A memory didn't pay interest.
Or repair a well pump.
Or put groceries on the table.
One evening, she returned home after a twelve-hour shift and found Eli sitting at the kitchen table with Grandpa's green notebook.
He'd placed several stones beside a glass jar of soil.
Sarah stopped in the doorway.
“What are you doing, honey?”
Eli looked up.
“Testing something.”
She smiled tiredly.
“Is this for school?”
“Not exactly.”
She placed her bag beside the chair.
Then examined the jars.
One contained exposed soil.
Another was covered with pale stones.
Both were labeled.
She noticed his careful handwriting.
“What's the experiment?”
Eli pointed toward the first jar.
“I put the same amount of dry soil in each one and added the same amount of water. I'm checking which one loses moisture faster.”
Sarah looked toward the stones.
“Like Grandpa used to do?”
He nodded.
For a moment, her expression softened.
Then she sat.
“Show me.”
Eli explained the measurements he'd been taking.
The jars weren't a perfect representation of a field.
He knew that.
The soil temperature changed differently in glass, and the amount of air moving across the surface wasn't the same as a windy Kansas afternoon.
But the test helped him compare conditions.
Sarah listened.
Then looked toward the notebook.
“Is this why you've been hauling rocks all week?”
Eli nodded.
He waited for her to laugh.
She didn't.
Instead, she looked toward the kitchen window.
Beyond it, the fields were turning brown.
Her face tightened.
“Eli, how much of the garden are you planning to cover?”
“Just the North Bed.”
“How big?”
“Maybe a quarter acre once I finish.”
Sarah considered that.
Then asked, “Are you taking the stones from the old fence foundation?”
“No, ma'am. Just the loose ones by the equipment shed and the old pile Grandpa made.”
She nodded.
“Good. I don't want you weakening anything.”
Eli looked relieved.
Then she added, “And no lifting the large ones alone. Some of those rocks are too heavy.”
“I know.”