A grasshopper sprang from the vines and landed on Walker’s boots. He froze. Normally, he’d shake it off, but the quiet of the moment kept him still.
“Don’t move,” Grammy whispered, delighted. “Oh, I love the little grasshoppers.”
“I won’t,” he promised, smiling down at the small bug. The insect flexed, considering him for a moment, then bounced away into the green. “Does it hurt them? Flooding the bog?”
Grammy shook her head. “No, dear. They like the water, and it’s necessary. We flood in the fall so we can harvest. It makes the berries float. In a month, this will look like a proper cranberry bog.” She looked down at the ripening fruit. “Right now, they’re busy becoming what they’re meant to be.”
Walker rolled one between his fingers. It was firm and cool. “They’re lucky. They know what they’re supposed to be.”
She laughed, startling a blackbird from the reeds of the nearby lake. “Yes, they do. Sour if picked too early, but worth the wait if given the time they need. Maybe a bit like you.”
“Hey,” he said, laughing. “I’m in my prime.”
She reached over and patted his cheek. “Maybe, but you’re still of two minds, aren’t you?”
He pretended not to know what she meant, and they walked on. The planks creaked softly beneath their weight. In the distance, a tractor idled near a hay field, low and steady. Gramps waved to them before getting back to work.
“Here we go, then. We need to check for pests.” Grammy stepped off the plank path and into the bog without hesitation.
Walker hesitated only a second before following. The softness of the vines underfoot surprised him. “I’m not hurting them, right?” he asked, worried.
“Don’t stomp,” Grammy said without turning. “They’re tougher than they look, but they don’t like being bullied.”
He adjusted his steps, lifting his boots more carefully. The cranberries nudged against him, tapping his shins.
They stood together, looking out over the stretch of green. He tried to picture it as a field of red, ripe berries, ready to be harvested. “Can I come back when they’re red?”
“Of course,” Grammy answered with a smile, eyes soft. “You’re welcome here anytime, sweet boy. Now, let’s get to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They worked quietly together for a while, looking over the flowering vines. Walker had no idea what he was looking for, but Grammy would occasionally point to a weed, and he’d pull it out before tossing it in the basket he carried.
“Do you do this every day?”
“Twice a week. I have a routine for each day, just like you, young man. Monday and Friday, I care for the bog and gardens; Tuesday through Thursday, I work in the family’s store; Saturday, I nose around my children, making sure they’re not making a mess of things; and Sunday is family time.”
“Don’t you get tired? I thought you were retired.”
“At my age, work is either your prison or your peace. For me, it’s my peace. It keeps me happy and sane.”
“I’m afraid of losing that,” he whispered. “The military fits me. I know what I’m doing each and every day.”
“If you leave, you’ll create a new routine.” She huffed and pointed out another weed. “It will be hard going from seeing the world as a straight line. Someone points, and you go. It’s easier. Eventually, though, you’ll have to be the one pointing for yourself.”
He sighed. “I like straight lines.”
Grammy chuckled. “Real life isn’t straight lines. You don’t have a single road to travel on. It’s more like a garden.
“A garden?”
“Everything’s wild and has a mind of its own. Growth is quiet, not loud or dramatic. You can’t force your plants to growfaster. You water them, you tend them, and you wait. Sometimes it will surprise you with how quickly it grows, but most of the time it takes ages.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“It is.” She gently smacked his arm, laughing. “Do you like tending to this bog?”
Walker smiled slightly. “Yeah, it’s peaceful, and I like spending time with you.”
