He was seventy-two and walked with a slight stiffness in one knee, but his voice remained strong.
βMy father helped maintain that old system.β
The room became silent.
Ezra continued.
βFrank Bennett and I worked on it years ago. It wasn't built for a development company. It was built by six families trying to keep small gardens and livestock supplied in difficult years.β
He looked toward the screen.
βThe system may be limited. Some parts are damaged. But calling it abandoned doesn't make the history disappear.β
Russell frowned.
βSir, no one is disputing the historical interest.β
Ezra nodded.
βThen perhaps your maps should show the people who have an interest in it.β
Several farmers murmured approval.
Then Noah raised his hand.
Grace looked surprised.
He was pale.
For a moment, he seemed close to changing his mind.
Then the meeting chair recognized him.
βYes, young man?β
Noah stood.
His knees felt weak.
He could feel every adult in the room looking toward him.
He hated public speaking.
He hated being stared at.
And he could still hear Dale Harker laughing behind the fence.
But he looked toward Grandpa's notebook.
Then took a breath.
βMy name is Noah Bennett.β
His voice trembled.
He swallowed.
βI'm thirteen, and I live on the farm where that old water system crosses the northern field.β
The room was silent.
Noah continued.
βMy grandpa left me a drawing with six rows. I thought he was telling me where to plant garlic.β
A few people smiled gently.
He looked toward the notebook.
βThen Mr. Cole told me the six rows marked the old channels our families built.β
He raised the book.
βWe found records. And the conservation district helped us understand why some soil stays wetter than the rest.β
Russell folded his arms.
For a moment, Noah felt frightened.
Then he remembered Grandpa.
He continued.
βThe spring doesn't make enough water to save every farm. I know that.β
Several farmers nodded.