Asked questions.
Opal answered.
When she did not know, she said so.
He liked that.
People trying to prove themselves often filled gaps with confidence.
Opal left gaps as gaps.
Finally Harlon closed the notebook.
“The state is preparing an emergency erosion assessment.”
Opal waited.
“I’ve surveyed three counties since yesterday.”
He looked toward the window.
“That sixty acres is the only ground I’ve inspected that took comparable runoff and came through essentially intact.”
Nobody spoke.
Harlon continued.
“I want to document it.”
Opal looked at Dale.
Dale looked at Ruth.
Ruth smiled into her coffee.
The state report came out that autumn.
Buried in pages of damage estimates, rainfall maps, soil-loss measurements, and recommendations was a case study.
Sixty acres.
Contour agroforestry erosion control.
Bur oak.
Native grass understory.
Measured infiltration improvement.
Reduced runoff.
Minimal erosion during the May 1987 storm.
And beneath the summary:
Design developed independently by local landowner Opal Vance.
Not Dale Vance.
Not Vance Family Farm.
Opal.
Harlon had insisted on that.
The report traveled farther than the grain-elevator jokes ever had.
By spring 1988, vehicles began appearing along the county road.
At first Opal assumed people were lost.
Then she realized they were looking.
Farmers stood beside pickups with hands in pockets.
They stared across the Flat.
Some walked the edge.
Few asked questions.
People in that region had an interesting relationship with admitting they had been wrong.
They preferred observation.
One morning, Dale returned from the grain elevator.
He put his hat on the kitchen table.
“Tom Reller wants to know your spacing.”
Opal looked up.
“What?”
“Twelve feet?”
“Yes.”
“Contour?”
“Yes.”
“Switchgrass?”
“And little bluestem.”
Dale nodded.
“I told him.”
Opal smiled.
“Anything else?”
Dale opened the refrigerator.
“Three other men asked too.”
He pulled out milk.
“Interesting.”
Opal waited.
He shut the door.
“Don’t enjoy this too much.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You’re failing.”
She laughed.
Kurt Ostrander returned that April.
Not that he had gone far.
He had continued helping occasionally despite his father’s opinion.
But after the state report, he appeared with work gloves and no excuse.
“I heard you’re putting in another forty acres.”
“Maybe.”
“Need help?”
Opal looked at him.
“You still have a crush on me?”
Kurt nearly dropped the shovel.
“What?”
She smiled.
“My grandmother explained it.”
“When?”
“1983.”
“And you’re asking now?”
“I was busy.”
Kurt stared.
Then laughed.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since I was fourteen.”
Opal nodded as if confirming a soil test.
“All right.”
“All right what?”
“You can help.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
She walked away smiling.
Kurt stood holding the shovel.
Then followed.