“With what?”
“Accusing county employees of falsifying records.”
“I said you drew a bad map.”
“That is not what you said.”
“It is exactly what I said.”
The Older Farm Woman touched her son’s sleeve.
He looked at her.
“Mother.”
“Not yet.”
The words frustrated him.
She understood.
He had spent the last four months trying to keep the farm alive while men in offices discussed whether he understood farming.
He wanted a fight.
The Older Farm Woman wanted something better.
The County Inspector turned back to the field.
“The mixed-row planting is not part of the approved plan.”
“No.”
“The manure compost was not approved.”
“No.”
“The seed-saving practice was not approved.”
“No.”
“The contour ridging does not follow the county layout.”
“No.”
He exhaled.
“Then what exactly are we discussing?”
The Older Farm Woman held a glass jar against her apron.
Inside was a dry mixture of bean seed, corn seed, clover seed, and a dark powder she used in small amounts when planting legumes.
The County Inspector had asked about it twice.
Both times with suspicion.
She now lifted the jar slightly.
“We’re discussing whether your plan matters more than the soil.”
The inspector stared.
“The county does not regulate according to personal philosophy.”
“No?”
“No.”
The Older Farm Woman looked down at the ridge he had kicked apart.
“You seemed very personal with that one.”
The Field Agent looked away again.
The Farmer Son almost smiled.
The inspector’s cheeks reddened.
He shoved the notice toward the younger man’s chest.
“Seven days.”
The paper struck his shirt.
The Farmer Son caught it before it dropped.
“Seven days for what?”
“To bring these acres into compliance.”
“You mean destroy them.”
“To correct the planting.”
“It’s August.”
The inspector shrugged.
“Then terminate the demonstration acreage and prepare it for approved fall cover.”
The Farmer Son looked toward the field.
Squash nearly ready.
Beans producing.
Corn filled.
Sunflowers alive with bees.
His mother’s seed rows.
Their winter vegetables beginning in shaded strips.
“You want us to plow this under.”
“I want compliance.”
“That is the same thing.”
The County Inspector stepped toward the fence and pointed.
“These plantings are irregular, undocumented, and unsuitable for controlled evaluation.”
The Older Farm Woman said, “They’re feeding us.”
“That isn’t how the program is measured.”
“That may be your first problem.”
The inspector looked at her.
She looked back.
The Field Agent finally moved.
“Mr. Inspector.”
The County Inspector turned.
The Field Agent held one of the sealed envelopes.
“We should probably review the laboratory sheet before issuing final remediation.”
“I already issued it.”
“I noticed.”
Something in the younger man’s tone changed the air.
The County Inspector narrowed his eyes.
“You said preliminary results were available.”
“They are.”
“And?”
The Field Agent hesitated.
That hesitation interested the Older Farm Woman.
The County Inspector noticed too.
“Just say it.”
The Field Agent opened the envelope.
He pulled out three pages.
The Farmer Son stepped closer.
The Older Farm Woman stayed where she was.
She had learned long ago that news does not improve when chased.
The Field Agent read.
“Organic matter on Whitfield mixed plot: four-point-eight percent.”
The County Inspector frowned.
“That’s high.”
“Yes.”