The winter he turned fourteen was dry. October had been stingy. November had not helped. December froze the ground briefly and gave them almost nothing useful. By January, James had eighteen months of notes and one idea he could not leave alone.
He wanted to plant trees.
Not a pretty row by the driveway.
Not a sentimental orchard.
Two hundred fifty native trees placed where the farm was bleeding most.
Eastern red cedar and native hardwoods along the western edge to slow the wind. Wild plum and deep-rooted species along the creek bed to hold the bank and catch runoff. A third cluster in the northeast corner where the soil was most exposed. He had chosen species that belonged in that region, species that could survive poor soil and drought long enough for their roots to matter.
One evening, he laid the notebook across the kitchen table.
His father studied the sketches, the spacing, the species list, and the hand-drawn maps. He had farmed that land for years. His father before him had farmed it too. A boy telling a grown farmer the field needed trees could have sounded like disrespect if James had said it wrong.
