“Because I know.”
His father shook his head.
Then, finally, smiled.
A little.
“You’re still cleaning every one.”
The boy smiled too.
“I know.”
They arrived at the farm before sunset.
The farm was not large.
Three hundred twenty acres.
Some owned.
Some rented.
Corn.
Soybeans.
A little sorghum.
Twenty-seven beef cattle.
One old red tractor.
One newer green tractor his father still owed money on.
A gray barn.
White farmhouse.
Machine shed.
Windbreak of cottonwood trees.
The family had survived.
That was the word his father used.
Not prospered.
Not failed.
Survived.
The late 1970s had been unpredictable.
Fuel costs had climbed.
Fertilizer bills had increased.
Land values were rising but so were interest rates.
A farmer could look wealthy on paper while worrying whether the bank would renew an operating loan.
The boy heard those conversations through walls.
His parents thought children did not notice.
Children noticed everything adults lowered their voices to discuss.
The previous spring had been wet.
Planting delayed.
Then summer turned dry.
Corn yields mediocre.
Soybeans better.
Not enough.
His father still owed the implement dealer.
The bank.
Seed company.
Veterinarian.
A repair shop.
The boy knew buying plates would not save the farm.
He also knew losing $180 would matter.
His mother came out when she heard the trailer.
She stopped on the porch.
Looked at the crates.
Then at her husband.
“What is that?”
His father pointed toward the boy.
“Ask your son.”
She did.
The boy explained.
Not well.
By the time he reached the phrase “discontinued seed plates,” his mother was holding her forehead.
“You spent all your savings?”
“Almost.”
“How much almost?”
“Three dollars and forty cents left.”
She stared.
“You counted the cents?”
“Yes.”
His father leaned against the pickup, trying not to smile.
She looked at him.
“This is funny?”
“No.”
“You let him?”
“I attempted not to.”
“Attempt harder.”
The boy said:
“I can sell some.”
His mother looked toward the crates.
“To whom?”
“Farmers.”
“What farmers?”
“Farmers with old planters.”
“How many of those are there?”
The boy hesitated.
“I don’t know yet.”
His mother pointed toward the barn.
“Then I suggest you find out.”
That became the assignment.
The boy spent the next five months finding out.
Every afternoon after school, he changed into work clothes and went to the barn.
First he sorted.
That alone took three weeks.
He built categories on the floor.
Prairie Standard.
Midland.
International.
John Deere.
Unidentified.
Cracked.
Bent.
Maybe repairable.
Scrap.