The Music of Bees Eileen Garvin (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

listened to what she had to say about the lawsuit, asked some good questions, and signed the petition. She felt a rising sense of hope. Maybe it wouldn’t be impossible to rally the south valley orchardists to this cause, she thought. Alice hadn’t planned to stop at Paris’s place. He wasn’t on Doug’s list, but his mailbox was right down the road from Victor’s. She hesitated and then swung in the gate.

She parked behind Fred’s white Ford and walked to the back door. She could hear The Dr. Laura Show blaring out of the kitchen radio. Fred’s wife, Ellen, appeared, looking none too friendly, and pointed Alice toward the barn before letting the screen door bang shut. Fred came out of the barn wiping his hands on a rag.

“Well, Alice Holtzman! Looky here. Haven’t seen you in ages.”

Fred was about ten years older than Alice, and though he had grown up in the valley like she had, for some reason he affected a Southern accent. Fred always took great care in his appearance. His Wranglers were ironed with a crease, and his boots shone. He wore his ginger hair in a short buzz and favored ornate belt buckles. “The Bantam,” her mother had called him. “He’s a horse’s ass,” Al had said, but her father had also reminded her that she didn’t have to like everyone, just get along. Fred was a third-generation orchardist. He’d grown up farming with his grandparents. Surely, he’d at least listen.

Alice mustered a smile. “It sure has, Fred. I don’t think I’ve seen you since Dad’s funeral.”

He nodded and polished the toe of one shiny boot on the back of his jeans and folded the rag into a neat square. “Good man, your father. Don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

“Thanks, Fred.”

“Broke the mold.”

Though her father hadn’t liked Fred, Fred had liked Al. There were loads of men like that, Alice noted, at the reception following the funeral. Half the county had shown up for Al at the Elks Club, it seemed. People circulated the room, taking her hand and offering their condolences. Some, like Fred, teared up as they told stories about Al. It was a testament to her father’s diplomacy, she supposed. She thought of that then as she decided what to say to Fred about SupraGro, hoping his respect for her father might ease the way.

She pulled her clipboard out from under her arm. “Look, Fred, you know my folks sold their place before they died, so I don’t have the orchard anymore.”

He nodded, folded the rag again, and tossed it on the hood of his truck.

“Still, I care deeply about the industry and keeping these trees healthy.”

She hated the way she sounded. Stilted, like she was reading an ad.

“Sure, Alice. I know you do,” he said, cracking his knuckles.

Encouraged, she went on.

“It might sound sort of strange, but I’ve gotten into honeybee keeping in the past few years.”

“Is that right?” Fred said, raising his eyebrows.

Alice gave a self-conscious laugh. “It’s pretty fascinating, actually. But what’s really interesting are the connections between local honeybee populations and the health of the orchards. The USDA did a study on this that showed that orchards near healthy honeybee populations had a twenty-five percent increase in fruit production.”

“You don’t say.”

She nodded. “Yes, those numbers were from 2012. I have a copy of the study here if you want to take a look at it.”

She struggled with the clipboard and pulled the flier loose. She held it out, and Fred glanced at it but didn’t take it.

“That’s mighty interesting,” he drawled. “Funny, I was just reading a different study that said orchards increased their yield by fifty percent using commercial support. As a matter of fact, this study showed that over time, the yield can increase as much as sixty percent. That’s a lot of apples, Alice.”

His smile became a sneer. She gripped the clipboard.

“Fred, the researchers who did that study were paid by SupraGro. That’s not exactly what you’d call objective science, is it?”

Fred pulled a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and picked his teeth. “Objective? I don’t know, Alice. I s’pose it depends on who you ask. Your tree-hugger friends at Watershed aren’t exactly known for their objectivity now, are they? Libel and defamation is what I heard.”

She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“You ask your ol’ friend Stan. That lawsuit against the dams last year made a lot of nice folks mad. You people,” he scoffed. “‘Oh, the environment! The climate is changing!’”

His voice rose to a falsetto, and he waved his hands in the air.

“Just love drama, don’t you? I’m stickin’ with my friends on this. Chenowith asked me to be a local point person for the spring spray. I said yes, out of courtesy, of course. Friends stick together.”

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a catalog, which she recognized from the CP meeting. He tossed it onto Alice’s clipboard. “Have a look at that and let me know if you have any questions, Alice.”

He walked away, leaving her standing in the dusty driveway.

Her hands were shaking, and her face blazed. What would her father have said? For starters, Fred would never have spoken to her dad like that, or any other man, she thought. She dropped the SupraGro catalog on the driveway and left. She drove south toward Dan McCurdy’s farm, the next on Doug’s list, but pulled over and cut the engine and tried to slow her breathing. How could she even reason with someone like Fred Paris? The good old boys’ network would trust Bill Chenowith and believe the so-called science of the pesticide company. People thought Stan was a crazy hippy, even though he had a master’s in environmental science and a law degree. This town was so small-minded sometimes.

No one was home at McCurdy’s. Discouraged, she headed back to the farm. Jake sat at the picnic table, peering at his laptop, and waved as she drove up.

“Hey, kid,” she said, and sat down