An elderly farmer climbed out.
He walked with a limp and carried a cracked metal disc in one hand.
The boy recognized him from church but had never spoken to him.
The old farmer approached the auctioneer first.
“Did the planter plates sell?”
The auctioneer pointed toward the boy.
“All of them.”
The elderly farmer looked surprised.
“To him?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“One eighty.”
The old man walked quickly toward the crates.
The older farmer in overalls smiled.
“Come to congratulate our newest scrap magnate?”
The elderly farmer ignored him.
He picked up one of the plates that had fallen into the dirt.
Rubbed the stamping.
His face changed.
He picked up another.
Then another.
The boy stepped closer.
The elderly farmer looked at him.
“Where’d you find this lot?”
The boy pointed toward the auction barn.
“They were already here.”
The elderly farmer turned toward the auctioneer.
“Whose estate?”
The auctioneer looked through his sheet.
“Retired implement dealer from three counties east.”
The elderly farmer looked back at the plate.
“What did you pay again?”
“One eighty.”
The old man let out a short breath.
Then he held up the cracked plate he had brought from his truck.
He placed it against the boy’s rusted one.
The mounting holes matched.
The outer diameter matched.
The seed openings matched.
Even the stamped number was identical beneath the corrosion.
24-C.
The older farmer’s smile faded slightly.
“What is it?”
The elderly farmer looked toward him.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Original Prairie Standard twenty-four-cell corn plate.”
“So?”
“So they stopped casting these twenty-eight years ago.”
The crowd became quieter.
The elderly farmer pointed toward the crates.
“There are still hundreds of Prairie Standard and early Midland planters running around this county because the frames last forever.”
“Most replacement plates disappeared years ago.”
The older farmer shrugged.
“You can improvise.”
“With corn maybe.”
The elderly farmer held up the cracked plate.
“Try improvising when the plate breaks during planting and the replacement holes meter wrong.”
“You’ll plant doubles in one stretch and skips in the next.”
The boy’s father looked toward his son.
The boy was already digging through another crate.
The elderly farmer asked:
“What else is in there?”
The boy answered without looking up.
“Soybean plates.”
“How many?”
“Not sure.”
“Small grain?”
“Some.”
“Sorghum?”
The boy pulled one out.
“Probably.”
The old farmer crouched beside him.
They began checking markings together.
The crowd that had been laughing five minutes earlier slowly moved closer.
The older farmer in overalls remained standing.
Arms crossed.
Still skeptical.
Then another farmer pushed through.
“What’s going on?”
The elderly farmer held up a plate.
“Prairie Standard.”
The newcomer frowned.
“You sure?”
“Look.”
The man took it.
His expression changed.
“I’ve got a four-row at home.”
“What plate?”
“Twenty-four corn.”
The old farmer pointed toward the crates.
“Congratulations.”
The man stared at the boy.
“You selling?”
The boy had not considered that the question might arrive immediately.
He looked toward his father.
His father looked back.
One hundred eighty dollars.
Everything the boy owned.
The older farmer laughed again, but less comfortably now.