“Just learning,” I said.
She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes sharp behind her safety glasses.
She knew I was lying, but she didn’t press.
The opportunity came in late August.
Grandpa’s cousin, Temperance, who lived in Kansas City, fell and broke her leg. Grandpa needed to drive up and help her, make sure she had everything she needed.
“Four days,” he said.
Iris volunteered to go with him and help with the nursing care.
Grandma Lorelei had to go to Springfield, a town two hours away, to buy insulin and meet with the bank about extending our loan. The local bank had turned us down. Springfield was our last chance.
She’d be gone two days.
That meant I’d have the farm to myself for forty-eight hours.
The night before they all left, I lay in bed reviewing my plan.
Every step memorized, every tool accounted for, every possible problem anticipated.
I thought about what my father had written.
“Don’t fix what’s already working.”
I thought about what Mrs. Finch had warned.
“Never practice on something you can’t afford to lose.”
I thought about what Grandma had taught me.
“Being smart is knowing when not to do something.”
But I also thought about Grandma crying in the kitchen.
About owing money we couldn’t pay.
About West Caldwell’s smug face saying girls don’t understand machinery.
About my father believing I could do this.
If we didn’t try something different, we’d lose the farm anyway. At least this way, if I succeeded, we’d have a chance.
I got out of bed, went to my desk, wrote out a list of everything I’d need, checked it three times, and put it in my pocket.
Tomorrow I’d start.
Tuesday morning, August 29th.
They left before sunrise.
Grandpa’s truck heading north to Kansas City. Grandma’s car heading east to Springfield. Iris riding with Grandpa.
I waited until both vehicles disappeared from sight.
Then I walked to the barn.
The John Deere sat in its usual spot, morning light slanting through gaps in the barn walls, dust motes floating in the beams.
It looked smaller than I remembered.
Or maybe I’d just gotten bigger.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
My hands shook.
This was the moment.
Start or walk away.
Change everything or leave it alone.
I pulled out Iris’s Polaroid camera, the one she’d left on the kitchen counter.
Started taking pictures.
The carburetor from every angle, every hose connection, every wire, every bolt.
Twenty-three photographs total.
Then I opened my notebook and started sketching, adding measurements, writing notes in the margins.
Documentation.
If something went wrong, I’d need to know exactly how to put it back.
The carburetor came off easier than I expected.
I’d watched Grandpa remove it dozens of times for cleaning. My hands knew the movements, even if my brain was screaming that this was wrong, this was forbidden, this was the sacred machine and I was violating it.
But the bolts turned.
The fuel line disconnected.
The whole assembly lifted free.
I set it carefully on the workbench, this piece of metal that had been mixing air and fuel for twenty-one years, keeping my family fed and housed and alive.
The new carburetor I’d ordered from a catalog sat waiting in my toolbox.