Every November, the pecan tree in Grandma Rosa’s backyard dropped its nuts all over the grass. And every November, Grandma Rosa handed Mateo a bucket.

“Fill it to the top,” she said, “and we will have enough for pies at Thanksgiving.”

Mateo groaned. Picking up pecans was tedious work. He had to bend down again and again, and each nut made only a tiny click when it landed in the bucket. After ten minutes, the bottom of the bucket was barely covered.

Then Grandma Rosa came out of the shed with an old wire tool on a long handle. She rolled it across the grass, and the pecans popped up inside the wire basket. “Your grandfather made this,” she said. “He hated bending down too.”

Mateo laughed and took the handle. He rolled it back and forth under the tree, and soon the bucket was half full. Grandma Rosa sat on the porch step and told him about the year Grandpa had tried to sell pecans at the farmers market and had eaten more than he sold.

By the time the sun went down, the bucket was full. Mateo’s back did not hurt at all, and he knew three new stories about a grandfather he had never met.

“Same time next year?” Grandma Rosa asked.

“Same time next year,” Mateo said, and he meant it.