“You said good.”
“I said looks good.”
“That counts.”
“Don’t make this unpleasant.”
She smiled.
By evening, the final bulb came out.
The Young Woman stood.
Her back hurt.
Hands hurt.
Knees hurt.
Seven hundred thirty-nine marketable bulbs.
Seventeen undersized.
Several damaged.
Nothing catastrophic.
The Old Farmer looked across the crates.
“You did all right.”
“Careful.”
“That was definitely praise.”
He removed his gloves.
“Still got to cure.”
“I know.”
He looked toward the barn.
“Airflow in there?”
“Fans.”
“Humidity?”
“Monitoring.”
“Rack spacing?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then:
“If you ruin them curing, I’m laughing for a year.”
“There you are.”
The next three weeks were more stressful than growing.
A beautiful garlic bulb could become worthless if cured badly.
Too wet.
Mold.
Too hot.
Quality loss.
Too much sun.
Damage.
The Young Woman checked them constantly.
The barn filled with garlic suspended in bundles.
The smell became powerful.
Her clothes smelled like garlic.
Her truck smelled like garlic.
Her kitchen smelled like garlic.
At one point her brother claimed even her dog smelled like garlic.
She did not own a dog.
That was the joke.
She did not laugh.
The buyers were coming in eight days.
She trimmed roots.
Cleaned skins gently.
Graded bulbs.
Size.
Appearance.
Density.
Damage.
She selected the best twenty as samples.
The rest went into wooden crates.
The Old Farmer visited every other day without admitting why.
He had opinions.
Naturally.
“Too much outer skin removed.”
“It’s one layer.”
“Still.”
“This crate needs more airflow.”
“It has six slots.”
“Seven would be better.”
“Go home.”
He stayed.
Three days before inspection, rain began.
Hard.
The farm road turned muddy.
The Young Woman stood beneath the barn awning staring at the sky.
A weather forecast predicted two more days.
The buyers were driving from another state.
Would they cancel?
She called.
They did not.
“We visit farms in weather.”
The buyer sounded almost amused.
The Young Woman hung up.
The Old Farmer stood behind her.
“They still coming?”
“Yes.”
He grunted.
Then glanced at the road.
“You’ll need gravel.”
“I know.”
“Truck gets stuck, you’ll look foolish.”
“I know.”
“I have some.”
She looked over.
“Some what?”
“Gravel.”
“You have gravel?”
“Pile behind my north shed.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
She hesitated.
“What do you want for it?”
The Old Farmer looked offended.
“Nothing.”