My older brother, Phil, had chosen a different life.
He was fifty-six and sold insurance in Omaha.
He hadn’t farmed seriously since he was a young man.
But on that cold Tuesday in late February, inside a lawyer’s office above a hardware store in St. Paul, Nebraska, Phil inherited virtually everything.
Attorney Don Jensen had just read the portion of Dad’s will concerning my brother.
“To my son Phil, the home farm, including the home quarter, east eighty, creek pasture, buildings, irrigation equipment, and machinery.”
Four hundred acres.
The house where we’d grown up.
The shop where I’d repaired tractors for decades.
The center-pivot irrigation system.
And the pastures where I’d raised my cattle.
Then Don read my inheritance.
“To my son Wade, the 1994 International feed truck, including the mixer box and title.”
That was all.
One old truck.
I stared at the table.
