then sweep the walkways and gutter, which is going a little overboard, if you ask me.
And you’d think Juli’s dad—who’s a big, strong, bricklaying dude—would fix the place up, but no.
According to my mom, he spends all his free time painting.
His landscapes don’t seem like anything special to me, but judging by his price tags, he thinks quite a lot of them.
We see them every year at the Mayfield County Fair, and my parents always say the same thing:
The world would have more beauty in it if he’d fix up the yard instead.
Mom and Juli’s mom do talk some. I think my mom feels sorry for Mrs. Baker – she says she married a dreamer,
and because of that, one of the two of them will always be unhappy.
Whatever. Maybe Juli’s aesthetic sensibilities have been permanently screwed up by her father and none of this is her fault,
but Juli has always thought that that sycamore tree was God’s gift to our little corner of the universe.
Back in the third and fourth grades she used to clown around with her brothers in the branches
or peel big chunks of bark off so they could slide down the crook in its trunk.
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