Vance documented everything.
He became almost obsessive about before-and-after comparisons.
Photographs.
Soil tests.
Measurements.
Survival percentages.
Clara insisted Evelyn’s notebook observations be cited wherever possible.
Vance agreed.
“I’m preparing a report for Purdue,” he told her.
“About my grandmother?”
“About the planting.”
“Then it is about my grandmother.”
He corrected the title page.
Field observations based on long-term notes of Evelyn Jennings, implemented by Clara Jennings, Mercer County, 1952.
Clara read it twice.
“That’s better.”
Vance adjusted his glasses.
“I have learned the danger of irritating the principal investigator.”
“Who’s that?”
“You.”
She laughed.
Tom Blackwell returned in October.
Clara had known he would.
The drought had hurt him worse than many because he farmed more acres and carried more operating debt. Rumor said he had sold cattle early and delayed purchasing new equipment. His land was not gone. His farm was not ruined. But the year had humbled him financially in a way few years had.
He came at dusk.
No offer paper this time.
No smile either.
Clara was stacking willow bundles beneath the shed roof.
Blackwell stopped beside them.
“How many?”
“About three hundred cuttings ready now.”
“All spoken for?”
“Most.”
He nodded.
The silence lasted.
Clara did not rescue him from it.
Finally he said, “I need some.”
The words were quiet.
“For where?”
“South creek.”
“That bank washed in spring.”
“I know.”
“How much?”
“Lost maybe fifteen feet in places.”
“Any trees left?”
“Cottonwoods farther down. Nothing on the bad bend.”
Clara wiped her hands on her trousers.
“How many cuttings?”
“Fifty. Maybe more.”
She studied him.
Blackwell’s face looked different without confidence filling every line.
Not smaller.
More human.
“I can give you thirty now,” Clara said. “Another twenty after I finish the existing list.”
“How much?”
“Same as everybody else.”
His eyes flickered.