Wrong plate, and the machine might drop too many kernels, skip rows, crack seed, or feed irregularly.
Modern equipment had begun replacing many old plate systems.
But modern equipment cost money.
A lot of money.
And 1990 had not been kind to every farmer in their part of the Midwest.
Some families still planted with machinery older than the boys driving it.
The thirteen-year-old looked again at the crates.
The laughter around him no longer mattered quite as much.
He had not proven anything.
He could still be wrong.
Three hundred and sixty-four dollars of his savings might truly have become rust.
But something inside him said not to walk away.
His father arrived six minutes later.
He was forty-two years old, tall, lean, weathered, and wearing the expression of a man who had just discovered his son had done something expensive without permission.
He stared at the crates.
Then at the receipt.
Then at his son.
“How much?”
The boy swallowed.
“Three sixty-four.”
His father's eyes closed.
Not dramatically.
Just long enough to hurt.
“Of your money?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Most.”
The father looked into the crate.
He lifted one plate.
Rust fell from it.
Then he looked at his son again.
“You bought these?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“I think they're planter plates.”
The father stared at him.
“The sign says planter plates.”
“No.”
“I mean good ones.”
His father rubbed his forehead.
A farmer standing nearby smiled.
“Boy says he's got treasure.”
The father glanced toward him.
The man laughed.
“Better get a bigger bank account.”
The father did not laugh.
That helped.
He looked at his son.
“You know what they're for?”
“Not yet.”
“Then why did you spend three hundred sixty-four dollars?”
The boy reached into the crate.
He pulled out the 24-B plate.
“Because they were sorted.”
His father stared.
The boy continued quickly.
“Look at the dividers.”
“Some are corn sizes.”
“Some look like bean plates.”
“These sprockets are grouped.”
“And this casting mark…”
He rubbed the symbol again.
“Grandpa had a book with this symbol.”
His father's expression shifted.
“Your grandpa had a lot of books.”
“I know.”
“You remember which one?”
“No.”
That answer weakened everything.
The father exhaled.
The auctioneer called another lot in the background.
Bidding began on a cultivator.
The father looked at the crates again.
Then his son.
“You worked for that money.”
“I know.”
“I told you it was yours.”
“I know.”
“That means you're allowed to make your own mistake with it.”