“And he would rather his granddaughter have food than sentimental acreage.”
The Farm Girl pressed her hands together.
Her grandfather had died four years earlier.
She remembered his voice better than his face some days.
He had taught her to sharpen mower blades with a file.
To listen for bearing noise.
To keep fingers away from belts even after engines stopped.
And to never throw away useful iron just because it looked ugly.
“Rust means neglected,” he used to say. “Not dead.”
She had remembered that sentence.
The next afternoon, the Farm Girl rode her bicycle toward the western section of Dry Creek.
Not because she had a plan.
Because staying near the soybean field hurt.
The tires kicked dust from the gravel road.
Heat shimmered above pastures.
She passed the Carlson farm first.
Then the Miller place.
Then the old Dalton barn.
Behind the Dalton machine shed sat a pile of metal.
She had seen it before.
This time she stopped.
Lengths of irrigation pipe lay crooked against one another.
Some aluminum.
Some galvanized steel.
Several sections were bent.
A valve assembly lay half buried beneath weeds.
There were couplings with split rubber seals.
Old elbows.
Clamps.
A rusted wheel valve.
Pieces of equipment that looked to the Farm Girl less like junk than a puzzle someone had quit solving.
She leaned her bicycle against the fence.
Two Neighbor Farmers stood near the barn drinking from glass soda bottles.
One noticed her.
“What you looking at, kid?”
“The pipes.”
The second man laughed.
“Want to buy ’em?”
“I don’t have money.”
“Then that’ll make negotiations difficult.”
Both men laughed.
The Farm Girl ignored them.
“Do they work?”
The first farmer looked at the scrap pile.
“Some did twenty years ago.”
“Why’d you stop using them?”
“Got a proper pump system.”
“Where did those go?”
“Different fields.”
She pointed.
“What’s wrong with that one?”
“Coupling split.”
“That one?”
“Bent.”
“That one?”
“Valve’s frozen.”
The farmer finally looked more carefully at her.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking.”
“For what?”
She shrugged.
That made the second farmer grin.
“You planning to irrigate your daddy’s beans with scrap?”
The Farm Girl looked toward the distant Harper place.
Everybody knew about the crop.
Everybody knew about the debt.
Adults believed children did not hear such things.
Children heard nearly everything.
“I might.”
The men exchanged amused looks.
Then the first farmer called toward the pile.
“Take it.”
The girl turned.
“What?”
“All of it.”
The second man laughed.
“Sure. Maybe you can build yourself a swimming pool.”
The first farmer added, “Bring a truck. Anything behind that barn you can haul is yours.”
The Farm Girl studied their faces.
“You mean it?”
“Yes.”
“Every pipe?”
“Every useless inch.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
Then she climbed onto her bicycle and rode home.
The farmers laughed behind her.
By sunset, the Farmer Father had heard.
He stood beside the pickup while his daughter climbed into the passenger seat.
“You asked those men for junk?”
“They gave it to me.”
“They were making fun of you.”
“I know.”