Scholarship events.
Young farmer meetings.
He did not approach immediately.
He watched several more lots sell.
Then, when Grandma and I headed toward our truck, I heard someone call:
“Noah Price?”
I turned.
James walked toward us.
“Yes, sir?”
He extended his hand.
“James Okafor.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
“That makes one of us famous.”
I shook his hand.
He looked at Grandma.
“Ruth.”
“James.”
They knew each other.
He turned back to me.
“You meant what you said.”
“About what?”
“Fixing that tractor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show me.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Show me why you bought it.”
So we walked back.
James stood beside the 4020.
I opened Grandpa’s manual.
For the next twelve minutes, I explained everything I had found.
Why I did not think the engine was destroyed.
Why the limited flywheel movement mattered.
Where I saw evidence of long-term moisture.
Why the injection pump needed attention.
Which components needed inspection before any attempt to start it.
What I would measure.
What I would not assume.
James asked questions.
Harder questions than Floyd had.
“What if the crank is damaged?”
“Then the cost changes.”
“What if the block is cracked?”
“We stop.”
“What if the head is bad?”
“I find out before buying unnecessary parts.”
“What if your diagnosis is wrong?”
I swallowed.
“Then I learn why.”
James stared at me.
Grandpa would have liked that answer.
Finally James asked, “Who taught you?”
“My grandpa.”
“Earl?”
“Yes.”
James looked toward Grandma.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t make the funeral.”
She nodded.
“He liked you.”
“That may be the nicest thing anyone’s said about me this month.”
Then James looked back at me.
“You ever heard of the Farm Bureau Young Farmer Initiative?”
“I’m twelve.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“No.”
“4-H?”
“A little.”
“We have project support for agricultural education.”
I stared.
James continued.
“Parts assistance. Mentoring. Record keeping. Mechanical restoration can qualify if it supports an agricultural project.”
Grandma stepped closer.
“What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying this boy just spent four hundred fifty dollars on a machine everybody else called scrap.”
James placed one hand on the hood.
“And he can explain the engine better than some adults I know.”
He handed me his card.
“Come to my office Monday.”
I looked at Grandma.
She looked at James.
Then back at me.
“When can he start?”
James smiled.
“He already has.”
Getting the tractor home was the first problem.
We could not afford hauling.
Before we even figured it out, Hank Morris, the farmer who had shouted during the auction, approached us.
“I've got a trailer.”
Grandma started to object.
“How much?”
Hank looked offended.
“Earl Price helped me pull a combine out of mud in 1998.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It means shut up, Ruth.”
Grandma laughed for the first time in weeks.
By four that afternoon, the 4020 sat inside Grandpa’s workshop.
It barely fit.
I stood in front of it.
The machine looked enormous indoors.
At the auction, surrounded by other equipment, it had seemed manageable.
Inside our barn, it looked like a challenge designed to expose every bit of confidence I had.
Grandma stood beside me.
“Still sure?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
Monday after school, we went to the Farm Bureau office.
James had paperwork ready.
He explained everything carefully.
There was a youth agricultural restoration grant available through a combination of county Farm Bureau support, local sponsors, and 4-H project funding.
It would not pay unlimited costs.
No blank check.
No free tractor restoration.
The project required documentation.
Receipts.
Progress reports.
Safety supervision.
Educational goals.
A final presentation.
“You do the work,” James told me.
“An adult mentor supervises.”
“Who?”
James smiled.
“Come meet him.”
The man waiting in the next room was named Earl Pittman.
I stared when James introduced him.
“Earl?”
Pittman laughed.
“Bad name?”
“My grandfather was Earl.”
“Good name, then.”
He was sixty-nine and had spent forty-two years repairing agricultural equipment.
John Deere.
Case.
International.
New Holland.
Whatever arrived.
His hands looked like Grandpa’s.
Not identical.
But close enough that the first time he picked up a wrench, I felt something tighten in my throat.
Earl Pittman looked at my project notes.
Then at me.
“You wrote this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You really think it needs sleeves?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two definitely. I’d replace the set if measurements justify it.”
He nodded.
“Pump?”
“Needs inspection and probably rebuild.”
“What about injectors?”
“Test first.”
Earl looked at James.
“He might actually know something.”
James smiled.
“That’s why we’re here.”
Earl turned back.
“One rule.”
“What?”
“I do not fix it for you.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Good.”
“I stop you if you’re doing something unsafe or stupid.”
“Okay.”
“I make you measure twice.”
“Grandpa said three times.”
Earl smiled.
“I’m already annoyed with him.”
The restoration began the next Saturday.
Week one was disassembly and documentation.
Every bolt went into labeled containers.
Every hose photographed.
Every removed part noted.
Grandpa had taught me that memory was unreliable.
“You’ll swear you remember where it goes,” he used to say.
“Then two weeks later you’ll be holding a bracket like it fell from space.”
I used masking tape.
Zip bags.
Notebook pages.
Photographs.
Earl watched.
“Good.”
That single word meant more than praise.
The engine fought us.
Fasteners had not moved in decades.
Rust held everything.
We used patience.
Penetrating oil.
Heat where appropriate under supervision.
Time.
Not brute force.
Whenever I tried rushing, Earl stopped me.
“What are you proving?”
“That I can get it loose.”
“No.”
He pointed at the bolt.
“You’re proving you can break something.”
I slowed down.
By the third weekend, we exposed the cylinders.
My diagnosis was right.
Two sleeves showed serious corrosion from long-term moisture intrusion.
The others were worn but measurable.
Earl ran his finger along one surface.
“You saw this from the flywheel feel?”
“Grandpa showed me.”
Earl nodded.