How wet?
How close together?
Could the willow invade tile drains?
Did livestock eat it?
Would it work on every ditch?
Clara answered what she knew.
And when she did not know, she said:
“I don’t know.”
That answer impressed Harold Vance more than any other.
By September, Harold’s extension office was receiving calls about the Jennings willows.
He asked Clara to host a field day.
She refused.
“Why?”
“Because half those men laughed at me.”
“That is usually why field days exist.”
“So they can laugh closer?”
“So information can become larger than pride.”
She looked at him.
“You practice those sentences?”
“Sometimes.”
Clara eventually agreed.
The field day was scheduled for October fourth.
Before it happened, Tom Blackwell came back.
Alone.
No laughter.
His largest creek bank had failed during a sudden September thunderstorm.
Months of drought left soil hard and bare.
Then three inches of rain arrived quickly.
Runoff tore through an unprotected bend.
He lost several feet of bank and nearly a section of fencing.
Tom stood on Clara’s porch holding his cap.
She knew before he spoke.
“You want cuttings.”
“Not until winter.”
“I know.”
“Reeves says you might have enough.”
“Maybe.”
Tom looked uncomfortable.
“I’ll pay market price.”
Clara crossed her arms.
“There isn’t a market price yet.”
“Then name one.”
Six months earlier, Clara imagined this moment differently.
She thought vindication would feel hot.
Sweet.
She thought she would want him to remember every laugh.
Instead, she saw a tired farmer whose crop had suffered badly and whose land was washing away.
Mockery did not make him less frightened.
“Come look at the creek.”
She said.
“What?”
“Your place.”
“I need to see where you’re planting before I sell you anything.”
Tom stared.
“You’ll help?”
“I didn’t say free.”
A faint smile appeared.
“Fair.”
They drove to Blackwell’s farm.
Clara walked the damaged bend with Tom and Harold.
Not all of it suited willow.
Some needed rock reinforcement.
Some needed regrading.
Some could use live stakes.
Clara refused to pretend her plant solved everything.
Tom noticed.
“You could have sold me twice as much.”
He said.
“I want you coming back because it works.”
She replied.
“Not because I got you desperate once.”
Something shifted between them.
Not friendship.
Respect.
That was enough.
October fourth arrived clear and cool.
Seventy-three people came to the Jennings farm.
Clara counted because she could not believe it.
Farmers.
Extension staff.
Soil Conservation Service employees.
Students.
Two bankers.
A newspaper reporter.
Women from the church quilting circle.
Ben.
Mrs. Phelps.
Even Tom Blackwell.
They stood at the same fence where men had laughed in March.
Beyond it, the willows were no longer sticks.
Most reached eight to twelve feet.
Not mature trees.
Dense young stools with multiple flexible shoots.
The rows remained crooked.
Clara was glad.
Straight rows might have made the story less honest.
Harold Vance stood before the group.