Using twigs for trunks and tufts of dried moss for leaves, we made tiny trees that we put in a quadruple line along the windward side of the reservoir to form a shelterbelt. Littler bits of moss and grass became willow bushes that we glued on all the banks.

We made another model just of the dam, a long earthen berm broken in the middle by a smallish concrete spillway and control gate.

Nate took charge of a model of a farm where everything was done conservationwise. Strips of fallow land—land at rest—alternated with strips of various crops like wheat that drew from the soil, and also with cover crops like clover that Mr. Caldwell said were good for putting nutrients back in.

Sketch came up with the idea of mixing dirt into plaster of paris to make a paste we could rake with a fork to show plow lines.

Plow lines were a big thing. Mr. Caldwell had us show them following the curves of the land. “With contour plowing, rain is caught crosswise by the plants and held instead of being left free to run off between rows.”

“Those wavy rows look like they were made by someone who couldn’t walk straight,” Apple said, which was just what I was thinking. In my growing-up days of walking behind a plow mule, the biggest compliment my pa could pay me was to say my rows were straight as the teeth on a comb.

“That may be,” Mr. Caldwell told Apple, “but they’ll conserve water and topsoil both.”

“I guess what you’re saying makes sense,” Apple said. Despite his jokes, he was taking this dead serious.

Just like Nate was.

Most guys thought Nate’s model was a pretend farm, but I recognized the layout of the tiny structures he put on it: house, barn, outbuildings. “That’s your place, isn’t it?” I asked him.

He nodded. “You think Dad will recognize it?”

“Bound to,” I said.

I had to respect Nate’s effort. Probably the shortest route he could take to getting clear of his folks’ farm would be to let it go under, but he was trying hard as his sister to not let that happen. I watched him put a windbreak around the house and put in channels for an irrigation system. He even painted a small flower garden.

“It’s right pretty,” I said.

He shrugged. “I guess,” he said. “But pretty’s not going to sell my dad.”

Chapter 28

Having real work to do charged up the guys. That and the prospect of that open house the major had promised the town. We’d rather have had another dance, but a social occasion was a social occasion.

When warm chinook winds in early March melted the last of the snow, we were able to spruce up the camp’s outsides. We made signs for buildings, washed all the vehicles, and raked the graveled lanes smooth.