Page 22 of If You Give a Grump a Christmas Tree Farm
“Well, we’re going to have to. You said you were up to this.” I can see I’ve pissed her off, so I yank the passenger door to the truck open for her. “You ready to go?”
She marches past me, vaults inside, and slams the door. When I slide behind the wheel, it’s obvious by her crossed arms and jutted chin that she isn’t speaking to me.
Rather than ask her, I GoogleAngel Ridgeand pull up directions.
We ride in silence the ten miles to Fairfield. There’s an archway over the driveway with a big sign for the place. It looks professional, and the first thing I notice is that their gravel parking area is probably twice the size of ours. There’s a big red barn with bright white trim; Angel Ridge painted in big letters above its doors.
I brake and put the truck in park, scanning the place. There are a couple of men standing near the barn, but the place doesn’t look open for business.
Opening my door, I glance at Rebecca. “You comin’?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t trust you to ask any of the important questions.”
I roll my eyes and climb out. When I do, one of the two men approaches. He’s older, with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. It’s not until he gets closer that I realize there’s a patch on his chest with the company logo. Angel Ridge Tree Farm. These are just a few of the professional touches we don’t have.
“Can I help you?”
I extend my hand. “Hi. I’m JJ Reardon. My grandfather owned Holly Jolly Tree Farm over in—”
“You Jim Anderson’s grandkid?”
“I am. You know him?”
“Sure did. I was sorry to hear of his passing. I’m Pete Blevins.”
“Good to meet you, Pete, and thank you. My grandfather is greatly missed. Look, the reason I—”
“We,” Rebecca corrects.
“Right. We. This is my sister-in-law, Rebecca Reardon.” They shake hands. “The reason we came to see you is my grandfather left the place to us, and well, there’s a lot we don’t know about the business. The attorney explained that the will requires we keep the place open for at least a year before we can sell it.”
“You’re thinking of selling it?”
Rebecca and I both answer at the same time.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Pete’s eyes shift between us and he grins. “So, which is it?”
“It hasn’t been decided yet,” Rebecca replies.
“I see.” He folds his arms. “How can I help? What do you want to know?”
“Hell, I don’t even know what questions to ask,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck.
Rebecca seems to have a list prepared and starts spouting off intelligent questions, surprising me again.
Pete gives us a walk-around tour, and I can see Rebecca making mental notes of everything they do for customers. Just like she suggested for us, Angel Ridge has a gift shop and a concession stand, as well as a photo spot.
It’s an old sleigh, and I’m sure it makes for a great family shot.
Pete leads us to a small John Deere utility vehicle, and we ride out to their fields of trees. When we climb out, he points to the different sections.
“These will be ready for harvesting this year. Those over there should be ready next year, and so on down the slope.” He points in the other direction. “Our new growth is over here. We planted those seedlings this year.”
We spot two men walking the rows with what appear to be machetes, swinging them in rhythm along the outline of each tree.
