Everybody in the county could see the problems.
Especially Butch Sedlacek.
Butch was seventy-three.
He’d farmed beside Dad for nearly half a century.
The two men had spent decades arguing across their shared fence.
But they respected each other.
One Thursday evening, Butch found Phil inspecting the poor corn.
He stopped his pickup beside the field.
Then leaned against the fence.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Finally, he spoke.
“Your father would’ve said a blind mule could plant straighter than that.”
Phil sighed.
“I expect he would.”
Butch looked over the field.
“He’d have plenty to say about those gaps, too.”
“I know.”
“But he would’ve said something else.”
Phil looked at him.
“What?”
“He’d say the crop isn’t dead yet. It needs weed control, nitrogen, and irrigation. And it needs all three quickly.”
Phil looked toward the silent center pivot.
“I don’t know how to start it.”
