Short #1: Mr. Brown’s Apples
The barefoot boy took the dusty road to the orchard, past the barn and beyond the pond where the cows drink in the summer. He wanted to throw rocks at the apples. If he hit one and it fell, he knew the apples would be ripe for eating.
It was quiet as the sun slid low on the horizon behind him. The road rose and fell on the hills then bent beside a creek as if to run alongside the trickling water. The boy stopped to throw a few small stones into the creek, a most universal habit of all men. Then he placed a few more stones in his pocket and continued up the road beside the creek until he came to the orchard of his desire.
Mr. Brown, the farmer who owned the orchard, would be sitting down to dinner. Shiloh figured this, which is why he waited until evening to make his sortie. And now, he stood twenty feet away. The Gala trees were full of green and red apples and the shades in-between. The boy scanned the outer branches for patches of crimson.
After he selected his target, Shiloh took one stone from his front pocket. It was oblong and smooth and good for skipping on water. Normally he wouldn’t use a stone like this to hit apples, but today he decided to experiment. He cocked his right arm and slung the missile toward the bull’s eye. It missed. The stone went high and to the right. By a lot.
Shiloh looked around. Even though he knew he was alone he hoped no one saw his blunder. “Skipping stones and throwing stones are not the same,” he thought as he reached into his pocket for another. On his second attempt, the boy was more resolute. He faced the tree like a pitcher and dug his foot into an imaginary mound. He wound up and hurled the stone at the fruit. A loud “thock” resonated back and the boy pumped his fist in celebration.
“Better not be throwing rocks at my apples boy!” yelled an unmistakable voice. Shiloh froze. He couldn’t see Mr. Brown, but he assumed the farmer could see him.
“No sir. Just tryin’ to scare off some birds Mr. Brown. Honest.”
“I don’t see or hear a damn thing except you throwing rocks.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, but you didn’t see what I see.” Finally, Shiloh could see Mr. Brown coming up the lane between the rows. His heart sank and nerves began to flutter. Mr. Brown was old but thick through his shoulders and gut, an imposing figure. The boy’s mother told him not to mess with Mr. Brown's apples, but the boy couldn’t resist the temptation. Few acts gave him more satisfaction than knocking a ripe apple out of a tree.
Shiloh cowered as Mr. Brown approached and he thought of the last few stones in his front pocket.
“Tell me something boy. Why do you throw rocks at my apples?”
“I don’t know,” answered the boy.
“Sure you do. Stop being nervous and be a man. Why do you throw rocks at my apples?”
“I don’t know sir.”
“You stupid Shiloh?”
“Sir?”
“Are you stupid?”
“I don’t know sir.”
“Ok. Let me ask you another question. Why do you like skipping rocks across the creek?”
“I don’t know about that either sir.”
“Quit calling me sir. Call me Mr. Brown. I don’t own you and you ain’t my worker.”
Mr. Brown crouched down in the dirt a few feet away from Shiloh. He could tell the boy was nervous and ready for a beating. He could tell the boy wasn’t able to think, wasn’t able to give smart answers. This is what happens to men when fear overcomes them.
Mr. Brown took in a deep breath and looked back at his orchard. Then he opened his hand to reveal two small ripe apples. He took the larger and gave it to Shiloh. The boy was stunned and paused before taking the gift.
“I make my money selling these apples Shiloh. You know that don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I mean Mr. Brown.”
“So, if you come down here and throw rocks at my apples, I’ll have less apples to keep my lights on. And if you and all the other boys throw rocks at my apples, I might lose my house. Understand what I’m saying?”
Ashamed, Shiloh hung his head.
Mr. Brown continued, “But, I was a boy too. Just like you. I liked skipping rocks across the creek.”
Puzzled, Shiloh looked over at the old farmer as he continued.
“What do you say I let you throw rocks at my apples when the season is over. My trees always have a few apples that never seem to want to be picked, and they start to rot right on the branch.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Said the old man. “Matter of fact. You can throw all the rocks you want at those stubborn apples. And sometimes, they explode when they hit the ground.”
Shiloh’s grin replaced his nervousness. “When is the season over Mr. Brown?”
