His grandfather’s red parts binder helped with Prairie Standard models.
The county library provided agricultural equipment catalogs.
A retired dealer loaned him manuals.
The local implement shop had stacks of old microfiche and paper books in the basement.
The owner let the boy look through them as long as he swept the floor afterward.
He learned numbering systems.
A 16-C did not simply mean sixteen holes.
Cell depth mattered.
Seed shape mattered.
Plate thickness.
Hub design.
Mounting notch.
A plate that looked almost identical could plant badly if used with the wrong seed grade.
He learned why older farmers carried pocket knives when buying seed.
They cut bags open and checked kernel size.
Rounds.
Flats.
Large.
Medium.
Small.
He learned soybean plates had different openings.
Sorghum demanded smaller cells.
Beans could crack if the plate and cutoff mechanism did not match.
By December, he had cleaned 412 plates.
His hands stayed orange-brown from rust.
His mother banned him from using kitchen towels.
His father built him a cleaning station from an old bench.
Wire brushes.
Kerosene.
Rags.
A hand-cranked grinder with a wire wheel.
The boy refused to grind heavily.
He did not want to change dimensions.
Instead, he removed surface rust and exposed markings.
He painted nothing.
The plates did not need to look new.
They needed to remain accurate.
He started a notebook.
Each page contained:
Manufacturer.
Part number.
Diameter.
Cell count.
Cell shape.
Condition.
Quantity.
Known planter models.
Possible crop.
Source reference.
By Christmas, the notebook was thicker than some of his school textbooks.
His English teacher noticed him writing in it during lunch.
“What is that?”
“Inventory.”
“For what?”
“Planter plates.”
She stared.
“Of course.”
She had taught him for two years.
Few things surprised her anymore.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Sell some.”
“Then you need prices.”
The boy had thought about that.
“How do I know what they’re worth?”
“What did you pay?”
“Twenty cents each.”
“Approximately.”
“That tells you what they were worth to the auction.”
“Not what they’re worth to the next person.”
She pulled a chair over.
“Supply.”
“Demand.”
The boy frowned.
“We did that in social studies.”
“Yes.”
“Apparently it applies outside tests.”
He smiled.
She continued:
“What happens if someone needs one plate and there are one hundred available?”
“Cheap.”
“What if one hundred people need a plate and only one exists?”
“Expensive.”
“Now ask yourself something harder.”
“What?”
“How expensive should it be?”
The boy looked at her.
“That’s not economics.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“That’s character.”
He remembered that too.
Winter settled over the farm.
Snow covered machinery.
The crates remained inside the barn.
By January, the boy had cataloged 731 usable plates.
Ninety-three definitely scrap.
Forty-one bent but possibly repairable.
The rest uncertain.
Of those 731, at least 286 fit planters he knew still operated locally.
He began making phone calls.