee hands a brochure to Mr. McCreedy.

“Bless your heart. . .”

Ms. Bee takes a breath of relief.

“You’re head is as empty as this here barn, girl. To think that I would allow you to rip up my trees and put in an old-folks home. You can leave.”

“Mr. McCreedy. . .”

“Nope, I’ve done heard enough. You head on back to your puppeteers and tell ‘em this old man ain’t sellin’. And, don’t you be coming back with no more offers, you hear!”

Ms. Bee gets into her car and drives along the beaten gravel road. She passes broken fences and over grown grass. A faded brown sign with gold lettering disappears in her rear view mirror – Welcome, McCreedy Orchards. Ms. Bee stops at a gas station and calls from a pay phone; a male voice answers.

“Hey Juniper, how did it go? Did he take the deal?”

“Ugh, No! What an ornery old man! Why can’t he see we’re just trying to help him! He’ll die before he. . . ”

“Settle down there June Bug, its alright. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to deal with an old coot like him. Just schmooze him over. . .”

“What do you think I’ve been doing, dad? That old man can’t see through the shade of his own trees! The place is falling apart around him, and all I want to do is give him some money so he can live out the rest of his days!”

“Sounds to me like Juniper Bee has finally met her match.”

“Don’t you dare, I’ll figure something out, I always do!”

Juniper hangs up the phone.

The sun slowly sets behind the valley hills. Mr. McCreedy scoots the last bushel of peaches off the bed of his truck. He slowly carries it into the barn, and sets the basket down next to the others. Picking season was at a slow start; only a few trees had born fruit.“The summer is still young,” he thought. Mr. McCreedy shuts the bed of the truck. He looks back into the barn and watches as the carpenter bees buzz about and return to their burrows for the evening. Ms. Bee appears at the corner of the barn.

“Oh, Lord in Heaven, girl. . . Will you ever let me be? What do your masters want now?”

“I come in peace, Mr. McCreedy. My da-, my boss has nothing to do with me being here. I just wanted to stop in and apologize for my last visit.”

“Well, I reckon I could hear you out. Come on up to the house then.”

“Oh, I really can’t, I’ve got to get back.”

“Just humor an old man. I’ll tempt you with the best sweet-tea this side of Alabama.”

“If you insist.”

Juniper sits on the porch waiting for her host to return. She looks across the front yard and out into the orchard. The flicker of lightning-bugs float about in the shadows. The screen door creaks open. Ice-cubes dance about as Mr. McCreedy sets a pitcher of tea and a tray of sandwiches on a table.

“Help yourself, Ms. Bee.”

He pours her a glass of tea.

“Please, call me Juniper.”

“Well then Ms. Juniper, what brings you back up yonder? I know you Bee-folk are all about talkin’ and sure ain’t much for listenin’. ”

“I suppose, I just wanted to know more about your orchards, so I can convince my boss that it’s not worth his trouble, and to just build around it.”

“Ha, well that’s mighty decent of you. Where do I begin? Well, this land has been in my family stretchin’ back to the Civil War. Some of these here trees are older than I am, and I’ve seen many of them grow from saplin’ to snag. My daddy showed me how to tend to these trees like they were family. When I was a boy I hated it, but when I was shipped off to fight in Korea, all I could think about was this place. Trapped in a fox-hole freezing to death, I’d dream of lying in the grass while surrounded by the smell of peaches and persimmons. I saw a lot of things over there that no one ought to see, and I had to do a lot of things that no one ought to do. When I came back, the drink took me for a bit, until my Aniela found me.”

“Aniela?”

“My late wife. She was my Guatemalan princess. She found me at the waterin’ hole in one of my stupors, and nursed me back to health. She was the sweetest woman I’d ever met; but there would be hellfire and brimstone if you ever crossed her. She took to this place like a fish in water; she said it reminded her of her village in Guatemala. She passed some thirty years ago; the cancer took her before we could have children.

“Mr. McCreedy, I’m so sorry. . .”

“I buried her here, in her own grove at the foot of a walnut tree. I’ve never loved a woman since, and these trees are all I have left. So, Ms. Juniper, now you know. I can’t let your family destroy this place. I don’t believe that there’s anything after this, no heaven, no hell, at least no place for a man like me. But, this place is as close to heaven as I can get, and I tend on keeping it.”

Juniper and Mr. McCreedy sip tea in silence as they watch the twilight sun disappear behind the hills.

“I have to be off now, Mr. McCreedy. Thank you for the tea.”

Juniper stands and walks down the stoop.

“What do you say about coming back? My old bones could use some help around the place, and filling that barn is no easy task. . . what do you say?”

“I’d like that.”

Mr. McCreedy lies in his small bed, and turns off the lamp. “That girl really is like that barn, but at least she has a few bushels in her now,” he thought before falling asleep.

The next day Juniper returned to McCreedy Orchards, and every day after. Some days she would bring a crew of construction workers to help pick from the trees, mend broken fences, and patch holes in the roof of the barn and house. As the summer moseyed on, the orchard began to reclaim its former glory. In the summer’s heat, the workers would rest in the shade of the orchard, sip tea, and learn about the trees from Mr. McCreedy.

On occasion, she would accompany Mr. McCreedy to the farmers market to sell his yield. They would sit together at the stall and banter with fellow farmers and orchard keepers. “Connor McCreedy, you sly dog, found yourself a pretty one! Too dainty to be a picker though, don’t ya think?”

“If I were a bettin’ man, I pick her over your geriatric behind any day!” McCreedy would say.

Summers faded, autumns blew by, and winters lingered, but Juniper continued to visit old Mcreedy. What began as an attempt to bilk an old man out of his land, had turned into a lasting friendship.

The sweet aroma of the black cherry blossoms blew in the wind as she knocked on Mr. McCreedy’s door. His old truck was missing. “He must be seeing Aniela,” she thought. She walked along the row of trees while looking up at their fruit, “picking season,” she thought. She followed the tree row to Aniela’s grove. That’s where she found him.

McCreedy would lie beneath Aniela’s walnut tree and talk with her. He would tell her about how wet or dry the seasons were, whether the yield was high or low, and about the young girl who had found her way in the orchard. “She was lost like me, empty inside, but then she found this place, just like how you found me. She’s the daughter I wish we had. She’s a hand-full, but I think you’d like her well enough. Well, till next time, mi amore.”

Juniper walks into the grove and waves, “Mr. McCreedy!” The old man does not move. Juniper sits down next to him, “Mr. McCreedy, it’s almost picking season, can’t be lallygagging about. Aniela would have your hide if she knew you were sleeping. I have some good news, I’m leaving daddy’s company, so I can help you full time. Some of the workers want to come along too, isn’t that great?”

She takes hold of his hand, he is cold to the touch. She jostles him lightly, he does not move. Shock begins to sink in. She places her head on his chest, there is no heartbeat. Sudden grief washes over her. Juniper weeps and hiccups. Her tears soak into his shirt. She grips his hand tightly as the remaining warmth leaves his body. Her cries are muffled by the trees.

Veiled in black, Juniper stands at the podium. Aniela’s grove is now filled with the familiar faces of fellow farmers, orchard keepers, and construction workers. “When I met Connor McCreedy, I found him to be a cantankerous man, lost in his trees. But, on one summer evening, I learned that I was the one who was lost. Over the years, he guided me through the orchard, and helped me plant meaning in my life. He healed me, as much as he healed everyone who knew him. He had a gift for growing trees and for growing people. Mr. McCreedy was a man who lived in the moment and believed that heaven was a place that we make for ourselves, and this place and the people in it was his.”

That day, a juniper tree was planted in Aniela’s grove.