“How many?”
“Three hundred forty.”
He turned.
“You serious?”
“Yes.”
“You’re planting a forest?”
“A shelterbelt.”
“Next to corn?”
“Yes.”
He looked toward her father.
“You letting her do this?”
Her father shrugged.
“It’s her field too.”
The neighboring farmer laughed again.
“You know trees have roots, right?”
She replied, “That’s generally considered one of their features.”
Her father coughed to hide a laugh.
The neighbor pointed toward the flags.
“They’ll pull water out of your crop.”
“Some competition near the rows, yes.”
“So you know it’s stupid.”
“No.”
She remained patient.
“The protected zone can be many times the height of the windbreak once established. I’m measuring where benefits exceed competition.”
He shook his head.
“You college people love complicated ways to lose money.”
She looked at the field.
“Maybe.”
That annoyed him.
He wanted argument.
She rarely gave people the argument they expected.
He said:
“In five years you’ll be cutting them down.”
“Could happen.”
“You don't believe that.”
“I believe the data will tell me.”
He stared.
Then laughed.
“Your father raised a scientist instead of a farmer.”
She looked at her muddy boots.
“I’m trying to be both.”
The seedlings arrived in March.
Bundles of dormant sticks wrapped in damp packing material.
They did not look impressive.
Her father opened one package.
“This is a tree?”
“It will be.”
“It looks like something I’d throw away.”
They planted for six days.
Cold mornings.
Mud.
Backaches.
The young farmer knelt beside each hole.
Roots spread naturally.
Correct depth.
Soil packed carefully.
Water.
Mulch ring.
Tube where needed.
Her father worked slower after the ladder injury, but he worked.
On the fourth day, several neighboring farmers stopped along the fence.
Among them was the skeptical neighbor.
The scene would later be recreated online in exaggerated versions.
Some stories claimed dozens of farmers surrounded her.
Others claimed they destroyed trees.
Neither was true.
There were four men.
They leaned against the fence and joked.
One asked:
“You naming all of them?”
Another:
“She’ll need names for the funeral.”
The young farmer kept digging.
The skeptical neighbor stepped through a gate.
He crouched near one sapling.
“Seriously, look at this thing.”
She glanced up.
“Please don’t pull it.”
“I’m not.”
He nudged the mulch with his boot.
Then kicked loose soil from around the root ball.
Not enough to destroy it.
Enough to insult the work.
Her father straightened immediately.
“Leave it.”
The neighboring farmer grinned.
“I’m helping her test wind resistance.”
The young woman rose.
“Don’t.”