Widow Willow Minor And James

Widow Willow Minor and James

She Turned an Orphan into a Man in Blake's Orchard

by

Donald Mallord

Copyright February 15, 2025

11,700 Words

Author's Notes

My thanks to Kenjisato for spotting the errors so this piece could be read without those jarring head-twisters.

____________________

After Apple-Picking by Robert Frost

My long, two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

...

____________________

Sweating Bullets

James hunched over his business-math exam, gripping his pencil as if he could force the numbers to make sense. He was sweating bullets—not over the exam. The classroom was silent, except for the scratch of lead on paper and the steady ticking of the clock. Too steady. Too fast. His mind wasn't on compound interest or balance sheets. It was on the ghost of a touch—light as a whisper—on his shoulder. He glanced up into those buttercup eyes. She blinked with a wry smile.

"James, you got this. Clock is ticking though. If you need more time..."

He nodded in acknowledgment, wondering how she maintained that classroom decorum so well. He couldn't focus on the test with her at his side, or even in the same room. Surely, she felt the same way.

Willow Minor's voice was gentle, soft enough not to disrupt the silence in the room. Then, just as quickly, her hand lifted, and she moved on to check the progress of the others. But James was no longer focused on the exam.

His thoughts drifted back to last Saturday at Blake's Orchard. Willow Minor had guided him through the rows of late-ripening apples. She insisted it was time to pick the late bloomers, but James sensed something was off. Then, beneath a sprawling old Macintosh tree, he spotted a blanket spread out— a quiet picnic for them.

"Happy birthday, James," Willow's gentle voice said. "You're eighteen now. That's something to celebrate."

He hadn't expected it. No one had ever given James anything like this before. In that moment, with the warm sun filtering through the leaves, an errant ladder caught between branches pointing toward heaven, and Willow watching him with an understanding smile, James felt a shift inside him. A quiet, powerful longing unsettled him more than he could admit.

More time for the exam. If only he had more time at Blake's Orchard!

His gaze drifted toward the window, where the gray October sky stretched cloudless all the way to the orchards. A gust of memory swept in—back to Blake's Orchard, to a weathered wooden sign leaning by the roadside.

Blake's Orchard -- Pickers Wanted

He had stopped the rickety-old bike right there, sweat still clinging to his back from the morning's dairy chores. The farm where he lived took everything from him—his labor, his time; there was no pay, just room and board. As a state ward, he resided in a foster farm home. If he wanted something for himself, he needed to find another way to earn it. He had become captivated by the photo display in the school's main hallway. Photos arranged by kids formed a collage of images from around the village. He could envision himself pinning up photos there. Joining required a 35-millimeter camera, which wasn't a luxury. Taking on an extra job was his shot at the after-school photo club and his chance at something beyond cattle stalls and morning milking.

As he rode his bike up the gravel driveway, weaving between rows of apple trees, he searched for a guy named Blake. However, when he rounded the corner of the barn, he unexpectedly came face-to-face with the last person he expected—the woman who managed the orchard.

Willow Minor.

The captivating business teacher was known for enchanting her students with her lessons and was the inspiring sponsor of the after-school camera club.

"Mrs. Minor..." he said, staring at the woman in a man's long-sleeved shirt tied in a knot at the waist, poured into a pair of worn blue jeans and tennis shoes. Her long hair pulled back in a ponytail gave her the image of a working girl... on the farm, rather than the role of a teacher. At first, he barely recognized her.

"James..." she asked, her voice rising in wonder.

"I was looking for a Mr. Blake. Saw the sign out front."

She smiled at the uncertainty in his gaze, "Mr. Blake was my grandfather. His farm is now mine, to have and to hold until death do us part."

Her gaze swept over the strong young man as he asked about work, leading her to hire him immediately without any questions.

The work was tough but fair. As they sorted and hauled, he shared pieces of his story with her—the foster homes, farm chores, and the constant feeling of being someone's responsibility, yet never truly belonging to a family. She listened, truly listened, and in return, shared her own story. A widow for three years, her husband, a test driver for Ford, had died in a crash at the Proving Grounds, leaving her to manage the orchard—an inheritance from her grandparents. Her modest teaching salary covered her bills, while the farmstead kept her grounded and thriving. She valued both, and wouldn't give up either.

In a way, both were isolated at this point in their lives. James Milford was an anomaly, causing people to overlook him for adoption at a young age. Widow Willow Minor was another anomaly in a small village rife with whispers about how it was wrong for a beautiful woman to reject suitors and choose to live her life through her students and business ventures, instead of becoming a replacement wife for some local.

After Apple-Picking

The extra hours at Blake's Orchard had filled him with hope and dreams, as he worked toward buying a camera for the after-school program. The orchard smelled of ripe apples and damp earth, with the crisp scent of autumn riding the breeze, reminiscent of Robert Frost's poem 'After Apple-Picking.' James wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, shifting the heavy canvas sack of apples higher on his shoulder. The job was more demanding than he had anticipated—stooping, picking, hauling—but it was his own. His time. His money. Not the foster farm's.

Willow worked alongside him, guiding him on what to cull, what to save for second pickings, and which specials for the local store would earn more money than what the bulk buyer paid. Her movements were efficient yet unhurried. She was different from other adults he had known—she never talked down to him or barked orders. She worked alongside the other pickers, but concentrated on training the newcomer. She asked questions during the quiet moments between filling crates—nothing pushy; just enough to encourage him to speak.

"You saving up for something?" she asked, dusting dirt off her hands.

"A camera," James said, tossing another apple into his sack. "A 35-millimeter for the after-school photo club."

Willow's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You're into photography?"

"Trying to be," he admitted. "Club requires a real camera. Not something cheap."

She nodded, as if weighing something. Then, just like that, the conversation moved on.

The next day, she surprised him.

When he arrived on that old rusty bike, she stood near the barn with a camera slung over her shoulder—a Kodak Retina I, well-worn but clean. "Figured you'd want a head start," she said, handing it to him. "It's a spare. You can use it while you save up."

James hesitated. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," she said, with a small smile. "If you're going to be picking apples, you might as well learn to frame a good shot."

During breaks, she coached him on composition and playing with depth by blurring backgrounds while keeping the subject sharp. "Photography is about what you see," she said. "But equally important, is what you don't."

The following afternoon, as he gathered his canvas bag, she handed him an envelope of glossy prints.

His stomach flipped as he thumbed through them. His first shots—closeups of apple stems, the rolling orchard landscape, and even a candid of Willow adjusting a crate—looked real. Not just snapshots, but something more.

"You developed these?" he asked.

Willow nodded, leaning against a wooden crate. "Got a full darkroom in my basement. Comes in handy. I do some portraits on the side—weddings, graduations."

James examined the prints once more, a subtle thrill curling in his chest. For the first time, photography seemed attainable—not merely some distant endeavor, but something he could actually pursue.

Milford flipped through the glossy prints, their weight unfamiliar in his hands. He traced his thumb over a shot of an apple hanging low on a branch, the background blurred into golden hues. It looked like something out of a magazine, as if created by real photographers.

Hesitant, he inquired, "What is the cost of development?"

Her head tilted slightly. "Depends. Black-and-whites are cheaper if you do it yourself. Colors are a lot pricier."

He exhaled sharply, handing the photos back. "I can't afford that while saving for a camera."

Willow pushed the pictures back toward him. "I didn't say you had to pay."

His shoulders stiffened. "I don't take handouts."

Her lips quirked, like she'd expected that answer. "Good. Because I wasn't offering one."

"Then what are you offering?"

She crossed her arms, drawing his attention to her breasts—an action that James quickly noticed. Feeling uneasy, he tried to look away. A young man's behavior often would reveal his thoughts, and Willow understood this. He was just like any other teenager in school. Inwardly, she smiled, and uncrossed her arms, recognizing his discomfort.

"Help me out as a second shooter for a wedding next Saturday. I'll handle the ceremony shots, but receptions need more coverage—table photos, dancing, all that. I could use an extra set of hands."

His brows knit together as he glanced up again. "I've never even been to a wedding."

Willow's expression softened, but she didn't pity him. "Then it's about time you did."

James hesitated. He wanted to say yes—he needed the experience and access to film and development—but something nagged at him.

"I don't have anything to wear."

She glanced over his burly physique and nodded like she'd anticipated that, too. "I still have some of my husband's suits. Been meaning to let them go." She paused, in thought over how James Milford would fill them out. "I think he'd like the idea of someone getting good use out of them."

James swallowed hard, uncertain of how to respond. Part of him wanted to refuse—wanted to cling to the stubborn independence he had always maintained. But another, quieter, deeper part recognized the significance of her offer.

Finally, he gave a slight nod. "Alright. Deal."

Willow extended her hand. "Done deal."

He shook her hand, the roughness of her palm pressing firmly against his own. It sent a jolt through him. Despite her strong grip, her hands felt delicate. The touch of a woman, even if only for a moment, was cherished. James's peculiar grin and uneven ears hadn't won him much hand-holding during his school years.

A trade. A fair one.

And maybe the start of something more.

The Wedding Gig

With farm chores hurriedly finished, James arrived at Widow Willow's house Saturday afternoon, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, trying not to appear as out of place as he felt. Her house was small but tidy, tucked at the edge of the orchard. A blue Ford pickup was parked in the gravel driveway, its tailgate lowered. Several black camera bags sat in the bed, neatly organized.

Willow met him at the door, wiping her hands on a towel. "Right on time. Help me load the rest?"

"Yeah, sure," he muttered, following her inside.

The house smelled of coffee and wood polish. He spotted framed photos on a shelf—portraits, landscapes, and a few black-and-white shots that looked like they came straight out of an old photography book—a life captured in stills. He paused to study a ruddy man standing in front of a race car with a proud grin. Without the straight grin and ear issue, he could have stood there with his crooked smile; everything else about him closely resembled the image in the photo.

They loaded tripods, light stands, and additional film cases into the truck. After the last bag was secured, she turned to him.

"Alright, let's get you dressed."

James stiffened slightly. "I can just wear—"

"Something that doesn't look like you came straight from the barn?" she finished, smirking. "Come on, I won't put you in anything ridiculous."

She led him to a small guest room where a few suits hung on the door. "Pick one."

He hesitated before running his fingers over the fabric. "These were his?"

Willow nodded. "Yeah, but clothes are meant to be worn, not left in a closet for moths to feast on." She took a navy suit off the hanger. "Give this a try."

It fit better than expected, though the sleeves were a bit long. When he emerged, tugging at the cuffs, Willow nodded approvingly.

"Sharp," she said, then picked up a tie. "You know how to—?"

He shook his head.

"Alright, come here."

She stepped in front of him, looping the fabric around his collar with practiced ease. "Little trick," she said, adjusting the knot. "Tie it loose at first, then tighten it at the end."

James stood still as she worked, unsure of what to do with his hands. Her movements were patient and methodical. He desperately tried to look elsewhere, but found his gaze drawn to the neckline of her dress, never having been this close to a girl or woman before. School dances and intimate encounters with girls weren't experiences for orphans in foster care. A hint of perfume lingered in the small space between them. He breathed it in, noticing the distinct femininity that set them apart.

"There." She stepped back and smiled. "Look at you. Practically respectable."

He rolled his eyes, but a corner of his mouth twitched upward as he caught a glimpse in the full-length mirror. An orphan with a crooked smile and an ear lower than the other didn't look so bad in a suit.

"Come on," she said laughingly, grabbing her keys. "Let's make some magic happen."

The venue was a rustic barn lit with string lights, the kind of place people pick for weddings to make it look like something out of a movie. Guests in pastel dresses and sharp suits milled about, laughing to the soft hum of a live band setting up.

James had never seen anything like it.

Willow handed him a newer camera—still a Kodak Retina I—but its sturdy metal body felt cool in his hands. "This was mine when I first started," she said. "Remember, you won't get a second chance at a shot, so trust your instincts. Focus on sound composition and lighting, just like we practiced."

"Got it," he muttered, adjusting the focus ring and peering through the viewfinder.

She led him through the day, guiding him on angles, lighting, and the importance of natural moments. "Capture them as they are, not as you think they should be," she instructed.

As the ceremony started, James positioned himself at the back of the room, his camera clicking in rhythm with the vows. He focused on framing the couple from a lower angle, capturing how the light illuminated their faces in that perfect moment of love and commitment.

For group shots afterward, Willow stood beside him, pointing to various family members. "Stagger people," she suggested. "Tall in the back. Relax their hands, though. No stiff poses. And keep an eye on where the light's falling—don't let it cast shadows across their faces."

His hands were steady as he worked, adjusting settings he had practiced with Willow in the orchard. He captured wide shots and candid moments. For the first time, he felt the camera's weight not merely as a tool, but as a means to create something significant.

Willow glanced at him once, nodding approvingly. "Not bad, James. You've got the eye."

He didn't need to hear any more. The thrill of the work itself was enough.

Sunday: The Darkroom

Morning farm chores were done, and that afternoon, Willow waved him inside and led him down a narrow staircase to the basement. The darkroom was a world of its own—red light bathing the space, the scent of chemicals thick in the air.

Willow handed him a small, black changing bag and motioned toward the film canister on the table. "Alright, you'll open the canister and load the film onto this spool. But it has to be done in complete darkness, so we will use the bag."

James eyed the bag warily. "I'm supposed to do this without seeing anything?"

She nodded. "You'll feel your way through it. It's not as bad as it sounds. It's what we will use in school."

James grabbed the bag, tugging the zipper tightly around his shoulders. His body stayed outside, but his hands were trapped inside the dark, lightproof fabric. He instantly experienced a wave of disorientation as the world around him turned pitch black. He swayed, trying to regain his balance.

"I got you," Willow giggled, as her hands clamped around his waist steadying his rocking until he found his balance. She held him a bit longer, just to be sure.

His heart pounded at her grasp. Then refocused as he reached for the film canister with his hands, the cold metal sending a shock through his fingertips. He twisted the top, hearing the click, but couldn't see a thing. The film felt fragile between his fingers—if he slipped, it would be ruined.

He cursed under his breath as his hands fumbled for the film itself, feeling around and trying to grasp it without exposing it. Each moment stretched out, and the lack of sight made him feel more vulnerable.

Finally, he found the film reel and carefully fed it onto the spool. His hands shook with the effort, but he focused, his fingers making the delicate motions to determine whether the film survived this first step.

After what felt like hours, he finished. His skin was clammy, as he pulled his hands from the bag, and let out a long breath of relief.

Willow raised an eyebrow. "How'd it go?"

"I thought I was gonna screw it up," James admitted, wiping the sweat from his brow. "It was like trying to do something without knowing if I had the right tools."

Willow smiled. "You did great. It's all part of the process. Like many things done in the dark—it will become second nature."

James overlooked the innuendo in her smirk.

"Alright, we'll start developing now that the film's loaded. But before we do that, let me show you what to look for."

James stood by, his hands still a bit shaky from the bag. Willow pulled a few prints from the drying rack and held them up.

"These are the kinds of shots to keep," she said, pointing to one of the candid moments during the wedding ceremony—a groom wiping a tear from his bride's cheek. "Natural, unposed. These are the ones that tell the story."

She flipped through a few more, showing him others of the couple laughing, exchanging vows, and even a quick shot of the flower girl. "These are fine, but we don't need too many like this. Focus on the details that make the day unique."

James nodded, making mental notes. "And what about the ones we don't keep?"