He explained the difference between the Farm Bureau's local educational support and a loan. The county chapter could coordinate mentors, donated shop time, and applications for a youth agricultural project fund supported by local businesses. It did not promise a particular award, and Grandma would have to sign everything as my guardian. Any paid work needed an adult's authorization, and the project would be reviewed for safety before machinery was put back into service. If the tractor turned out to be uneconomical to repair, nobody would force us to spend money simply because a crowd had applauded at an auction.
I listened carefully. The word "sponsor" sounded wonderful until James pointed out that sponsors might ask us to account for every part and every dollar. I told him Grandpa already made me keep records. James smiled and said that meant my grandfather had given us a head start. Then he reached for the telephone and called a retired mechanic named Earl Pittman, who lived seven miles west of town.
"There are two Earls in this story?" Grandma asked.
"Apparently," James said. "This one's still able to argue with people about diesel engines."
Mr. Pittman arrived twenty minutes later in a faded blue pickup carrying a thermos and a measuring tape he never actually used. He was seventy-one, with a square face, pale gray eyes, and hands that looked too large for the paper cup James gave him. He had worked on farm equipment for nearly fifty years before retiring, and he wasted no time explaining that retirement did not mean he had stopped knowing what questions to ask.
"You bought a seized 4020?" he said when we were introduced.
"Yes, sir."
"For how much?"
"Four fifty."
He looked at Grandma. She shrugged. "We had a very short conversation with an auctioneer."
Mr. Pittman didn't laugh. He asked me how I'd diagnosed the seizure and what I believed the likely sources of damage might be. I told him about the damaged exhaust, the old service tag, and the limitations of my inspection. He studied the notes, nodding occasionally, then turned to James.
"He's thought about it," he said. "That isn't the same as saying he's right. But he's thought about it."
I recognized the compliment because it sounded like Grandpa. We arranged for Mr. Pittman to visit our farm on Wednesday. He said we would begin with a condition survey and a plan, not with tools flying around the shed. Grandma insisted that I attend school, finish homework, and eat normal meals, even if we discovered something exciting. James agreed. I suspect all three adults expected that rule to become necessary before the end.
Mr. Pittman arrived at eight on Wednesday morning while I was in class, but he did not touch the tractor until I got home. He had spent the day looking at the shed's electrical outlets, lighting, and floor, making a list of what needed to be improved before serious work could