Then they came back.

Then went again.

After several trips, I realized what they were doing.

They had found our big blue gardening bucket.

And they were collecting the fallen apples.

Nobody had asked them.

They were simply cleaning up.

But instead of taking the apples toward the house, they carried them toward the fence.

Their reasoning was obvious.

The tree belonged to Dale.

The apples came from his tree.

So the apples must belong to him.

Simple childhood logic.

Honestly, I was proud of them.

Then Dale came outside.

He reached the fence before they did.

“Those belong to me,” he said.

Leo stopped.

“What?”

“All of them. Every apple from my tree.”

Leo looked down at the bucket.

“But they fell in our yard.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s my tree.”

I stood up from my chair.

The children looked at each other.

Then they obeyed.

Because they had been raised to respect adults, even when the adult wasn’t being particularly respectful in return.

 

They gathered every apple.

Not just the ones already in the bucket.

They went under the swing set.

Into the flower bed.

Along the fence.

Maya was only six.

She could carry about three apples at a time.

She made four trips.

Four.

Each time, she glanced toward me on the deck.

I finally called out,

“Dale.”

He ignored me.

He simply stood by the fence accepting each load and putting the apples into a bag.

When the children finished, he tied the bag closed.

Then he looked directly at me.

“Nice,” he said. “Teaching them to steal early, are you?”

Maya immediately started crying.

Leo didn’t.

And somehow that hurt even more.

He stood there with dirty hands and red ears, staring at the ground.

I wanted to march straight to the fence.

I wanted to tell Dale exactly what I thought about nine years of cleaning up fruit from his tree only to have him humiliate two children who were trying to help.

Instead, I took two pictures.

One of Maya wiping her face.

One of Leo standing silently in the yard.

Then I sent them to Rob.