At the time, he believed he could keep the farm going with ordinary hard work.
But farming had become more expensive.
Fuel prices changed.
Equipment repairs arrived without warning.
Crop prices fluctuated.
And the family still owed money on a machinery loan from several years earlier.
His wife worked long shifts as a respiratory therapist at a regional hospital.
Her income helped pay the household expenses.
But the farm itself needed to support its operations.
That year, the numbers weren't cooperating.
The drainage problem threatened to ruin nearly fourteen acres of corn.
The farmer had already exhausted the repairs he could attempt without specialized equipment.
Then a local contractor estimated that locating and replacing the damaged outlet might cost thousands of dollars.
The farmer stared at the estimate.
For several seconds, he didn't speak.
Then he folded the paper.
Placed it in his shirt pocket.
And went outside to sit on the porch.
His thirteen-year-old son found him there.
The boy was wearing his favorite blue plaid shirt and brown overalls, with dusty boots and a small notebook sticking out of his front pocket.
He leaned against the porch railing.
“Bad news?”
His father looked toward the field.
“Depends how you look at it.”
The boy waited.
The farmer sighed.
“The drain's going to cost more than I hoped.”
“How much?”
His father hesitated.
“Enough.”
The boy looked toward the darkening cornfield.
Then asked, “Can I help?”
The farmer smiled tiredly.
“You already do.”
“I mean with the drain.”
His father shook his head.
“That's grown-up work.”
The boy frowned.
“I know things about the field.”
“I know you do.”
“Grandpa showed me the old maps.”
The farmer looked up.
“What maps?”
“The ones in his workshop.”
The man's expression changed.
He remembered the boxes his father left behind.
Old photographs.
Weather notebooks.
Handwritten measurements.
And pieces of paper showing the property before modern drainage pipes were installed.
Most were stored in the barn loft.
The farmer hadn't examined them in years.
He looked toward his son.
“Those things are old.”
The boy nodded.
“That's why they're interesting.”
His father laughed softly.
Then looked back toward the field.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
But tomorrow came with another rainstorm.
And the farmer forgot.
The boy didn't.
The boy's grandfather had died when he was nine.
He remembered the older man clearly.
A narrow face.
White hair.
Rough hands.