Page 14 of Cherry Tree Ranch

I’m even more excited about getting Dad’s old truck after loading Mom’s tiny car. Every surface is covered. I’m balancing two jars in my lap, and I taped a few to the dash. I had to leave several jars at home. I try not to think about the dizzying number of jars I’ll have to sell in six months to make thirty thousand dollars.

I make my way to the market, and as I get down the mountain the humid air of the valley fills my lungs. The scents are lovely – fresh-cut grass, flowers and rich soil. I’m envious of such fertile ground.

When I get to Town Park, the sidewalks are lined with an assortment of people – hippies, cowboys, farmers and so many who are a blend of each. One of the best parts of this little town is the mix of people who love things home-grown and home-made. Nearly everyone makes their living off the land, so all nature provides is rarely taken for granted. I’m happy to be among them now.

I back the car up the alley where vendors are busy setting up booths with local flowers, vegetables and freshly baked breads. I didn’t eat breakfast, and my senses are on high alert. The aroma of sourdough and cinnamon swirls through the warm air, luring me to the baker’s booth.

“Good morning,” I say to a woman in a sunflower jumpsuit. She’s kneeling with her head in a box.

“Hi there,” she says, levering herself to stand. “I’m not open just yet.”

It’s Cash’s mom again.

“Oh, I’m a vendor too,” I say, “but I’m not sure I can make it through the day without one of those cinnamon rolls. If you’re busy, though, I understand.”

“Not too busy for someone so sweet.” She chuckles and walks to the giant cinnamon rolls on a silver tray. “These are made with wheat my neighbour grows.” She uses tongs to place one in a paper box and holds it out to me.

“Thank you! How much?” I set the edge of my case of cherries on her table and dig in my pocket.

“Now, wait a minute,” she says, eyeing me. “Aren’t you the girl who bought a cinnamon roll from me at the Silver Springs rodeo?”

“Sure am. It was amazing.”

“Are you selling those cherries?”

“Yep, and I have fresh Bings and Rainiers too.”

Cash’s mom waves off the money I offer her and grabs a jar from the case.

“OK, how about this? I’ll give you the cinnamon roll and a sourdough loaf for a jar of your cherries. Or, I have flowers.” She points to her side, where several buckets of colourful bouquets are arranged.

“The flowers are amazing, but I’m afraid they’ll wilt while I’m here.” I smile.

She proceeds to slide the sourdough, scored on top with a flower pattern, into a paper bag. I balance the cinnamon roll and bread on top of my jars and bring the case close to my chest, biceps aching. With my chin holding down the loaf, I tell her thank you.

“I’m sorry to keep you.” She eyes me balancing my precarious load. “But you’re the youngest vendor I’ve ever met. Have you heard about the yearly competition for producers your age?”

I shake my head.

“It starts at the Pinto Valley county fair and rodeo in a few weeks. You pitch your product, go through a couple of rounds of judging – a public tasting, then a panel of experts. If you make it into the top two, you win prize money. If you get first place, you win a booth at the Colorado State Fair.”

A bead of sweat trickles down the middle of my chest as I balance everything, including what she’s just told me. “That’s amazing. Do you think I’d qualify?”

“You have to be under twenty-one, I think. And be willing to go through some food-safety stuff.” She smiles. “But I don’t see why not.”

“OK – thank you so much!” I shake my head slightly, my heart soaring with hope. “I’m definitely going to look into it.”

If I secured a spot at the state fair, surely I wouldn’t have any trouble paying off the ranch’s debt. It brings in tens of thousands of people.

“Hey, before you go…” she says, studying the jar of cherries. “Next time don’t forget to put your phone number and address on your label. It’s required.”

I smile. “OK, thanks. I didn’t know that.”

After bringing the first case of cherries to my booth, I set up my collapsible table and smooth the cherry tablecloth across the top. I found it in one of Grandma’s boxes – the outer edge is bright red-and-white gingham, the inside aqua blue. Cherries printed on the trim hang from curved stems in twosomes with a green leaf on each. She used it every time she sold cherries.

I walk back and forth from Mom’s car to the booth, and with each case, my arms feel like they’re getting both stronger and weaker. My hands shake with anticipation as I set out the jars, each ruby-red cherry glimmering in the first rays of bright sunlight shining into my booth. I sit down on the stool and snatch the cinnamon roll out of the sun. My first bite is filled with the rich, buttery dough, the warmth of cinnamon, and the gentle tartness of the cream cheese. I believe if heaven were a food, it would be honey, but this cinnamon roll is a close second.

My phone buzzes with a message from Lani. Aloha. Good luck today. You’ve got this!