But it could be the beginning of better choices.
Saving the pipe from immediate removal turned out to be the easier part.
Saving the business was harder.
By midsummer, Aunt June had met with three agricultural advisers, two lenders, a regional small-business organization, and several restaurant customers.
She also consulted an experienced aquaculture specialist who evaluated our trout operation.
The specialist's conclusions were useful but sobering.
Our ponds were capable of supporting a healthy operation when properly maintained.
The spring water was a major advantage.
Its temperature and consistency helped us manage conditions that other small fish farms struggled with.
But our business model hadn't kept pace with changing costs.
We were paying too much for certain supplies.
Some fish were being held longer than was economical.
Transportation arrangements were inefficient.
And our customer base depended too heavily on a few restaurants that had reduced their orders.
The farm needed changes.
I hated hearing that.
It felt like someone was saying Grandpa had done everything wrong.
Aunt June noticed.
One evening, she sat beside me on the porch.
“You've been quiet.”
I shrugged.
She looked toward the ponds.
“What's bothering you?”
I stared at the ground.
“Everybody keeps telling us to change things.”
She nodded.
“Because some things need changing.”
I looked toward her.
“Grandpa ran this farm for years.”
“Yes.”
“He knew what he was doing.”
“He did.”
“Then why isn't it working?”
Aunt June considered the question.
Then she said, “Because the world changes even when good people do their work carefully.”
I looked down.
She continued.
“Feed prices change. Customers change. Equipment ages. Transportation gets more expensive.”
She paused.
“Your grandfather knew that. He was adjusting things right up until he became ill.”
I looked toward her.
“He was?”
She nodded.
“He had plans.”
“What plans?”
“New restaurant contracts. Better monitoring. A revised stocking schedule.”
I stared.
“Why didn't he tell me?”
Aunt June smiled sadly.
“Because you were twelve.”
I almost laughed.
She continued.
“He wanted you to learn about the farm without feeling responsible for every bill.”
I looked toward the barn.
For years, I'd believed Grandpa had been keeping everything together through some extraordinary combination of determination and knowledge.
Now I understood that he'd also been making compromises.
Changing plans.
Accepting help.
And sometimes worrying about things he didn't want me to carry.
Aunt June put an arm around my shoulders.
“We're not dishonoring him by improving the business.”
I nodded slowly.
She continued.
“Look at that pipe.”
I followed her gaze.
The replacement section had been delivered the previous week.