Then he handed me a notebook.
Its cover was worn brown leather.
Inside were diagrams, maintenance records, license information, inspection dates, and notes written over many years.
“Keep learning,” Grandpa said.
I looked toward him.
“Am I allowed to use the radio?”
He smiled.
“You can practice under the proper rules and with the people who train you. Knowing how to communicate is useful. But emergencies require coordination, and nobody should pretend they can handle one alone.”
I nodded.
Then he became serious.
“Owen, promise me something.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“If anything happens to me, don't let anybody convince you this farm is worthless just because it's old.”
My throat tightened.
“Nothing's going to happen to you.”
Grandpa smiled sadly.
“Everybody gets old, son.”
I looked away.
He continued.
“Your aunt will handle the property and the difficult decisions. The people we've worked with can help maintain the equipment. Your job is to keep learning and keep being a kid too.”
I stared toward the notebook.
Then whispered, “Okay.”
He placed one hand over mine.
“And don't be afraid to ask for help.”
That was the last afternoon we spent together in the equipment shed.
Grandpa died three weeks later.
He passed away peacefully during the night, with Aunt June sitting beside him.
By morning, the house was quiet.
And the farm seemed impossibly large without his voice in it.
For weeks, I walked around the ponds expecting to see him.
Every time the old pipe splashed water into the holding pond, I imagined him standing beside it.
Every time I passed the shed, I thought about the brown notebook.
And every night, before going to sleep, I wondered whether the farm would survive without him.
Aunt June tried to reassure me.
She explained that Grandpa had left the property in a family trust designed to protect it while I was growing up.
She was responsible for managing the farm and making legal decisions.
Several longtime helpers remained available.
And we had enough money to keep operating for a while.
But the numbers were difficult.
Feed costs had increased.
The old equipment required professional maintenance.
Some restaurant customers had reduced their orders.
And the county had begun questioning parts of the farm's water-use documentation.
Aunt June didn't tell me every financial detail.
She was careful about that.
But I noticed the bills.
The envelopes.
The way she sat at the kitchen table with a calculator after I went to bed.
One evening, I asked if we were going to lose the farm.