At the end rows, he throttled down and looked back over his shoulder at what he’d done.
Sixteen clean lines running north all the way to the fence.
“Is that right?” he asked.
“That’s right,” I said. “That’s just exactly right.”
He nodded. He didn’t say anything.
I looked off toward the pivot to give him a minute.
Theresa brought lunch out to the field at noon. Sandwiches and a thermos of coffee and a whole pie. We ate sitting on the tailgate of Dad’s pickup, the three of us, with the planter parked in the end rows and the meadowlarks going on the fence posts.
Butch drove by on the county road and honked twice. He didn’t stop. He didn’t need to.
I still feed out of that old truck every morning at five-thirty.
Phil keeps telling me the place can afford a newer one now. I keep telling him this one is paid for.
