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Copyright 2012 Von L Cid

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Quentin and the Quarters

 

“How much further, mama?” Quentin kicked the seat in front of him.

“We're almost there. I'm trying not to get lost. Ooh, I think this is it.”

“Is this it?”

“Sure is.” His mother pulled the car to a stop. He unbuckled and waited for his mother to open the door. When he jumped out, he looked down from a hill at row after row of six foot tall blueberry bushes.

He followed his mother as she led him down the hill and between two rows of bushes. He took deep breaths, enjoying the sweet smell of fresh blueberries.

Quentin saw another family picking berries, a large family. They all wore long-sleeve plaid dress shirts, hats and blue jeans. He counted six children. They varied in ages from five, like him, to high school age, like his cousins. The kids and the parents were busy picking blueberries.

When they reached the end of the bushes, Quentin saw the farmer. Quentin and his mother stood in line behind a five year old girl who carried a pint basket full of blueberries. The farmer smiled politely, took her basket, and handed her two quarters and an empty basket. She walked back into the rows of bushes.

“Howdy ma'am.”

“Hi there. We'd like a pint please.”

The farmer reached down, picked up the basket the girl had just dropped off, and tried to hand it to his mother.

“No, sorry, we would like to pick the blueberries ourselves. That's half the fun after all.”

“Oh…of course. Yes, it is fun.” He handed Quentin an empty basket. “There you go, big fella. What you got in your hand there? Quarters? Okay, that will be eight quarters, can you count to eight?”

I'm five, I can count to one hundred, Quentin thought.

A boy came up behind them, maybe ten. Quentin turned to look at him. He looked tired. He held a basket full of blueberries.

“Quentin, pay the man.” His mother pulled his attention back to the farmer.

Quentin raised a fistful of quarters and dropped them into the farmer's waiting hand.

“Thank you, champ. Have fun picking your blueberries, careful not to squeeze them too hard.”

“Come on, sweetie,” his mother said, pulling his arm.

Quentin turned and saw as the boy handed the man a full basket. The man gave him two of Quentin's quarters.

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

“Why did that man give that boy two of my quarters?”

She turned to look at what he was referring to. “Well, he pays this family to pick blueberries because he can't pick them all himself.”

“But we paid him to pick blueberries, and he pays them to pick blueberries?” He was shaking his head, “I don't understand.”

“It's hard to explain sweetie, I know. You can ask your dad when we get home.”

Quentin and his mother picked a bush that did not look like it had been picked through. Quentin started to pry some berries off the bush. One squished between his fingers, turning them purple. He noticed a hole through the branches. It went clear to the other side of the bush. There he saw the little girl from the line. They locked eyes. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Quentin returned the insult. She smiled back, causing him to smile. She giggled and went out of view. She kept coming back and giggling every time she saw Quentin, a five year old version of peek-a-boo. Even as they played, both the kids filled their baskets.

“Mama?”

“Q?”

“Do you think daddy wants a basket of blueberries?”

“I'm sure he would love one. That's nice of you to think of him.”

“Can I have eight quarters?”

“Sure.” She reached into her purse and counted out eight quarters. “Here you go. The farmer is on the far side, over there.”

“I have a better idea. I'll be right back.”

Quentin ran around the bush and went up to the girl. He reached out his fistful of quarters and motioned for her basket, which was practically full. The girl thought about it for a second, then traded. Quentin carried the basket back to his mother.

“Look mama, I just bought it from the girl,” he said proudly. “That way she gets more than just two quarters for it.”

“Hmm.” His mother had a look of disapproval. “Well, technically that's stealing from the farmer.”

Quentin shook his head. He was confused again.

His mom shot a look at the farmer. She pulled out a bag from her purse and poured the blueberries into it. “Here, give this back to the girl. Hurry before she runs off.”

“I don't understand, mama.”

“Your dad will explain it to you later. Hurry.”

Quentin ran up to the girl, who was counting her quarters and handed her the empty basket.

When he returned, his mother was staring at the farmer. “Let's go, we're leaving,” she said.

 

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