Families.
People took photographs.
One woman asked Ruth if she could bring her children for pictures.
Ruth allowed it if they stayed at the edge.
Soon half the county seemed to know the Walker sunflower field.
Ethan hated the attention.
He wanted seed.
People wanted beauty.
At breakfast one morning, Ruth showed him a newspaper.
Front page of the county section.
WALKER FARM FINDS COLOR IN DIFFICULT SUMMER
Photograph of Field Seven.
Ethan groaned.
“What?”
“They made it sound like decoration.”
Ruth read:
“Fourteen-year-old Ethan Walker decided to brighten the family farm—”
“I did not decide to brighten anything.”
She laughed.
“Listen.”
“No.”
“Local residents have been enjoying—”
“They're not paying the mortgage.”
Ruth folded the paper.
“You are absolutely your father.”
The beauty stage ended.
Petals dropped.
Heads bent downward.
The field became less photogenic and more valuable.
Seed developed.
Ethan cut sample heads.
Dried them.
Threshed by hand.
Weighed seed.
The numbers looked good.
Too good.
He recalculated.
He did not tell anyone.
Then the birds discovered Field Seven.
Blackbirds.
Thousands.
They arrived one morning like smoke.
Ethan heard them before seeing them.
He ran from the barn.
The western edge of the field moved with birds.
His heart stopped.
“No.”
He drove the tractor out.
Honked.
Shouted.
Birds lifted.
Circled.
Returned.
He tried scare devices.
Reflective tape.
Noise.
A propane cannon borrowed from a fruit grower thirty miles away.
The first blast almost gave Ruth a heart attack.
Neighbors hated it.
Birds eventually treated it as weather.
Damage increased near the edges.
Ethan estimated losses.
Three percent.
Then five.
Potentially more.
He called the specialty buyer.
A representative named Susan Harper answered.
“What do growers usually do?”
“Harvest as soon as moisture permits.”
“That's it?”
“Bird control is difficult.”
“I know.”
“You need to watch head maturity.”
“I am.”
“Don't harvest too wet just to outrun birds. Drying penalties can erase what you save.”
Ethan wrote everything down.
“What oil level do you usually see?”
“Depends on hybrid and growing conditions.”
“What earns top premium?”
She told him.
Ethan looked at the contract.
He had memorized it.
Still looked.
“How do I know before delivery?”
“You can send a sample.”
“How long?”
“About a week.”
Harvest might begin sooner.
No time.
He would have to discover at delivery.
September brought cooler nights.
The sunflower stalks turned.
Leaves dried.
Heads browned.
Seed moisture declined.
The combine presented the next problem.
Daniel’s machine was old.
A Massey Ferguson that sounded sick even while healthy.
The grain header was designed for crops nothing like tall sunflower stalks.
Ethan and David built pans.
Long tapered extensions beneath the cutter bar to catch loose heads and seed.
They used sheet metal from an old livestock feeder.