Merle and Pam Rasmussen have farmed the place across the county road from us for as long as we’ve farmed ours.
Merle and Arlo have traded work every single fall for thirty years. Combining. Hauling. Fixing fence.
Merle had driven to Sioux Falls three times. And the day after Arlo’s stroke, he drove his own combine across the road and started on our soybeans. Without asking anybody.
He won’t let me pay him a dime.
“I’ll rent a lift from the rental place in Marshall,” Merle said. “The towable one. Forty-five foot. I’ll run it myself. Me and Nate and Mike Olson. Nobody else goes up in that basket.”
“Let me pay for the lift, Merle.”
He was quiet for a second.
“You can pay for the lift,” he said.
And that’s how I knew how bad he felt about that gray.
The rental was three hundred and fifty dollars for the day. I paid it. I was glad to.
That afternoon, I drove back to Sioux Falls with Arlo’s own flannel pajamas. His reading glasses. And the pillow off his side of our bed.
When I got to the rehab floor, he was in the therapy gym. Standing between the parallel bars, with a young therapist holding a gait belt around his waist.
He took four steps.
Then three more.
When he saw me in the doorway, his face did the thing it does now. One side smiled all the way up. The other side tried.
“Car,” he said.
That’s what he calls me. Not Carol. Car. He’s called me that since we were nineteen years old, dancing at the Legion hall in Walnut Grove.
It was one of the very few words that had come back.
I didn’t tell him about the barn.
I’d thought about it the whole drive over. In thirty-seven years of marriage, I’d told Arlo every single thing. Down to the price of hamburger at the Cash Wise.
But he was standing between those parallel bars working harder than I’ve ever seen any man work at anything.
And I couldn’t hand him one more thing to carry that he couldn’t lift.
So I told him the soybeans looked good and Merle was on them.
I told him the barn cats were getting fat.
I told him Brad said hello. Which was true.
I slept in the vinyl chair that night.
At four in the morning, I kissed his forehead while he was sleeping. And I drove home in the dark.
To paint a barn.
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.