“We still have more forms.”

Dad adjusted his tie.

“Vegetables take work.

So does anything worth keeping.”

Chad offered to buy everyone dinner, but Dad insisted he needed to get home to check the irrigation valve before bed.

We ended up eating sandwiches on the back porch, the three of us and Evelyn, while fireflies flickered above the bean rows.

Evelyn brought a little jar of pickled squash she had made from the previous week’s harvest.

Dad tasted one piece and pronounced it nearly as good as Martha’s, which in our family was the highest praise imaginable.