Three local farmers climbed out.
They were older.
Experienced.
Not malicious men.
But farmers often confused teasing with education.
The first looked at the rows.
“Run out of string?”
“No.”
The second farmer pointed.
“That one’s six inches off.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
The third farmer looked toward the others.
“She knows.”
They laughed.
The Farm Woman kept planting.
The first farmer climbed over the fence.
He walked to one row.
“You’re wasting space.”
“No.”
“You’re leaving gaps.”
“Yes.”
“That’s wasting space.”
“No.”
He frowned.
The Farm Woman pressed soil around another transplant.
“Wider spacing on the wind side.”
“Why?”
“Airflow.”
“Tomatoes don’t need a breeze.”
“Leaves do.”
He smiled.
“Nursery starts are twice that size.”
“I know.”
“Mine will fruit before yours flower.”
“Maybe.”
“You paid more for electricity growing these than starts cost.”
“Probably.”
The farmer looked genuinely confused.
“Then why?”
The Farm Woman stood.
“Because these survived my grandmother’s garden for decades.”
“So?”
“She saved seed from plants that survived disease.”
The farmer smiled.
“Plants don’t remember.”
The Farm Woman nodded.
“No.”
“But genetics do.”
The smile faded slightly.
One farmer crossed his arms.
“Now we’re breeding tomatoes?”
“Maybe Grandma was.”
The men laughed again.
The Farm Woman returned to planting.
One called:
“When those little things die, come over.”
“We’ll sell you real starts.”
She lifted one hand without looking back.
That became the story around town.
The beautiful young woman with crooked tomatoes.
The “seed girl.”
The one trying to outsmart nurseries.
The Farm Woman heard all of it.
At the farm-supply store.
At the diner.
At the feed counter.
Nobody was cruel enough to create real conflict.
Just enough ridicule to make failure public.
Her brother enjoyed updating her.
“Guy at the elevator says you’re building a tomato maze.”
“Excellent.”
“Someone else called it interpretive agriculture.”
“That’s pretty good.”
“Do you want me to stop telling you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
The Farm Woman smiled.
“Motivation.”
May stayed dry.
The nursery starts surged ahead.
Their stems thickened faster.
They flowered first.
The Farm Woman’s seedlings looked smaller.
Her father noticed.
He did not say anything for several days.
Then finally:
“You worried?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She looked at him.
“Why does everyone say that?”
“Because if you’re not worried, you’re probably not paying attention.”