They were not a cure for all erosion.
They did not belong everywhere.
But they were inexpensive and useful.
“What would anyone buy mine for?”
Clara asked.
“Streambanks.”
“Drainage channels.”
“Wet gullies.”
“Demonstration projects.”
“Possibly basketry, depending on rod quality.”
He looked around.
“You don’t have enough mature stock yet for a large program.”
“But by dormant season, each established plant could give you several usable cuttings without killing the stool.”
Clara did the arithmetic.
One hundred seventy-three plants.
Even five usable rods from each could produce more than eight hundred new cuttings.
Some would produce ten or more.
Each new cutting could become another stool.
A nursery.
Not forty acres of trees.
A living factory for planting material.
Reeves asked:
“Would you be willing to establish a measured demonstration section?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t answer that fast.”
“Yes.”
He laughed.
The demonstration saved Clara only indirectly.
Reeves could not magically pay her mortgage.
But his official report changed Walter Henderson’s calculation.
First Mercantile agreed to extend the delinquent payment ninety days if Clara paid the overdue taxes and interest.
She still needed hundreds of dollars.
Ben finally returned.
He arrived one evening carrying an envelope.
Clara was repairing chicken wire.
She saw his truck and kept working.
Ben stepped out.
He looked toward the willows.
They were waist high now.
Some higher.
The flooded graveyard of sticks had become visible green rows.
“You proved me wrong.”
He said.
Clara twisted the wire tighter.
“Everybody keeps saying that lately.”
“Feels good?”
“Less than I expected.”
Ben nodded.
He approached.
“I have four hundred dollars.”
Clara stopped.
“No.”
“It’s mine.”
“No.”
“I’m not giving it to you.”
“What?”
“I’m buying something.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
“A share.”
“In what?”
Ben shrugged.
“Whatever this becomes.”
“Pa.”
“I mean it.”
He looked toward the field.
“I spent twenty years telling myself leaving this farm meant I was smarter than my father.”
“Truth is, I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Watching weather decide whether I could feed you.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“When you stood out there in April, I thought you were repeating every mistake I escaped.”
“Trying to make bad ground act good.”
He looked at her.
“But you weren’t.”
“You were doing the opposite.”
That was the first apology he knew how to give.
Clara looked at the envelope.
“I don’t want charity.”
“Good.”
Ben said.
“I’m terrible at charity.”
“Write me a receipt.”
She laughed despite herself.
They agreed Ben’s four hundred dollars would become a documented family loan payable only after the farm generated profit.
Clara used part to cover taxes.
The rest kept groceries in the kitchen and fuel in the truck.
The bank granted the extension.
Tom Blackwell was furious.
He drove out the next morning.
“You’re making a sentimental decision.”
He said.
Clara was trimming weeds between willow rows.
“No.”
“I’m making a financial gamble.”
“That’s worse.”
“Maybe.”