Stacks of prepared oak.
“This has become something.”
Walter nodded.
Leonard walked slowly along the barrels.
“What would you take for the remaining lot?”
Walter looked at him.
“The whole thing?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Leonard named a number.
Far above $750.
Walter shook his head.
Another.
Still no.
“Walter, be reasonable.”
“I am.”
“You'd make an immediate profit.”
“I already make a profit.”
“This removes your risk.”
“It removes my inventory.”
Leonard lowered his voice.
“You still owe the bank.”
Walter looked at him.
There it was.
Not quite a threat.
Too close.
“You selling me something as bank manager or buying something as barrel customer?”
Leonard went quiet.
Walter continued.
“Because those need to be different conversations.”
Leonard’s face reddened.
Then he nodded.
“You’re right.”
He stepped back.
“As a buyer, I'm asking.”
“As a seller, I'm saying no.”
“Why?”
Walter opened his notebook.
Pages held names.
Orders.
Promised allocations.
“People are waiting.”
“Sell me inventory you haven't promised.”
“No.”
“Still why?”
“Because one buyer owning most of it changes what I built.”
Leonard sighed.
“You are stubborn.”
“Probably.”
Leonard left without barrels.
Walter did not enjoy refusing him.
He was protecting a system.
The business had grown from trust.
Craftsmen bought material because Walter did not oversell quality.
They knew what grade they were receiving.
They knew the wood had been stabilized.
They knew he would reject a barrel rather than hide rot.
Walter’s first failed table had become the most valuable mistake he ever made.
It taught him the cost of rushing.
By the fourth year, two local men worked part-time with him.
Both were former farmers.
First was Paul Kline.
Fifty-one.
Lost leased acreage after his landlord sold.
Then Frank Delaney.
Forty-eight.
His farm had gone through foreclosure.
Frank hated banks.
Walter did not encourage that.
“Bank didn't make your rain stop.”
Frank said:
“Bank didn't help.”
“No.”
“But if we spend every day angry, this wood still won't dry.”
Walter taught them barrel breakdown.
Do not pry carelessly.
Release hoops evenly.
Watch stave tension.
Mark source barrel.
Separate questionable wood.
Preserve char.
Check odor for contamination.
Sticker correctly.
Record date.
Moisture.
Grade.
Paul once asked why Walter kept records for every batch.
Walter answered:
“Because memory improves itself.”
“What?”
“Six months from now you'll remember doing everything right.”
“Paper might disagree.”
The workshop expanded slowly.
Walter did not borrow for it.
He used barrel income.
Better saw.
Dust collection.
Moisture meters.
Safer storage racks.
Then a larger drying shed.
Every purchase came after revenue.
Leonard once offered an equipment loan.
Walter declined.
“Rate's reasonable.”
“So was my mortgage once.”
Leonard did not push.
The Ohio farm economy remained difficult.
Walter watched neighbors lose land.
Some had expanded too far.
Others simply got caught.
Poor prices.
High interest.
Medical expenses.
Equipment failures.
There was no single moral explanation.
Walter hated stories that divided struggling farmers into wise and foolish.
Agriculture was too exposed to weather, markets, interest, health, and timing for that.