At 63 I Faced Losing My Farm Until An Unexpected Delivery Changed Everything

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“Tell me your name,” I said. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I say it too early, you’ll remember the worst part first. I need you to remember the right part.”

Martha’s fingers touched the back of my elbow.

They were cool from the outside air, but trembling. Forty-two years earlier would have been 1982. The year after Dad let me take over more of the books.

The year Martha and I were newly married and so broke we used a milk crate as a nightstand. The year half my memories were mud, unpaid fuel bills, and trying not to let my father see how scared I was. We were running two hundred acres of corn and soybeans with equipment that was older than my marriage and temperamental as a sick horse, and there were weeks that spring when I drove to the mailbox and drove back without opening it because I couldn’t face whatever was inside.