The Lane We Mowed Across the Hayfield

I had to turn around and pretend to straighten the pie table.

I thought about Reuben sitting in that room in Gettysburg, and how he would have given anything to see his son do that.

The wagon went out at ten fifteen with nine children and four parents on it, Peyton at the wheel of the big tractor, going slow along the edge of the trees.

The little girl in the pink jacket sat on the front bale and waved at everybody.

By eleven we had forty cars parked in the lot. By noon it was close to ninety.

The line along the road never got longer than six or seven, because Abe kept them moving, and the new lane carried them in two by two.

Lorrie kept count on a sheet of notebook paper with tally marks, the way she always does, five to a bundle.

She has done it for eleven years and never once been off by more than two from the cash.

People came and went all morning. They filled their bags with Honeycrisp and Gala and the old Stayman trees at the top of the hill.

They bought cider by the half gallon at six dollars, and pies until Lorrie ran out at a quarter past one.

And every single one of them, coming and going, drove past Darla’s truck.

At first they just looked. You could see heads turning in the cars as they came through the gap.

They would look at the truck and the sign and the woman sitting in the cab, and then they would look at the open lane and drive on.

But around eleven, people started stopping. Not in the road.

They would park in the lot, pick their apples, buy their cider, and then, walking back to their cars, some of them would wander over toward the old lane to look.

The first one I saw was an older woman with a cane. She walked right up to the driver’s window of the blue truck and stood there.

I could not hear what she said, but I could see her point at the sign, and then at the cars coming in.

Darla did not roll the window down. The woman stood there another minute, shook her head, and walked back to the lot.

Then it was a young father with a baby in a carrier on his chest. He knocked on the window. Darla rolled it down an inch.

He asked her something, and pointed at the sign, and then at all the cars, and then at the sign again.

I learned later what he asked, because Lorrie’s nephew was in the car behind him and heard it. He asked, “Ma’am, why does your sign say closed? They’re open. Is everything all right?”

That was what they all asked, more or less, all day long. Is everything all right.

Are you stuck. Do you need a jump. Why does your sign say closed when the place is open.

Nobody was ugly to her. I want to be clear about that. Not one person I saw raised their voice.

They were just puzzled, and kind, and curious, the way country people are when they see a truck sitting where a truck should not be.