“I got it.”
He looked toward the notebook on her lap.
“What’s that?”
“Paper.”
“I can see that.”
Mariabel smiled.
“Then we're both having a productive afternoon.”
Merl stared.
Finally he rolled up his window.
The Buick drove away.
Mariabel waited until he disappeared.
Then opened the notebook.
Merl Blackwood.
Head buyer.
Warned me without being asked.
She paused.
Then wrote:
Never met a man who volunteered a warning without a reason.
The next morning, Mariabel drove to the Westby Farmers Cooperative.
She needed salt blocks.
Twine.
Two bags of mineral supplement.
The moment she entered, conversation shifted.
Not stopped.
Shifted.
That was how small-town gossip worked.
Nobody needed silence.
Only a different tone.
Red Coleman stood near the counter.
He grinned.
“Carrot queen.”
Mariabel ignored him.
Another farmer asked:
“Horse sick yet?”
“No.”
“You sick?”
“Not yet.”
Laughter.
Mariabel placed her supplies on the counter.
Then she heard Merl’s voice.
He was near the coffee machine.
“You know, people get desperate and start seeing treasure in garbage.”
More laughter.
Mariabel looked over.
Merl was telling the story.
Her story.
Before she had told anybody what she planned to do.
A farmer asked:
“What'd she pay?”
“Sixty dollars.”
“Sixty too much.”
Merl chuckled.
“Cannery couldn't touch that crop.”
Mariabel carried her purchases to the counter.
Merl noticed her.
His smile widened.
“There she is.”
Mariabel paid.
The clerk avoided her eyes.
Merl called:
“How are the carrots?”
Mariabel picked up her bags.
“Still orange.”
The men laughed.
This time not entirely at her.
She walked outside.
Sat inside her truck.
Opened the notebook.
Under Merl’s name she wrote:
Man is worried.
Then she drove home.
The first experiment began that afternoon.
Mariabel had no intention of feeding whole carrots randomly.
Her father had raised dairy cattle.
Daniel had raised beef.
She knew sudden changes could upset animals.
So she started small.
She washed several bushels.
Chopped the carrots using an old silage cutter with Harlon’s help.
Mixed small amounts with hay and grain.
The horses accepted them immediately.
The cattle did too.
Harlon watched one steer eat enthusiastically.
“Well.”
Mariabel leaned against the fence.
“Well what?”
“They're not dead.”
“High standard.”
“What do you want?”
“Respect.”
“Too expensive.”
She threw a carrot at him.
Harlon caught it.
By the third day, Mariabel had another problem.
Storage.
Carrots needed cool conditions.
Wisconsin autumn helped.
But sixty tons could not simply sit in wet piles indefinitely.
She converted part of an old potato cellar.
Spread straw.
Improved ventilation.
Sorted out rotten roots.
Still too much.
She needed another outlet.
The green notebook came back out.
She wrote:
Potential uses:
Horse feed.
Cattle supplement.
Pig feed?
Juice?