Because I knew exactly when Dad’s fields should be planted.
The ground beneath the center pivot warmed slowly.
Dad always waited until the soil reached fifty degrees at a depth of four inches, measured at seven in the morning for three consecutive days.
He kept a soil thermometer hanging on a nail in the shop.
He also carried a small green notebook.
Inside were decades of information about the farm.
Seed populations.
Planter adjustments.
Irrigation settings.
Equipment problems.
Everything he’d learned through experience.
I’d planted those fields every spring for
