A Secret in the Orchard
This
year Grandpa has invited me to spend Christmas vacation
with him on the farm. One after-noon, a week before Christmas,
we walk across the frozen pond to the apple orchard, holding
hands so we won’t fall on the slippery ice. We stop
near a big rectangle of cement about the size of a small
room. I feel the crisp winter sunshine.
“What are we going to do with this cement, Grandpa?”
“It’s part of a surprise for Christmas,” he says.
“For me?” I ask.
“For you,” he says.
Grandpa just loves surprises.
We hurry back to the kitchen and warm our hands around mugs of hot apple cider. Grandpa spreads papers and pencils on the table.
“Are we going to draw a picture about the surprise, Grandpa?”
“That’s
right,” he says. I watch, but I’m not sure what
he’s drawing.
Later, we drive to town in Grandpa’s old pickup truck to buy some lumber. We wave at Grandpa’s neighbor, Mr. Jordan, who lives across the road.
After lunch we unload the wood and stack it next to the cement square. The wood’s not too heavy for Grandpa and me to lift.
The next morning I ask, “Are we going to work on the surprise today?”
“We sure are,” Grandpa says. “Would you like to help me build the walls?”
Out in the orchard we pound and pound. “Is this going to be a little house?” I ask. He’s already got a big one.
Grandpa’s eyes twinkle behind his glasses. “You’ll find out on Christmas,” he says, and then he pounds some more.
Christmas is taking such a long time to get here.
At the end of the day I have scratches on my hands and a big question in my mind. What’s the surprise?
During the night the lambing begins. “The lambs can’t wait,” Grandpa says.
But I have to, I think.
We hurry to the barn to soothe the mothers-to-be. Grandpa is gentle as he brings the newborns to their mothers’ milk.
Now I’ve got it. “Is the surprise a little barn for the new lambs?”
“No, I think they want to stay with their mothers right now,” Grandpa says.
Guess
again, I tell myself
We finish the lambing as the sun begins to stir and Grandpa’s cow bawls to be milked.
“She’ll wait a minute,” he says. “Let’s watch the day begin.”
We walk through the trees to the top of the hill. I slip my hand into Grandpa’s as the sun takes over the sky.
“Here comes another day,” he says. “Another day to work on the surprise.”
First we both take naps, then we add a roof to the little house. “Now something inside won’t get wet if it rains,” I say. Now, NOW, maybe he’ll tell me.
But Grandpa’s surprise won’t budge from inside his head. I can’t wait much longer. When is it going to be Christmas?
Grandpa’s knee acts up the next day, so we rest by the fire and carve faces on some of the stored apples. “I’ll be your friend forever if you tell me the surprise now, Grandpa,” I tell him.
But he knows I’ll be his friend forever anyway, so he just smiles and carves and smiles and carves. As the apples dry they will wrinkle up until they look like grandma and grandpa faces.
Mr. Jordan stops by to visit, so I slip away to work on
my present for Grandpa.
Finally, it’s the day before Christmas. Grandpa’s
knee is fine now, so we walk deep into the woods to find
a Christmas tree. That afternoon the family gathers around
to decorate it. First, we hang apple faces on all the branches,
then Grandpa reaches high to put a star at the top.
Just before supper I slip outside to the little barn. My breath floats in little clouds as I look around. There’s nothing new here, though. Nothing at all.
On Christmas morning we gather around the tree. I give Grandpa my gift. It’s a painting of a bowl of apples. “What a nice surprise,” he says, smiling. I wonder if he has noticed the apple-colored spots of paint on my fingers all week.
Then Grandpa says, “I couldn’t wrap your present. You know I’m not much good at wrapping.”
I almost look under the tree for something unwrapped before I catch the joke. Grandpa can’t stop smiling.
Suddenly
I know, and I race outside, with Grandpa right behind me.
The dusting of snow that fell during the night makes the
ground slippery.
As we near the little barn I hear stirrings and stompings. I see bales of hay and a basket of apples beside the door.
I step inside. “A pony!” I shout.
The pony stares at me in surprise. I don’t think she was expecting me either.
Grandpa stands in the doorway, grinning. “Were you
surprised?” he asks.
I can’t find my voice, so I give him a big hug. “Where
was the pony waiting all this time?” I finally ask.
“In Mr. Jordan’s barn,” he says. “He
brought her over here this morning.”
Then we choose apples from the basket, cut them into pieces,
and hold out our hands to feed her.
I don’t know who is happier . . .
Grandpa . . .
the pony . . .
or me.
