Saturday, I got off at noon and was home by a quarter past. I ate standing up at the counter.
What I needed before I went over there was the green notebook. The pivot panel was throwing a fault. And Dad had written down every fault that machine ever threw, and what he’d done about it.
It wasn’t in the shop. I’d looked when I cleaned out my tools in March.
That left the truck.
Dad always kept his things on the passenger side. Under the bench seat on that side was where the log chain lived. And the jumper cables. And anything else he didn’t want his boys borrowing.
In four months of driving that truck twice a day, I’d never once reached under that side of the seat.
It was still his side. I hadn’t even touched the seed corn cap sitting there.
I got down on the running board and reached under.
Log chain. Jumper cables. A coffee can of cotter pins.
And back against the cab wall, a zippered bank bag from the State Bank. The kind they give you for deposits.
The green notebook was in it.
So was an envelope.
It was a plain white envelope with a flag stamp in the corner. Addressed in my father’s block printing, the printing of a man who learned to write on a slate.
To me. My name. Our road. Elba, Nebraska.
It was sealed. He’d gotten as far as the stamp.
I sat down on the running board in the sun and opened it with my pocketknife.
One sheet torn off a yellow legal tablet. Dated the ninth of November. Four days before he went in to see Don Jensen.
I’m going to set it down here exactly the way he wrote it.
Wade. I am no hand at this so I will say it plain.
The place is not clear. I borrowed on it in 2012 for the pivot. And again when your mother was sick. And again after the water in 2019. It is three hundred eighty-eight thousand dollars. The payment is thirty-eight thousand a year, and this place has not made thirty-eight thousand clear in six years. I have been paying the bank with the bank’s money. I never told you boys. I was ashamed.
If I leave it to you, you will keep it. I know you. You will pay that bank until you are as old as I am, and Theresa will do without, same as your mother did, and you will never say a word. I will not do that to you.
Phil will sell it. He can count, and he does not love it. Do not hold that against him. I made him that way. I told him the summer he was nineteen that he was no farmer, and he believed me. He will clear the bank and there will be a good deal left, and he will split it with you fair. I would bet the place on it. I guess I have.
You get the truck because it is paid for, and it is the only thing out here that is.
I ought to mail this. I will probably put it in the truck.
You were the best help a man ever had. I should have said so when it would have done you some good.
Dad.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
Known for her precision and dedication to the truth, Sophia thrives in the fast-paced world of news editing. At TheArchivists, she focuses on producing high-quality news content that keeps readers informed while maintaining a balanced and insightful perspective.
With a commitment to delivering impactful journalism, Sophia is passionate about bringing clarity to complex issues and amplifying voices that matter. Her work reflects her belief in the power of news to shape conversations and inspire change.