“Why?”
“Because people get in trouble when they fall in love with an answer before they understand the problem.”
Della remembered that sentence.
That evening she pulled three of Opal’s irrigation pamphlets from the cabinet.
One discussed drip irrigation.
Another low-pressure gravity systems.
A third water harvesting on sloped ground.
She read until June told her to go to bed.
Then read under the blanket with a flashlight until the batteries faded.
Drip irrigation fascinated her.
Instead of spraying large amounts of water into the air, small emitters delivered water directly along rows.
Low flow.
Slow application.
Less evaporation.
Less runoff.
But Della noticed something in the pressure tables.
Most low-pressure drip systems did not need anything close to the pressure required by Harlan’s sprinklers.
The problem was not merely getting water uphill.
It was what happened after it arrived.
Then she remembered the draw.
North of the upper soybean field, the property rose again.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
A shallow natural depression collected runoff from fourteen acres of pasture.
After a strong storm, water stood there for several days.
Harlan considered it useless.
Too shallow for a pond.
Too wet to plant immediately after rain.
Too dry to provide permanent livestock water.
But Della measured.
She borrowed Harlan’s long tape.
Used a carpenter’s level taped to a board.
Then a clear hose filled with water because one of Opal’s pamphlets described using it as a simple level.
Cass, her fourteen-year-old brother, found her standing in the pasture holding one end of fifty feet of transparent tubing.
“What are you doing?”
“Measuring height.”
“With water?”
“Yes.”
“You know Dad owns levels.”
“This works farther.”
Cass looked down the hill.
“What are you measuring?”
Della pointed.
“That draw to the soybean field.”
“Why?”
She stared at him.
Cass sighed.
“Right. Secret.”
“It’s not secret.”
“You’ve been collecting pipe for a month and won’t tell anybody.”
“I don’t know if it works yet.”
“So secret.”
“Fine.”
Cass walked away.
The difference between the highest useful water level in the draw and the top edge of the soybean test area was about nine feet.
Nine feet of water elevation produced only a few pounds per square inch of static pressure.
Not enough for conventional sprinklers.
Possibly enough for carefully selected low-pressure drip lines over a short run.
Della did the calculation twice.
Then again with Opal.
“Three point nine pounds,” Della said.
Opal adjusted her glasses.
“At nine feet?”
“Yes.”
“You count friction?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you haven’t got three point nine.”
Della frowned.
Opal smiled.
“Water always charges a toll.”
That became another sentence Della remembered.
Pipe length.
Diameter.
Elevation.
Fittings.
Every restriction stole some pressure.
The main line mattered.
So did flow rate.
That was when Della began collecting the large discarded aluminum pipe.
At first, her plan was simple.
Capture water in the seasonal draw.
Use the largest pipe she could find for the downhill main line.
Reduce gradually near the field.
Feed low-pressure drip tape along a quarter-acre soybean test plot.
No diesel pump.
No electricity.
Gravity only.
The problem was storage.
The draw itself held water only after storms.
June could be dry for weeks.
Della needed to make the water stay.
She could not build a real dam.
Harlan would never allow an eleven-year-old to alter drainage across fourteen acres.
So she changed the idea.
She found two discarded livestock water tanks.
One galvanized steel.
One heavy plastic.
Both leaked.
Wendell Coe gave her the plastic one.
“Crack in the bottom.”
“I saw.”
“What are you doing with it?”
“Making it not crack.”