Nobody seemed sure.
Then one afternoon Walter Preston called.
“I found something.”
Mariabel drove to his office.
Walter placed an old agricultural bulletin on the desk.
“Vegetable byproducts for livestock.”
Mariabel scanned it.
“That's not what you found.”
“No.”
Walter removed another sheet.
A transportation receipt.
“How'd you get this?”
“Public cooperative record.”
The document listed several rejected produce loads from the previous year.
Buyer:
Blackwood Agricultural Brokerage.
Mariabel looked at him.
“Merl?”
“Maybe family.”
“Address?”
Walter pointed.
Same road.
Different mailbox.
Mariabel's expression hardened.
“What did they buy?”
“Off-grade carrots.”
“How much?”
Walter shook his head.
“Not enough information.”
“What happened to them?”
“Don't know.”
Mariabel stood.
Walter raised one finger.
“Careful.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“You're angry.”
“I'm interested.”
“Mariabel.”
She looked at him.
“Interest can make people reckless too.”
She folded the copy.
“I'll remember.”
Merl was not at home when Mariabel drove past the address.
But a truck was.
The side panel read:
BLACKWOOD AGRICULTURAL BROKERAGE.
Underneath:
FEED AND PRODUCE.
Mariabel did not stop.
She drove on.
That evening she wrote:
Merl says rejected carrots worthless.
Blackwood Brokerage buys rejected carrots.
Question: where do they go?
Spring 1972 arrived muddy.
Mariabel planted corn.
Repaired fence.
Calved cattle.
Life became too busy for mysteries.
Then Frank Delaney called.
“You growing carrots?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“We're expanding dried vegetable line.”
“How much?”
“If quality matches Holdridge samples, twelve dollars per ton off-grade.”
Mariabel laughed.
“What?”
“You want me to grow defective carrots?”
“I want usable solids.”
“Cannery pays more.”
“For premium grade.”
Frank continued.
“You don't need premium grade.”
That sentence stayed with her.
Mariabel met with three local growers.
Not Merl’s biggest suppliers.
Smaller farms.
Men who routinely lost ten to twenty percent of their carrot crop to shape rejection.
She offered a simple deal.
If the cannery rejected carrots for cosmetic reasons and they met Prairie Valley specifications, Mariabel would buy them for six dollars per ton.
The farmers laughed.
Then stopped.
Six dollars was better than zero.
“But how do you make money?” one asked.
“I sell for more.”
He stared.
“At least you're honest.”
Mariabel smiled.
The first contracts were handwritten.
One page.
Clear terms.
No tricks.
By harvest, Mariabel had agreements covering potential rejects from four farms.
Merl discovered it in August.
He arrived at Mariabel’s farm in a green Buick.
She was repairing a gate.
He got out.
“You buying carrots now?”
“Sometimes.”
“You're interfering with cannery contracts.”
“No.”
“Those growers are under contract.”
“For accepted grade.”
Merl’s jaw tightened.
“You think you've discovered something.”
Mariabel continued tightening the hinge.
“I discovered carrots.”