Chapter 2: False Promises and Sinking Fields

The bus stopped at the entrance to Maple Hollow. The town manager, Mr. Jenkins, had been waiting for a while. He grinned so wide his eyes disappeared. "Dr. Parker, our town’s finally welcomed a real expert."

The old Maple Hollow sign creaked in the breeze behind him—hand-painted, the red letters faded, a stray barn cat winding around the post. Jenkins’s handshake was bone-crushing, but his smile never reached his eyes.

"Don’t worry, the town’ll cooperate. If you need people, you’ll get people. Need land? We’ll find it. We’ll do everything we can to help you grow strawberries. Our prosperity depends on you."

He gestured like a game show host showing off a grand prize. The desperation in his voice was easy to miss if you weren’t listening for it.

I smiled and thanked him. After turning down a university position and a lucrative job at the state agricultural extension office, I insisted on coming to this poor, remote place to help the farmers, hoping to make a real difference.

Sometimes I wondered if my dad would’ve called it stubbornness or idealism. Maybe both. But I wanted to see what one determined soul could do when given a real chance.

The next day, I set up a whiteboard in the town community center and officially began training the townsfolk.

The community center smelled faintly of popcorn and Pine-Sol. A faded banner from last year’s chili cook-off drooped over the stage, and somebody’s kid was thumping a basketball in the hallway. Rows of metal folding chairs creaked as folks shuffled in, boots thumping on the linoleum. My whiteboard was flanked by stacks of old 4-H trophies.

Mr. Jenkins had gone door to door last night to notify over a hundred households, but only about half showed up.

Some people kept their heads down, muttering under their breath.

A woman in a John Deere cap whispered to her husband, who just stared at the floor. In the back, a couple of teenagers doodled on their hands with ink pens.

"Strawberries are such delicate things. Can we really grow them here? What if we lose everything?"

"Yeah, growing corn is so much safer. No matter if it’s drought or flood, you always get something. Why risk it on some new variety…"

Their doubt hung in the air heavier than humidity on a July morning.

I didn't say anything. It was expected.

Deep down, I understood. Change is a hard sell in a town that’s seen more heartbreak than harvest.

The folks were afraid of poverty. Generations of farming poor, thin land had made them cautious. Such a big change felt like a matter of life and death.

They’d lost so much already, and here I was, another outsider with big plans. I couldn’t blame them for being gun-shy.

I took a deep breath and began to explain.

The words tumbled out of me—growing tips, numbers, case studies, the smell of strawberries in bloom—but I could see their eyes glazing over. I tried to sound hopeful, but my hands trembled just a little as I wrote on the board.

After only five minutes, Mr. Harris in the back row yawned loudly. "Dr. Parker, why are you talking so much? Just tell us when we can make real money."

He slouched in his chair, arms crossed, already checking his phone. "Yeah, just tell us how much we can earn, that’s all we need. All this other stuff is useless," he grumbled.

Another man popped open a can of Mountain Dew, slurping loudly in agreement.

I patiently explained, "To make money, you gotta learn first. Once the technique is solid, the money will come naturally."

I tried to sound calm, like a teacher explaining fractions to a restless class. Inside, my patience was fraying.

"Oh, growing crops is such a hassle." Mrs. Carter curled her lip, stood up, and walked out. "I’ve got a pot roast in the oven. I’ve listened for so long and haven’t heard a word about money."

She adjusted her purse, her footsteps echoing down the hall. Someone muttered, "At least her house will smell better than this old gym."

A few others got up too, muttering about "wasting time" and "better off playing cards."

As the crowd thinned, the room felt colder, lonelier. I stared at the dust motes dancing in a shaft of sunlight, wondering if I was chasing a pipe dream.

Watching half the people leave, I forced myself to finish the lesson and handed out printed planting manuals, one for each household, with pictures and text, even the water and fertilizer schedules clearly marked.

I’d spent weeks designing those guides, printing them at Kinko’s after hours, using every trick I’d learned from my old ag professor. I tried to make the instructions foolproof, but I knew you can’t force someone to care.

Then I started going door to door to offer guidance. Just as I reached Mr. Harris’s house, before I could knock, I heard the sound of shuffling cards and laughter inside.

The sweet-and-sour smell of cheap whiskey drifted through the screen door. I hesitated, listening to the easy camaraderie inside—so different from the tension at the meeting.

"Harris, how are your strawberry seedlings?"

"Who cares, live or die," Mr. Harris replied disdainfully. "That Parker keeps nagging about humidity and pH, growing crops like it’s a science project. What does she know about real farming?"

A beer bottle clinked. Someone snorted, "Probably couldn’t make it in the city."

"Yeah, calls it helping farmers, but who knows what she’s really after." Mr. Harris spat. "If she really cared, why not just give us money?"

I stood outside the door, my hand frozen in midair.

The sting of their words made my face burn. I wondered if they’d ever seen me as anything but an ATM with muddy boots. I let my hand drop to my side and stared at the peeling paint on the porch, feeling smaller than ever.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Mr. Harris poked his head out with a fake smile. "Dr. Parker, what brings you here? Come in and have a seat."

His voice was syrupy, but his eyes darted behind me, already calculating what I’d heard. I could see the sweat on his brow.

I looked at his forced enthusiasm and managed a smile. "No need, I just came to check the fields."

I forced myself to sound pleasant, but my heart wasn’t in it. I tugged my jacket tighter around me, wishing I were anywhere else.

Mr. Harris’s eyes darted around, then he suddenly sighed. "Dr. Parker, you have knowledge. Everyone trusts you and wants to grow strawberries, really, but we just can’t take the risk."

He pressed a hand to his chest, like he was trying to keep his heart from falling out. "Last year we planted peppers, and a hailstorm wiped everything out. Lost all our money. Now every household is in debt. Where would we get money for fertilizer and greenhouses? Who dares try something new?"

He played the victim smoothly, but his eyes were watching my reaction.

I caught the hint of a smirk when he thought I wasn’t looking. Still, I couldn’t deny their struggle was real; you could see it in the sagging fences and patched-up barns around town.

What he said wasn’t wrong. I’d heard about last year’s peppers from Mr. Jenkins.

Rumor had it folks were still arguing over whose insurance claim went through, and more than a few dinners were skipped that spring.

"Actually, everyone’s afraid. If the strawberries fail, we can’t repay the loans, and we’ll have to mortgage our houses." He spoke, sneaking glances at my face. "Dr. Parker, you’re capable. If you really care about us… could you help us out first? If strawberries are really that good, we’ll pay you back when we make money."

He said it almost sweetly, but the hook was there. The other men at the table nodded, their card game forgotten for a moment.

There was a hook in his words. A few card buddies joined in: "Yeah, Dr. Parker, if you can, help us out."

One of them even offered a crooked smile, as if we were in on some secret together.

I was silent for a while.

The folks were lazy and calculating, but the project had just started, and the demonstration field hadn’t shown results yet. If I pushed too hard and they quit, all my previous efforts would be wasted.

I weighed my options, staring at the frayed rug beneath my boots. Sometimes, you have to give before you can ask.

"Fine, I’ll front the cost of building the greenhouses." I Venmo’d Jenkins the $7,500 right there on his porch, my thumb hesitating over the send button. "Mr. Jenkins, you go buy the supplies."

The air felt tight, like the whole house was holding its breath. I saw relief—and a little triumph—flicker on Harris’s face.

Mr. Harris’s eyes lit up and he grinned. "Oh, Dr. Parker is really generous. Don’t worry, we’ll do exactly as you say."

I caught a wink passed between him and the others. I forced a nod, my chest tight.

I didn’t say much and turned to leave.

I shut the door behind me, the laughter resuming as if nothing had changed. For a second, I considered packing it in right then.

I thought the townsfolk would fully cooperate now, but something still went wrong.

There’s an old saying—never bet your wallet on someone else’s hunger.