“Because throwing something away is easy. Figuring out what it's worth takes work.”
For most of her childhood, the farm produced eggs, hay, and a small amount of income from livestock.
Her father raised laying hens and sold eggs to local grocery stores, restaurants, and a regional packing cooperative.
The operation wasn't large enough to compete with industrial producers, but it developed a loyal customer base.
People liked the eggs.
They trusted the family.
And her father was meticulous about quality.
Every morning, he inspected the poultry houses.
Every evening, he checked feed records, equipment, and the condition of the birds.
His daughter began helping when she was old enough.
At eight, she collected eggs under supervision.
At twelve, she could identify many of the minor equipment problems that caused the automatic feeders to stop working.
At fifteen, she understood why disease prevention, cleanliness, and carefully managed waste were essential to the operation.
And by eighteen, she could run the farm's basic recordkeeping without asking her father for help.
But the business was never particularly profitable.
Feed costs increased.
Equipment broke down.
Customers demanded lower prices.
And larger egg producers could sell at volumes the family couldn't match.
Her mother became ill when the girl was seventeen.
The diagnosis changed everything.
Medical appointments took time.
Treatment required travel.
And her father began spending more evenings at the hospital than in the poultry sheds.
His daughter took on additional responsibilities.
She finished school, came home, changed clothes, and worked until dark.
Sometimes she resented it.
She wanted to attend parties.
Spend weekends with friends.
Travel.
And enjoy the freedom other young people seemed to have.
But whenever she considered complaining, she looked toward the empty chair where her mother usually sat.
Then she went back to work.
Her mother died the following spring.
The girl was eighteen.
Her father was fifty-six.
And the farmhouse became painfully quiet.
For several months, he barely spoke unless the conversation concerned work.
He continued feeding the birds.
Repairing equipment.
And delivering eggs.
But he no longer sang along with the radio inside the machine shop.
He stopped making jokes about broken appliances.
And sometimes his daughter found him standing in the kitchen holding a cup of coffee, staring toward the window as though he'd forgotten why he'd walked into the room.
One evening, she sat beside him at the table.
“Dad?”
He looked up.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Are you okay?”
He tried to smile.
“Of course.”
She stared at him.
Then shook her head.
“No, you're not.”
His expression changed.
For several seconds, he looked toward his coffee.