In the evenings, I returned home and handled whatever chores remained.
Dad’s feed truck was far more equipment than forty cows required.
But I used it anyway.
Every morning at five-thirty, I climbed into that cab.
His gloves were still on the dashboard.
And every morning, I quietly said hello.
I knew how foolish it sounded.
But it was the closest thing I had to talking to him.
—
When April arrived, I began watching the weather.
Not because I had a crop to plant.
Because I knew exactly when Dad’s fields should be planted.
The ground beneath the center pivot warmed slowly.
Dad always waited until the soil reached fifty degrees at a depth of four inches, measured at seven in the morning for three consecutive days.
He kept a soil thermometer hanging on a nail in the shop.
He also carried a small green notebook.
Inside were decades of information about the farm.
