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We got in the jeep and Gramma sped through the pineapple fields. She braked suddenly and made us get out. Ben and I picked pineapple after pineapple, until our pink suits were stained with red dirt. The jagged leaves of the plants cut my hands. Before leaving, Gramma flung our Easter baskets into the opposite field. When we got to the ranch she had us shovel manure and wheelbarrow in our suits until the seams split. She told us to stuff all our pockets with dung beetles. Gramma never washed them. Instead, she packed them in a box that she sealed with duct tape. Ben presented my mother with the box upon our return to Honolulu. She opened it and the smell nearly knocked her over. A note read, "Dear Mary, quit dressing your sons up like sissies."