“That’s not much of a deal for you,” I said.
“Wade. I sell insurance. I have a pension. I don’t need this farm to feed me.”
He looked out across the yard at the house. At the yellow curtain in the kitchen window.
“I need it to be here. And I need to be let onto it.”
“Let onto it how?”
He was a long time answering.
“Planting. One week, every spring. I want to drive a tractor on this place. And I want somebody who knows what he’s doing to tell me whether I did it right.”
I stuck out my hand.
He took it.
That was the whole contract. On the tailgate of a blue pickup. With the arithmetic written on the back of our father’s envelope.
The paperwork took until Christmas. But it was only paperwork.
We drove over to Butch’s place together that same evening.
