Page 31 of If You Give a Grump a Christmas Tree Farm
The very first hayride out, the tractor breaks down in the middle of a field, and everyone has to walk back, most of them grumbling about how this place has gone downhill from what it used to be.
I’m sweaty and tired by the time I get to the sales area, where Rebecca is passing out free cider.
“You need to build the bonfire, JJ.”
“I’m on it. Don’t promise anymore hayrides, though, and take the sign down.”
“What happened?”
“Tractor’s stuck in the field about a half mile out.”
“Oh, no.”
A lady approaches. “Excuse me. Where are the wagons?”
“Wagons?” I repeat.
“The ones we use to haul our pumpkins around the field while we pick them out.”
As soon as she says it, I vaguely remember my grandfather having a bunch of red wagons customers could use.
I go in search of them and find them in a corner of the barn, stacked against the wall.
Pulling the pickup truck around, I load as many as it will hold and drive them to the pumpkin field. The drive across the bumpy ground must have jostled them all, because when I drop the tailgate and try to pull them out, they’re all jumbled together, their wheels and handles catching on each other, and no matter how hard I tug, they all come out in a heap on the ground.
It's a mangled mess, and I’m ready to quit. I manage to get a dozen that aren’t too bent up separated from the rest for customers.
After that, I build a bonfire in the afternoon and get a table set up with the s’mores supplies.
***
It takes three days, but we finally get all the pumpkins sold, and if I never see another one, I’ll die a happy man.
I’m working on cutting the wood for the sign we’re going to put next to the red pickup truck, when Rebecca approaches. I’ve got the material set up on wooden sawhorses, and I’ve got the circular saw going. When I spot her, I shut it off, and the high pitch whirring noise cuts out. Shoving my protective glasses up on my head, I frown. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got good news and bad news.” She slides her hands into the hip pockets of her jeans.
“Yeah? What’s that?” I take a deep breath, preparing for the next ball to drop.
“Good news. We sold all the pumpkins. Bad news. We lost $27.”
My shoulders slump. “Lost money? How the hell did we do that?”
She holds a piece of paper. “This is the invoice for the pumpkins I found. Your grandfather paid a lot more than I anticipated for those pumpkins. So, we didn’t sell them for enough money.”
I lift a brow. “We? You set the price.”
“Well, you dropped and smashed that whole pallet of pumpkins. So really, it’s your fault.” She flips her braid over her shoulder and marches toward the cabin.
“I never agreed to be a pumpkin farmer,” I yell after her.
“Tell that to your grandpa,” she chirps back, stomping up the stairs to the cabin.
“I can’t. He’s dead,” I snarl, immediately regretting using that tone. She loved the old man, too, and that’s out of line.
Her head drops at my reply, and she hesitates, and I think I might just get an apology, but I guess I really set her off, because she slams the door instead.
Yanking my work gloves off, I throw them and jam my hands on my hips. I really should go apologize. None of this is her fault, and I’m really beginning to wonder if the tree sale is going to be successful.
