Chapter 10: Tailgate Supper

On Monday morning at six, there were nine trucks parked along the edge of my wheat.

I stood in the lane with my coffee and counted them twice.

The man in the Pioneer cap had brought two, like he'd promised, and a nephew to drive the second.

The old man from the corner table was there too, leaning against his tailgate with his cap pulled low.

He lifted two fingers when I looked over.

Three Henning cousins had come down the fence line in a flatbed.

I had no idea how they'd found out, and I didn't ask.

"Who's running the cart?" the heavy man from the co-op board called.

"I am."

"You can't back up a trailer."

"I learned in a week, in front of you."

"I remember," he said. "You hit my mailbox."

"I was twelve."

"It was a good mailbox."

Colby climbed into the cab of the combine and the engine caught with a roar.

The header lowered.

At 6:20 he cut the first swath through the standing wheat, and the whole line of trucks went quiet to watch.

I climbed into the tractor, pulled the grain cart alongside, and matched his speed at ten feet.

The auger swung out.

The wheat poured in a gold rope from the combine into the cart.

When I looked up through the cab glass, Colby was grinning at me.

I grinned back.

I couldn't stop, and I didn't try.

We cut until the dew burned off and kept cutting until the dust hung over the field.

The east eighty was a loss, but the four hundred acres standing came in better than I'd feared, heavy and clean.

The first truck weighed in at sixty-one pounds a bushel.

I called it to the old man across the road.

He nodded and said, "Walt'd say not bad," which in that family is a standing ovation.