“That pond might hold enough for cattle.”
“Not soybeans.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know how much water is in it.”
“No.”
“You don’t know whether the old outlet even works.”
“No.”
“You don’t know if those pipes will hold pressure.”
“No.”
He stared.
She stared back.
Then she said:
“But we can find out.”
Her father looked toward the dark window.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally he asked:
“What exactly are you proposing?”
The Farm Girl smiled.
That was the first victory.
Not yes.
A question.
The next afternoon, her father drove her to the old reservoir.
They carried a shovel.
A tape measure.
Two wrenches.
A notebook.
The path had nearly disappeared beneath weeds.
The Farm Girl led the way.
They found the old outlet half buried beneath dirt and roots.
Her father knelt.
“Well.”
She crouched beside him.
“What?”
“I’d forgotten this.”
A cast-iron valve sat beneath a protective steel box.
The box had rusted almost completely through.
Her father cleared dirt around it.
The valve wheel barely existed.
The pipe leading downhill disappeared underground.
“Does it work?”
the Farm Girl asked.
“Probably not.”
“Can we try?”
Her father grunted.
Together they poured penetrating oil around the stem.
Waited.
The father put a wrench on it.
Nothing.
He leaned harder.
Still nothing.
The Farm Girl watched.
“Again.”
He looked at her.
“Go ahead.”
She wrapped both hands around the wrench.
She pulled.
Nothing.
Her father smiled faintly.
“See?”
The Farm Girl adjusted her grip.
Pulled again.
The wrench moved.
Only a fraction.
She stopped.
Her father stared.
“That moved.”
“Yes.”
He took the wrench.
They worked the valve back and forth.
Millimeter by millimeter.
After twenty minutes, dark water seeped around the old downstream connection.
The Farm Girl’s eyes widened.
Her father immediately closed it.
“Pipe could be split underground.”
“But water moved.”
“Yes.”
“Downhill.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
Her father did not.
Not yet.
He looked toward the reservoir.
Then toward the distant soybean field below.
The elevation difference was obvious from there.
For the first time, he was seeing the idea instead of hearing it.
“How much fall?”
the Farm Girl asked.
“What?”
“From here to the field.”
Her father looked at her.
“Where did you learn that word?”
“Grandpa’s notebook.”