He crouched beside one plant.
“It looks healthy.”
“Just slow.”
“Maybe.”
Her father stood.
“Your grandmother’s tomatoes were always slow.”
The Farm Woman looked at him.
“You remember?”
“Of course.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
That annoyed her.
“What else do you know?”
He thought.
“Fruit was ugly.”
“Ugly?”
“Not uniform.”
“Some round.”
“Some slightly flattened.”
“Deep red.”
“Thin skin.”
“Excellent flavor.”
“Disease?”
He shrugged.
“Some years everyone had disease.”
“Hers usually lasted longer.”
The Farm Woman stared.
Her father smiled faintly.
“You look offended.”
“You knew that.”
“I remembered it now.”
“Anything else?”
“She used to save seed from plants near the western fence.”
“Why?”
“No idea.”
The Farm Woman looked toward the prevailing wind.
Wider spacing.
Western side.
Strongest plants.
Pieces were beginning to fit.
Not proof.
A pattern.
June brought rain.
At first everybody wanted it.
Corn needed moisture.
Soybeans needed moisture.
Pastures greened.
Ponds filled.
Then rain continued.
Three days.
Break.
Two more.
Humid mornings.
Warm afternoons.
Another storm.
Tomato leaves stayed wet far too long.
The Farm Woman knew what would come before she saw it.
She started scouting every morning.
Lower leaves first.
Dark spots.
Yellow halos.
Nothing.
One week.
Still clean.
The nursery-start section showed its first lesion near the bottom of one plant.
The Farm Woman marked it.
Then another.
She removed infected leaves.
Sanitized tools.
Adjusted watering to avoid additional leaf moisture.
Two days later, lesions appeared in another row.
Her saved-seed section remained clean.
She told nobody.
Too early.
By July, the valley knew.
Early blight appeared almost everywhere.
One farm lost entire lower canopies.
Another began spraying on a tighter schedule.
The three farmers who had mocked her crooked rows treated their field aggressively.
The Farm Woman watched from across the road.
Their crop had been beautiful.
Now leaves yellowed from the bottom upward.
Dark concentric spots appeared.
Some stems developed lesions.
The farmer who had laughed loudest visited her field.
He did not announce himself.
The Farm Woman found him standing at the edge of the staggered rows.
“What are you doing?”
He looked embarrassed.
“Looking.”
“Dangerous.”
He ignored that.
“Where’s your blight?”
She pointed toward two plants.