“What’s she want?”
“My junk irrigation line.”
The second man laughed.
“For what?”
The Farm Girl looked toward her father.
He was already embarrassed.
“Nothing.”
he said.
“She likes taking things apart.”
The Farm Girl did not correct him.
The Neighbor Farmer folded his arms.
“You build yourself a sprinkler system, kid?”
She looked toward the pile.
“Maybe.”
That caused both men to laugh harder.
The Neighbor Farmer pointed toward the old truck near the barn.
“Take all you can carry.”
Her father opened his mouth.
The Farm Girl spoke first.
“All of it?”
The men looked at each other.
The second Farmer grinned.
“All of it.”
The Neighbor Farmer slapped the side of the barn.
“Build yourself a swimming pool.”
The Farm Girl did not smile.
“When can we pick it up?”
Her father finally intervened.
“We are not hauling a truckload of scrap home.”
The Farm Girl looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because it’s broken.”
“Some of it.”
“All of it.”
“No.”
Her father gave her the look that meant enough.
The neighboring men were watching.
He did not want to argue with his daughter in front of them.
The Farm Girl understood.
She also understood something else.
Adults often said “all” when they really meant “I stopped checking.”
She waited until they returned home.
At dinner, her father ate slowly.
Her mother had died four years earlier, and since then meals were simple.
Hamburger when money allowed.
Beans when it did not.
That night they had potatoes, canned green beans, and eggs.
The Farm Girl waited until her father finished.
“Can we get the pipe?”
He closed his eyes.
“No.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Because it’s broken.”
“Yes.”
“Not all of it.”
He pushed his plate away.
“You don’t know that.”
“I looked.”
“You looked at rust.”
“I looked at the pipe.”
Her father leaned back.
“You know how much pipe it would take to irrigate the north field?”
“No.”
“A lot.”
“We don’t have to do all of it.”
“What are you trying to do?”
She hesitated.
This was the point where the idea became real enough that somebody could laugh at it.
She hated that feeling.
“There’s water up by Grandpa’s old pond.”
Her father stared.
“No.”
“You didn’t hear the rest.”
“I don’t need to.”
“It’s above the north field.”
“I know where it is.”
“Then water can go downhill.”
Her father rubbed one hand across his face.
The Farm Girl continued quickly.
“We wouldn’t need the big pump.”
“You think water just decides to travel because you ask politely?”
“No.”
She pointed toward the window.
“The old cattle line did it.”
“That line fed a trough.”
“It still went downhill.”
Her father looked at her.
She could tell he wanted to say something sharp.
He stopped himself.
“You’re ten.”
“I know.”