By Andrea Lingle

Let me sing for my beloved my love-song concerning his vineyard: My beloved had a vineyard on a very fertile hill. He dug it and cleared it of stones, and planted it with choice vines; he built a watchtower in the midst of it, and hewed out a wine vat in it; he expected it to yield grapes, but it yielded wild grapes. And now, inhabitants of Jerusalem and people of Judah, judge between me and my vineyard. What more was there to do for my vineyard that I have not done in it? When I expected it to yield grapes, why did it yield wild grapes? And now I will tell you what I will do to my vineyard. I will remove its hedge, and it shall be devoured; I will break down its wall, and it shall be trampled down. I will make it a waste; it shall not be pruned or hoed, and it shall be overgrown with briers and thorns; I will also command the clouds that they rain no rain upon it. For the vineyard of the LORD of hosts is the house of Israel, and the people of Judah are his pleasant planting; he expected justice, but saw bloodshed; righteousness, but heard a cry! Isaiah 5:1–7

When I met her, she was sitting in a rocking chair on a front stoop just big enough for her chair, a pot of red geraniums, a mat that did not say welcome, and me. Around us, the bushes, perfectly green grass, and sidewalk were pruned, mown, and edged to sterility. I was thirteen years old, wouldn’t qualify as a wind-break for a shrew, and was on a mission to mow as many lawns as I could in one summer. Behind my neighborhood there was a farm with rail fences and three glossy horses—two chestnuts and a bay. I went to visit them every day. The bay loved carrots, but the other two preferred apples. A lesson cost $50. I had calculated up that I could mow three yards a day for $10 a piece. By the end of the summer, I would be able to ride. This was my first stop, but, the way this place looked, I figured I would be on my way within the hour, $10 closer to hoofbeats.

Mrs. McCafferty listened to me and creaked back and forth in her chair. Her feet were shoved into pink satin slippers, and she was wrapped in a loosely crocheted shawl. There was a thermometer on the wall with a red bird on it. The long black pointer was a little past the 90 degree mark, but there she sat, clutching the shawl around her. I pointed to the red push-mower I had found in the back of my grandma’s garage. It had started on the twenty-fifth pull that morning, but it was mine. When I finished talking, Mrs. McCafferty smiled and pushed herself off her rocking chair with the arm rests. 

“Come with me, girl.”

We walked, slowly, around the side of her house, into the back yard. The tidy lawn ended. The grass was mixed with various scrubby weeds, all looking exhausted under the sun, and so long they would hide a mid-sized terrier. A few industrious weeds even stood taller than the lanky postman who brought the bills and circulars. A stand of pokeweed flourished, topped with the hanging bunches of berries that would ruin any clothing it came in contact with. In the middle stood an enforcement of overgrown rose bushes. On the north side of the house a bush with long green leaves and spent bundles of blossoms crowded the eves.

“Wow.” I observed, economically.

“Your price is $10? For the whole yard?” Her voice was quiet and polite. I stared hard at the complication of plant life. There was a squirrel busy with gathering and chewing. Three yellow butterflies floated among the weed blossoms. It would take hours, possibly days, to earn that $10. Mrs. McCafferty’s voice wandered into the mess. “This was my husband's garden. He spent hours back here. I tried for a while, but it’s like the whole place missed him. Then I guess I gave up.” The sun made my straw hat smell like hay. I rolled my feet sideways, standing on the edges of my feet. 

“Will you help me?”