“Don’t get excited.”
“Rust doesn’t make antiques valuable just because you recognize the name.”
The elderly farmer stood.
“No.”
“Planting season does.”
That sentence stayed with the boy for months.
At the time, he did not understand how important it would become.
The next spring would make sure he did.
For now, however, he still had nine hundred pounds of problems that needed to get home.
Actually, far more than nine hundred pounds.
His father borrowed a flatbed trailer from an uncle.
It took five men and the boy almost an hour to load all the crates.
The older farmer watched.
Before leaving, he called:
“Hey, kid.”
The boy turned.
“You ever get tired of looking at them, I’ll give you two hundred.”
A few farmers laughed.
The boy smiled for the first time.
“No, thanks.”
“Two ten.”
“No.”
The farmer’s smile disappeared slightly.
The boy climbed into his father’s pickup.
His father started the engine.
They drove away with the overloaded trailer rattling behind them.
For the first three miles, neither spoke.
The boy waited for the lecture.
His father was good at quiet lectures.
He never needed to shout.
A few calm sentences could make a person feel worse than an hour of yelling.
Finally his father said:
“You knew what those markings meant.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“The old planter manual.”
“What old planter manual?”
“The one above the workbench.”
His father frowned.
“The red binder?”
“Yes.”
“That thing came with Grandpa’s planter.”
“I know.”
“You read it?”
“Most of it.”
“Why?”
The boy thought.
“I was bored.”
His father looked toward him.
“Other children collect baseball cards when they’re bored.”
“I have baseball cards.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
“That explains it.”
The boy smiled.
His father did not.
Not yet.
“What else do you know?”
The boy turned toward the rear window.
The crates bounced behind them.
“Prairie Standard built plate planters before the newer finger-pickup designs got popular.”
“I know that much.”
“You still have Grandpa’s.”
“In the weeds behind the machine shed.”
“It works.”
“It worked fifteen years ago.”
“It still turns.”
The father sighed.
“Continue.”
“The plates determine how many seeds drop.”
“And spacing.”
“And seed size.”
“Yes.”
“Different plates for different crops and seed grades.”
His father nodded.
“I grew up with them.”
The boy looked toward him.
“Then why didn’t you bid?”
His father was silent.
That question irritated him.
Not because he lacked an answer.
Because the answer was too simple.
“I saw rust.”
The boy looked out the window.
His father continued:
“And I saw something old.”
“Everybody did.”
“Yes.”
The pickup traveled between harvested cornfields.
His father glanced toward him.
“You saw parts.”
The boy nodded.
His father’s voice softened.
“That does not mean you’re right about value.”
“I know.”
“We could clean nine hundred plates and discover eight hundred fifty belong to planters nobody owns anymore.”
“I know.”
“You could have spent two years of savings on three dollars’ worth of scrap.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”