“I'm trying to survive.”
Roy stood up and walked around his desk.
He placed his hand on Margaret's shoulder like a father talking to a confused daughter.
“Margaret, listen to me.”
“I knew your daddy.”
“He was a good man.”
“But he was stubborn.”
“Farmed with old equipment.”
“Never upgraded.”
“Never expanded.”
“He left you 240 acres and a broken tractor.”
“That’s not a legacy.”
“That’s a burden.”
“The smartest thing you can do is sell that land, take the money, and start a life for yourself.”
Margaret stepped back.
Roy's hand fell away.
“My father taught me everything I know.”
“And one thing he taught me is that the people who tell you what you can't do are usually the ones who are afraid you'll prove them wrong.”
She turned and walked out of the dealership.
Behind her, she heard Roy say something to his mechanic.
She only caught two words.
“Little girl.”
Two weeks later, Margaret heard about a farm auction 40 miles east in Ellsworth County.
Old equipment.
Estate sale.
The kind of auction where things sold cheaply because nobody was looking for what was being sold.
She drove there on a Saturday morning with $1,100 in cash.
Everything she had.
Money her father had kept in a coffee can in the workshop.
Money Margaret had saved from two summers working at the grain elevator in town.
The auction was small.
Maybe 30 people.
Mostly older men looking for parts.
Two tractors were listed.
A 1949 Farmall M.
And a 1953 Farmall Super M.
Both were faded red.
Both showed their age.
Both were overlooked by almost everyone there.
Margaret knew those tractors.
She had grown up working on her father's Farmall M.
She knew the engine.
She knew the transmission.
She knew every bolt and bearing.
These were the same machines.
Same bones.
Same blood.
The 1949 M went first.
The auctioneer asked for $1,000.
Silence.
He lowered the price.
$500.
Still silence.
Margaret raised her hand.
“$400.”
More silence.
Sold.
$100.
The 1953 Super M came next.
Margaret bid $500.
A man in the back raised it to $550.
Margaret answered.
$600.
Silence.
Sold.
$1,000 for two tractors.
She had one hundred dollars left.
An older man walked up after the sale.
His name was Tom Weber.
He farmed 300 acres near Ellsworth.
He had been watching her bid.
“Those are solid tractors, young lady.”
“You know how to work on them?”
“I rebuilt my father's Farmall before I was 18.”
Tom looked at her differently than Roy Dennison had.
Not with pity.
Not with amusement.
With recognition.
The way one farmer looks at another.