"And what did you pay for them?" He laughed softly. "Less than I was paid for the six. That's a start."
The first shipment made Earl anxious for weeks. He imagined Leonard cutting into a hidden crack or discovering that a board he had called conditioned still held enough moisture to ruin a joint. He worried the cabinetmaker would decide the color was too uneven or that the char was more trouble than it was worth. When the telephone rang, Earl sometimes stared at it as though bad news would announce itself through the bell.
Leonard called after six weeks. He had built a dining table and two smaller pieces using part of the stock, and the table had sold before it reached the showroom floor. A buyer had walked in, seen the amber-black pattern, and asked about the wood's history. Leonard had told him about the farmer who rescued discarded whiskey barrels from a bank yard in southern Ohio.
"They want more," Leonard said. Earl sat down. "How much more?" Leonard laughed.
"Enough that I need you to tell me whether the next batches are as good as the first. I don't want to promise something I can't get." Earl opened his notebook. "Come see me when you've got time. We'll look at what's ready."
A few months later Leonard returned, this time with a small truck and a clearer idea of what his customers wanted. He asked for thirty barrel equivalents and offered $125 apiece for material that met Earl's best grade. The total, $3,750, was enough to make Earl check the multiplication twice. He did not agree until they had inspected the stacks and discussed the lead time.
It took several days to prepare that order. Earl worked carefully, setting aside pieces with defects even when they would have made the bundle count easier. Glen helped load the truck and was paid for his time, which Earl insisted on recording in the ledger. Leonard shook Earl's hand when the final set was secured.
"You're going to have a business whether you planned on one or not," Leonard said. Earl looked at the remaining stacks. "That depends on whether you still want more after this delivery." Leonard pointed at him. "There's that stubborn streak again."
Earl drove to the bank with part of the proceeds, leaving enough cash for supplies and the farm's immediate expenses. He made the required mortgage payment and received a printed receipt. Larkin glanced at the deposit amount, then at Earl, as though a farm that had been struggling was not permitted to produce money except through crops. "Good harvest?" he asked.
"A little better than expected," Earl said. The manager smiled thinly. "See? Farming's not finished yet." Earl put the receipt inside his coat.
"No," he answered. "It isn't."
That autumn Earl began to give the woodworking venture a name in his notebook. He wrote WHITAKER WHISKEY OAK, then crossed out WHISKEY because he worried customers might think he sold liquor. He wrote OLD BARREL OAK, then considered whether the phrase sounded more like firewood than furniture material. Finally he settled on WHITAKER RECLAIMED OAK, a name plain enough for invoices and honest enough for him.