He smiled awkwardly.
“I guess I don't.”
They spent an hour walking.
The old system needed renovation.
Not blind preservation.
Some trees should come out.
Others were healthy.
The windbreak could be redesigned rather than erased.
Ethan asked:
“So you're saying keep all of it?”
“No.”
“Cut all of it?”
“No.”
He laughed.
“You ever give easy answers?”
“Only when reality does.”
He shook his head.
Claire pointed toward a mature cedar.
“Don't confuse old with useless.”
Then toward a dead elm.
“And don't confuse conservation with refusing to change anything.”
That became another sentence James stole for presentations.
Claire charged him imaginary royalties.
Brad grew older.
So did Claire.
One evening, nearly twenty years after he had laughed across the fence, he stopped his truck beside the Moss property.
Claire was pruning a damaged limb.
Brad leaned on the fence.
“Remember the first day?”
“Yes.”
“I really was an ass.”
Claire laughed.
“You were committed.”
“I thought I knew exactly what productive ground looked like.”
Claire climbed down.
Brad looked at the mature trees.
“I used to see this and think about acres you weren't planting.”
“What do you see now?”
He considered.
“Wind insurance.”
Claire smiled.
“Not bad.”
“Moisture insurance.”
“Sometimes.”
“Soil insurance.”
“Closer.”
Brad pointed.
“And birds.”
“Too many birds.”
They laughed.
Then he became quiet.
“My grandson wants to farm.”
“Good.”
“He's got ideas.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Very.”
Brad smiled.
“Some of them sound ridiculous.”
Claire waited.
Brad continued.
“I’m trying not to laugh.”
That meant more to her than the apology years earlier.
Not because laughter was harmful.
Because certainty was.
Brad had learned the same thing Claire had.
An idea did not deserve respect because it was new.
Or young.
Or environmental.
Or old.
It deserved investigation.
What problem does it solve?
What does it cost?
What does it risk?
How do you measure it?
What happens if you're wrong?
Those questions were far more useful than laughter.
And far more useful than blind enthusiasm.
On a mild spring morning, Claire walked the east boundary with Ruth.
Her mother was slower now.
She stopped frequently.
Placed her palm against trunks that had once been thinner than her thumb.
“This one yours?”
Claire smiled.
“They’re all technically mine.”
“No. I mean did you personally plant this one?”
Claire looked at the spacing marker she could barely see anymore.
“Probably.”
Ruth touched the bark.
“You remember?”
“Not each tree.”
“I do.”
Claire laughed.
“No you don't.”
“I remember you out here looking miserable.”
“That I believe.”
Ruth looked down the row.
Three hundred forty had become fewer over the years.
Some died.
Some were replaced.
Some naturally spread.
The exact number no longer mattered.
Ruth said:
“Your father would've laughed.”
Claire smiled.