Tires.
James interrupted often.
“What if the crank is damaged?”
“Machine shop or replacement.”
“Budget?”
“Could kill the project.”
“What if the block is cracked?”
“Same.”
“What if you spend money and it never becomes a farm tractor?”
“Then I document why and sell usable parts.”
James looked at Ruth.
“You taught him this?”
Ruth shook her head.
“His grandfather.”
James looked back at Noah.
“Ever heard of 4-H tractor projects?”
“Yes.”
“Farm Bureau youth grants?”
“No.”
“There are small project funds.”
“Mentorship.”
“Not enough to hand you a restored tractor.”
“Enough to help if you show planning.”
Noah stared.
James continued.
“I don't promise money.”
“I promise somebody will look at the application.”
“Monday.”
“Four o’clock.”
“My office.”
Ruth asked:
“Why?”
James looked at Noah.
“Because half the people in that barn laughed.”
“This one brought notes.”
Monday afternoon, Noah and Ruth went to James’s office.
They brought the service manual.
Notebook.
Auction receipt.
Photographs.
Budget estimate.
James made one correction immediately.
“You have repair cost at six hundred.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
“Exactly.”
He crossed out the number.
“Write range.”
“Best case.”
“Likely case.”
“Worst case.”
That became the next lesson.
Optimism is not budgeting.
Noah’s revised estimate looked uglier.
Best case:
Clean-up.
Engine freeing.
Fuel system.
Fluids.
Wiring.
Minor seals.
Under $1,000.
Likely:
Engine teardown.
Cylinder components.
Fuel injection work.
Gaskets.
Electrical.
Brakes.
Tires eventually.
Several thousand.
Worst:
Major crank/block/hydraulic damage.
Project economically unjustified.
James nodded.
“Now it’s honest.”
The county youth agriculture committee approved a modest $750 project grant for educational parts and diagnostic costs.
Not because Noah was poor.
Not because he was twelve.
Because he submitted a written project with objectives, records, safety supervision, and a public presentation requirement.
James also connected him with Earl Pittman.
Unfortunately, that was his actual name.
Noah laughed the first time.
“Your name is Earl too?”
The retired mechanic stared.
“You think that's funny?”
“My grandpa…”
“I know.”
James told me.”
Earl Pittman was seventy-four.
He had spent forty-three years repairing agricultural equipment.
Bad knee.
Missing tip of one finger from an accident he did not like discussing.
Absolute hatred for people using impact wrenches on everything.
He visited the Price farm Saturday morning.
Walked around the 4020.
Said nothing.
Noah waited.
Ten minutes later, Earl asked:
“What do you think?”
Noah gave the same possibilities.
Earl nodded.
“What are you going to do first?”
“Take the head off.”
“No.”
Noah stopped.
“Why?”
“Because you haven't done basic diagnostics.”
“It won't turn.”
“That is one diagnostic.”
Earl pointed.
“Drain fluids.”
“Inspect what comes out.”
“Check fuel.”
“Remove injectors properly.”
“Get lubricant into cylinders.”
“Confirm starter isn't mechanically engaged.”
“Inspect valve train.”
“Then we decide what deserves to come apart.”
Noah looked embarrassed.