“That’s suspicious.”
He held out an old photograph.
She took it.
Her father.
Young.
Standing beside the Older Farmer.
Both men in their twenties.
A truck behind them.
Apple crates stacked high.
She looked up.
“You knew him before you bought the north farm.”
“Long before.”
“He never told me.”
“We weren’t always friendly.”
“That I believe.”
The Older Farmer smiled faintly.
Then pointed to the back of the photograph.
Her father’s handwriting.
First crop worth bragging about. Don’t let me become the kind of farmer who stops learning.
The Young Farmer read it twice.
Her throat tightened.
“Where was this?”
“In an old desk.”
The Older Farmer looked toward the orchard.
“The night of that freeze, when you told me his mistakes taught you too, I kept thinking about him.”
“He and I argued about nearly everything by the end.”
“Why?”
“Same reason you and I did.”
“He changed.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Then I changed.”
“He didn’t like that.”
The Young Farmer looked at the photograph.
“You miss him.”
The Older Farmer stared toward the mountains.
“Yes.”
She handed the photograph back.
He shook his head.
“It’s yours.”
She held it carefully.
The Older Farmer began walking away.
She called after him.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
“You know the white trunks?”
He looked over.
“What about them?”
“My father tested coating on twelve trees the year before he died.”
The Older Farmer stared.
“You said he didn’t use it.”
“I said not often.”
“You let me spend twelve years thinking you invented the whole thing?”
“I never said I invented anything.”
He pointed at her.
“That is dishonest by omission.”
She smiled.
“You mocked me before asking.”
He laughed.
Then shook his head.
“Unbelievable.”
A year later, the Older Farmer died in his sleep.
The valley funeral was enormous.
Farmers came from three counties.
Trucks filled the church lot.
His grandson spoke.
The Young Farmer did not.
She stood in the back.
Afterward, the grandson found her.
“He left you something.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“A bucket.”
She stared.
He laughed through grief.
“It’s in the truck.”
Inside the bed sat an old galvanized bucket.
Freshly cleaned.
Beside it, one new wide orchard brush.
A note was taped to the handle.
The Older Farmer’s handwriting had become shaky.
For whenever the next idiot laughs.
The Young Farmer stood beside the truck laughing and crying at the same time.
She kept the bucket.
Never used it.
Some tools become something else.
Years later, young farmers visiting the orchard often noticed it hanging inside the barn.