Perfect timing

My two pear, two apple, and one peach tree shot up branches well out of my reach.

As the pear and apple trees had produced poorly, I thought for a second I might hire James, my tree guy, to remove them.

Give them another season, the farmer within persuaded.

As fair weather offered a slim window for the pruning project before our next snowfall, I left a voicemail for James.

His lovely wife answered. “We’re going on vacation tomorrow for two weeks. I’ll talk with James and get back with you.”

If anyone knows the demands for a good prune that bears fruit, it’s the wife of the man who climbs the ladder with a serious extension pruner in hand.

Therefore, I replied, “I don’t want to interfere with your vacation. The trees will wait.”

“Oh, your timing is perfect. We’re packed and ready to take off tomorrow,” she said.

James later emailed and asked if I had a tall aluminum ladder he could use. That would simplify his task at hand.

“Sure do,” I replied. “I’ll have it ready for you by the orchard.”

The next day James turned into my driveway. I cringed for I’d failed to retrieve the ladder from inside the pavilion where I last used it in July to hang lavender bundles.

James and his young son knocked on the back kitchen door. I confessed to them my fumble with the ladder.

“No problem,” James said with his predictable, pearly white smile.

I retrieved the pavilion key on its purple ribbon which James relayed to his boy, the awe of his father in the child’s eyes.

Never having a brother or son, these brief encounters with James and his boy affect me as one of my favorite stories, “Where the Red Fern Grows” by Wilson Rawls.

As Billy Coleman’s father encourages him in the story, so I see steadfast gentleness and love in James’ eyes for his ten-year-old son.

As life is determined to offer disappointment in achieving his heart’s desire of owning two hunting dogs, Billy’s father listens to his dreams, gives what he can.

Reassurance. Even when his mama worries about him.

A similar confidence I witnessed as James’ son gathered branches from beneath the trees.

Steadfast trust and love, beaming on the boy’s face.

Dear Reader, I observed the two walk up the backyard steps, my happy orchard in the background.

The two at last reached the kitchen door and stood before me with the ribboned key. I wrote their check.

A week later, I’ve yet to take a stroll through the grove, look up closely, examine James’ work. There, I’ll imagine this year’s harvest; shed a tear.

For my youngest daughter leaves for California this week.

Be sure, this mama worries about her. And her daddy’s in Heaven.

Therefore, I covet your prayers. For there’s no perfect time for our children to leave our nest to follow their dreams.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com