Some were young.
Others were middle-aged.
They wore summer dresses and held glasses of lemonade.
Across the bottom, someone had written:
THE SEVEN OAKS CIRCLE — SUMMER 1996.
I studied the faces.
My mother stood near the center.
She was only thirty-four.
Beside her was Mrs. Wilson, her dark hair streaked with gray.
And surrounding them were five other women.
I looked at Mom.
“Who are they?”
Her eyes filled.
“My friends. We formed a neighborhood land trust together thirty years ago.”
“A land trust?”
Mom nodded.
“We bought and protected several adjoining properties around the old Hawthorn Orchard.”
I remembered the orchard.
It lay behind our neighborhood, beyond a narrow creek and a row of abandoned farm buildings.
When I was little, Mom used to take me there to pick apples.
Mrs. Wilson made pies from them.
But most of the land had become overgrown years earlier.
“Why would anyone want that property?” I asked.
