Phil is fifty-six. He sells insurance in Omaha. He hadn’t driven a tractor in thirty years.
I’m fifty-one. I hadn’t gone more than nine days in a row without driving one since I was a boy.
The lawyer’s name was Don Jensen. He was a decent man who’d known my father since they were both kids in 4-H. He set the paper down on the table and squared it with two fingers.
“Wade,” he said. “He came in here in November, and he was in his right mind. I want you to hear that from me. He knew exactly what he was signing.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said.
“He didn’t say why. I asked him.”
“What did he say?”
Don rubbed his jaw.
“He said, ‘Write it the way I told you, Don.’”
That was my father. Word for word. I could hear him saying it.
