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<\/figure>\n\n\n\nThe Harvest of 2027<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
The heat in late June 2027 hit the Big Blue River valley like a draw from an open furnace. The brome had gone from deep emerald to that pale, heavy gold almost overnight, thick enough at the roots that walking through it felt like wading through wet wool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tucker had come home from his freshman year at Kansas State on a Friday night, his boots caked in the gray dust of Manhattan\u2019s experimental farm fields, his hands clean in a way that looked wrong on him. He didn\u2019t unpack. He threw his duffel bag onto the back porch, walked straight out to the machine shed, and stood in front of the pink New Holland 268.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“She needs new needles,” Tucker said before he even said hello to me. He was standing with a wrench in his back pocket, wiping grease off the knotter frame with an old flannel rag. “The left needle’s got a micro-fracture along the bolt flange. Cordell tried to braze it back in May, but it won’t hold under fifty-pound tension.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“He told me it was fine,” I said, leaning against the shed doorframe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Cordell\u2019s eyes aren’t what they were in eighty-eight,” Tucker muttered, though there was no heat in it. He picked up a brand-new, unpainted cast-iron needle from the workbench\u2014part number 134-802, sourced from an old dealer down in Belleville who had three of them sitting on a forgotten shelf since the Carter administration. “Got this for sixty dollars. Dealer thought it was scrap.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That summer, we expanded to eighty acres. Brock had surrendered another forty of his bottomland along Spring Creek\u2014ground that had been yielding four big round bales to the acre, heavy, dense feed that went to the feedlot in Greenleaf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“My cattle buyers are complaining,” Brock told me on a humid Tuesday morning while we hitched the rake to his green John Deere 6120M. “They say the round bales are too tight. They’re losing hay in the mud because the cows just tear into them.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Tell them to buy small squares,” I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Brock grunted, pulling his cap down low over his eyes. “I did. Half of ’em laughed. The other half asked if you deliver to Wamego.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“We do if they buy fifty at a time,” I said. “And if they pay cash at the gate.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That afternoon, Grandpa came out in the Buick. He was ninety-one now, his shoulders settled deeper into his collarbone, his breathing shallow when the humidity climbed past seventy percent. But his eyes were clear when he looked out over the windrows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I parked the car right at the edge of the creek field, where the shade of a massive cottonwood tree kept the interior from turning into an oven. I rolled the passenger window down and turned the ignition off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Listen to that,” Grandpa said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Down in the draw, Reed was driving the tractor. He was sixteen now, tall and lean, with his father\u2019s long arms and the steady, quiet patience of a boy who spent his evenings reading anatomy textbooks while the rest of his class was driving up and down Highway 77. He kept the tractor at a slow, deliberate crawling pace, matching the stroke of the plunger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thump. Thump. Thump.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Beside the wagon, Brock was working. He didn’t have his phone out. He didn’t have his air-conditioned cab. He was wearing an old grey tank top, his shoulders mapped with fresh sunburn and dark patches of sweat. Every three seconds, a bale tumbled out of the chute. Brock caught it on the fly, hooked his fingers into the twine, swung it with the momentum of the wagon, and dropped it flush into the third tier of the stack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “He’s got Lars’s rhythm,” Grandpa whispered from the car seat. His hand reached out and rested on the frame of the window, his fingers tapping against the warm steel of the door in sync with the baler’s stroke. “Lars never wasted a move. You waste a foot of movement on a hay wagon, and by three o’clock your lower back is shot.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Brock complained about his hips last night,” I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Grandpa let out a dry, rasping cackle. “Tell him to stretch his hamstrings before he climbs up. That’s what I told Lars in eighty-five. He didn’t listen either.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n We put up nine hundred bales that day off the lower forty. When the sun started to drop behind the red cedar ridge to the west, painting the stubble in streaks of bronze and indigo, Tucker backed the last loaded wagon up to the barn door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We sat on the tailgate of my pickup\u2014Brock, Tucker, Reed, and me\u2014drinking cold sweet tea out of Mason jars while the boys’ muscle memory kept their hands twitching slightly in their laps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Brock looked down at his palms. They were yellow-brown with twine burn and caked in dry leaf shatter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “I haven’t slept this good since I was twenty,” Brock said softly. He reached out and touched the pink paint on the baler\u2019s side shield, where the metal was still warm from the engine. “My head doesn’t spin at night anymore, Jana. Used to be I\u2019d lie in bed calculating equipment payments and commodity futures until two in the morning. Now I just… fall down.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n “That’s the hay,” Reed said, looking up from his pocket notebook where he’d been tracking moisture content. “It leaves no room for anything else.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n The drought of 2028 broke farms that had survived the eighties.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By July, the Big Blue River was a trickling vein of muddy brown between wide beds of cracked, white clay. The grass on the hills turned brittle as crisp glass by the middle of May, and the brome never made its second growth. Ranchers three counties over were liquidating herds because pasture ponds had dried up into grey mud holes full of dying carp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Brock\u2019s round-bale yields dropped by sixty percent. He stood in the driveway in mid-July, watching a dust devil swirl across his bare wheat stubble, his hands jammed deep into his pockets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “I’ve got twenty-two head of black Angus I need to sell,” he told me, his voice tight. “No grass. Alfalfa\u2019s paying two hundred and eighty dollars a ton if you can even find a truck to bring it up from Oklahoma.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n “We aren’t selling our small squares to the big buyers,” I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He looked at me, squinting against the harsh, white glare of the noon sun. “Jana, horse folks are offering fifteen dollars a bale down in Manhattan. We could make a killing.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n “We promised Retta her hay,” I said flatly. “And we promised the small barn owners down on Spring Creek. If we gouge them now because it’s dry, where are we next year when it rains again?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n Brock opened his mouth to argue, the big-farm businessman in him fighting for air, but then he looked toward the window of the house where Grandpa was sitting inside under the window unit. He closed his mouth, breathed out slow through his nose, and nodded once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Twelve dollars,” Brock said. “Fixed rate. Local customers only. One ton limit per farm until August.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n We cut the bottomland field three weeks early to catch whatever leaf was left before it scorched off the stem. The hay was thin, but it was green\u2014sub-irrigated by the deep taproots that reached down into the riverbed silt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The pink 268 ran six days a week through the dust. Tucker had built a custom heat shield for the gear box out of an old road sign he’d found in the ditch, and Reed spent every morning at five o’clock grease-gunning every fitting until fresh blue lithium grease squeezed out of the bearings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One afternoon, the main drive chain snapped with a sound like a rifle shot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The baler choked mid-stroke, a quarter-formed bale jammed hard in the chamber. Reed was off the tractor seat before the flywheel stopped spinning. He crawled right underneath the housing, in fifty-degree heat, his shirt off, his chest smeared with old oil and dry dirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Brock pulled up five minutes later in his air-conditioned cab tractor, idling beside us. He hopped down, carrying a heavy-duty impact wrench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Move over,” Brock said, crawling into the dirt beside Reed. “Let me drop the tensioner.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n “I got it, Brock,” Reed said, his knuckles bleeding where he’d slipped against the frame. “The master link’s bound up on the drive sprocket.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n “I said move over,” Brock grumbled, but his voice was soft. He slid his big frame under the baler, side-by-side with his cousin. For forty minutes, the two of them worked under that old piece of iron, surrounded by the smell of hot oil and scorched grass, cursing the same rusted bolts their grandfather had cursed thirty years before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When they emerged, both of them were black with grease from their wrists to their armpits. Brock looked down at his chest, then at Reed, and let out a long, rusty laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “My crew chief on the big combines would fire me if he saw me doing this,” Brock said, wiping his brow with the back of a greasy forearm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Your crew chief doesn’t know how to set a knotter timing mark,” Reed said smoothly, handing him a rag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Watch it, kid,” Brock grinned, but he clapped Reed on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his ribs. “Or I’ll make you stack the high barn tomorrow.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n That night, we brought Grandpa sixty bales of the dry-crop brome to inspect at Prairie View. We couldn’t bring the car right up, so Tucker carried one single bale right through the double glass sliding doors of the care center, down the vinyl-tiled hallway, past the nurse\u2019s station, and set it down right on the linoleum at the foot of Grandpa’s bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The floor nurse raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t say a word. Everybody at Prairie View knew Arvid Lindeman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Grandpa leaned forward out of his armchair. His fingers, thin and translucent as parchment now, buried themselves deep into the heart of the bale. He pulled out a hand-full of stems, held them up to his nose, and took a long, deep breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Late cut,” Grandpa said, his voice a whisper. “Slightly sweet. You cut this south of the cottonwood line, didn’t you?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tucker smiled, his arms crossed over his chest. “Yes, sir. Right along the creek bank.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n Grandpa closed his eyes. “Good leaf retention. No mold. Don’t sell this for less than ten dollars, Brock.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n “We’re selling it for twelve, Grandpa,” Brock said from the doorway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Grandpa opened one eye, a small, quiet smirk touching his dry lips. “Good. Don’t let those town folks tell you what grass is worth.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n By the fall of 2029, Tucker was a senior in Ag Mechanics, and Reed was a freshman in Pre-Vet at Manhattan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They lived together in a small, weathered rental house two miles from campus, where the driveway was permanently blocked by a 1994 Ford F-250 with a custom-fabricated flatbed and a stack of rusted New Holland parts taking up half the porch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I drove down on a Saturday in October to bring them a crate of canned peaches and some fresh beef from Brock’s autumn slaughter. When I got to the house, the garage door was wide open, and four college boys in K-State sweatshirts were gathered around a workbench under a bright hanging shop light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tucker was standing at the center, holding a knotter bill-hook up to the light, pointing with a mechanical pencil at the tiny curve of the cam follower.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “See that wear line?” Tucker was telling them. His voice had lost its teenage hesitation; it was steady, authoritative, the voice of an instructor. “That’s three-thousandths of an inch off stock. You run that on a high-density bale with polypropylene twine, and you’re going to drop one bale in thirty. You shim it right here behind the wiper arm, or you trash the whole assembly.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n One of the boys\u2014a kid from up near Concordia\u2014was taking notes in a spiral binder. “Where’d you learn to tolerance these old knotters, Lindeman?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tucker didn’t look up from the iron. “My great-grandfather. And an old man named Cordell who lives on a farm four miles north of the river.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood by the doorway, holding the box of peaches, watching my son. He wasn’t just fixing machines anymore; he was preserving a language that the big industrial dealerships had stopped speaking thirty years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Later that evening, Reed came home from the university library, carrying a bag full of comparative anatomy texts. He looked exhausted, his eyes rimmed with red, but when he saw me, he brightened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Mom,” he said, pulling a notebook from his backpack. “Look at this.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n He opened it to a detailed diagram he had hand-drawn. It wasn’t an animal’s anatomy\u2014it was a full structural stress-analysis of a small square bale under vertical compression, overlaid with the digestive efficiency of an equine cecum based on forage length.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “If we drop the stroke speed by two RPM,” Reed explained, his eyes glowing with that intellectual fire that had always set him apart, “the cut length of the brome increases by roughly three-eighths of an inch. That extra length slows down the passage rate through a horse’s hindgut by twelve percent. It maximizes nutrient absorption.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at the drawing, then at Tucker, who was washing grease off his hands at the kitchen sink with orange Gojo soap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “So you’re saying,” I said slowly, “that slow baling makes better horse food?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n “It makes the best<\/em> horse food in the state,” Reed said simply. “That’s why we have a forty-person waiting list for next spring.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n Brock came down the following weekend in his Ram, hauling a heavy tilt-bed trailer. He walked into their rental garage, looked around at the wall of spare parts, the organized bins of needles, shear bolts, and knotter springs, and sat down heavily on an overturned oil drum.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “I had a guy offer me four hundred thousand dollars for the Spring Creek eighty yesterday,” Brock said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The garage went still. Tucker stopped wiping a socket wrench. Reed set his book down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Real estate developer out of Topeka,” Brock continued, staring at his boots. “Wants to put in five-acre ranchettes. Wants to call it ‘Spring Creek Estates.'”<\/p>\n\n\n\n I felt a cold drop in my stomach. Forty acres of that land belonged to our partnership, but the title was all Brock\u2019s\u2014signed over to him by Grandpa when the farm was consolidated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “What did you tell him?” Tucker asked, his voice low and dangerous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Brock looked up. He looked old for thirty-five\u2014his face lines deepened by the sun, his knuckles thick and scarred. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a worn piece of paper, and laid it on the workbench between a set of feeler gauges and a knotter frame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was the original bill of sale he’d written on the feed store receipt three years ago: One hay wagon and one New Holland side-delivery rake… for one dollar and love.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n “I told him,” Brock said softly, “that the land wasn’t mine to sell. I told him it belonged to a small pink baler that didn’t like concrete.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tucker took a long breath and turned back to his workbench. Reed went back to his anatomy text. Nobody said anything else about it, but that night, Brock stayed on the couch in their rental house, and the three of them spent four hours drinking beer and arguing about the gear ratio on a 1972 John Deere rake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Grandpa passed away on a Tuesday morning in late May of 2030, just as the first bloom of alfalfa was showing purple along the fences.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He went quietly, in his sleep, with his chair turned toward the window so he could see the tree line along the river. When the director at Prairie View called me, I didn’t cry right away. I called Brock, then I called the boys down in Manhattan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We didn’t hold the funeral at the Lutheran church in town. We held it right in the middle of Retta Kopp\u2019s top field, under the giant cottonwood tree where Grandpa had sat in the Buick three summers before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The minister was a young guy from Marysville who looked uncomfortable standing in his black robe with grass seeds sticking to his hem, but the crowd wasn’t uncomfortable at all. Half the county was there\u2014old farmers in dark suits that smelled of mothballs and hydraulic oil, horse women in clean boots, feed store clerks, and old men who had baled with Grandpa back in the sixties.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The casket didn’t go in a hearse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Brock pulled Grandpa\u2019s old hay wagon out of the machine shed, scrubbed the oak planks until they were white, and hitched it to the green John Deere. We laid Grandpa\u2019s casket right on top of four fresh, green bales of first-cutting brome\u2014the very first load off the Spring Creek bottom that morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n After the service, when the crowd was milling around eating ham sandwiches off paper plates, Retta Kopp walked over to me. She was eighty-six now, leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane, her grey hair pulled back in a neat bun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Jana,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “Look down there.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked toward the lower gate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Cordell was sitting on the fender of an old international tractor, his thermos in his lap, watching Tucker and Reed. The boys were dressed in their suits\u2014jackets off, sleeves rolled up to their elbows, white shirts already stained with yellow pollen. They were unhitching the wagon from Brock\u2019s tractor and rolling the pink 268 out of the shade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “They aren’t going to the cemetery yet?” Retta asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Grandpa said if he died in hay season, we weren’t allowed to let the crop sit in the windrow past three o’clock,” I said. “He said rain doesn’t wait for funerals.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n Brock walked over, pulling off his black tie and throwing it into the front seat of his truck. He walked up to the baler, picked up the grease gun, and handed it to Reed without a word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “You driving or stacking, Brock?” Reed asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Brock looked out over the forty acres of fallen grass, golden green under the bright May sun. He looked down at his leather dress shoes, then took them off, threw them into the grass, and stood barefoot in the stubble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “I’m stacking,” Brock said. “Get the tractor, Reed.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat in the front seat of my Buick with the door open, just like Grandpa used to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The engine of the old tractor roared to life. Tucker engaged the PTO lever. The long rubber belt tightened, the big cast-iron flywheel began to spin, and the pink New Holland took its first deep, rhythmic breath of the season.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Thump. Thump. Thump.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The sound rolled out across the field, over the dry creek bed, past the stone barn, and up into the high woods where the cedar trees stood quiet against the sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Reed drove with his head turned back over his left shoulder, watching the windrow enter the pickup reel. Tucker stood on the front of the wagon, guiding the bales as they came up the chute. And Brock\u2014barefoot, his shirt unbuttoned, his face red with heat and grief\u2014stacked the bales five-high, interlocking the corners just like his father had taught him when he was five years old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They worked until eight o’clock that evening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When the last bale was stacked in Retta\u2019s barn, the three of them walked back to the car together. They didn’t look like a farm owner, an engineer, and a vet student. They looked like three men who belonged to the same piece of dirt, tied together by twine and iron and thirty years of memories that wouldn’t die.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It is 2031 now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tucker graduated from K-State with honors last spring. He turned down a job offer from John Deere\u2019s corporate testing facility in Waterloo, Iowa\u2014a job that paid eighty-five thousand dollars a year with a retirement match.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Instead, he moved back into the old tenant house on Grandpa\u2019s home place. He built a three-bay repair shop out of reclaimed iron and oak timber behind the main barn. Above the door, he hung a painted wooden sign: LINDEMAN VINTAGE AG & REPAIR.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n He has five old small-square balers sitting in the yard right now\u2014two IH 430s, a John Deere 24T, and two old New Hollands\u2014brought to him by farmers from as far away as Nebraska and Oklahoma who can\u2019t find a commercial dealer willing to work on anything built before the turn of the century.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Reed is in his second year of veterinary medicine. He spends his weekends home on the farm, running herd health protocols for Brock\u2019s cattle and managing the soil chemistry on our eighty acres of hay ground. He published a paper last winter in the Journal of Equine Agronomy<\/em> titled Micro-Fiber Integrity in Small-Square Forage Production<\/em>. The horse people down in Texas call him every Tuesday night for advice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And Brock… Brock is different now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He still farms his two thousand acres. He still has his big combines and his GPS-guided tractors and his air-conditioned cabs. But he set aside another forty acres of his best land for small squares last fall. He bought an old 1975 Chevy truck with wooden grain sides, painted it cream and green, and uses it exclusively to haul our hay to the local stables.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Every June 15th\u2014the anniversary of the day Grandpa came out of Prairie View to watch the field\u2014we hold an open house at the farm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We don’t advertise it. We don’t have to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fifty or sixty people turn up\u2014old-timers, young kids from the 4-H club, local horse owners, and neighbors who just want to smell fresh-cut brome. Tucker sets up a row of old engines along the driveway, all of them restored and purring like kittens. Reed gives demonstrations on forage testing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And down in the creek field, the pink 268 still runs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s painted fresh now. Tucker took it completely down to the bare frame two winters ago, sandblasted every inch of steel, replaced every bushing, and repainted it in the original 1968 New Holland red and cream. But he left one spot untouched. On the main tongue, right where Grandpa\u2019s hands used to rest when he hitched it up to his old Farmall, Tucker brushed a clear coat over the worn, rusted, bare metal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood by the fence line this afternoon watching them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The sky was that clear, pale Kansas blue that only happens in late summer, with high white clouds drifting slow toward the Missouri line. Tucker was on the tractor. Reed was on the wagon. Brock was standing in the stubble by the gate, leaning against the side of his truck, watching a new generation of fifteen-year-old boys from down the road learn how to catch a bale as it slides up the chute.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I reached into my pocket and pulled out the old feed store receipt\u2014the one Brock had written for one dollar and love. The ink was faded, the edges frayed from years of being carried in my wallet, but the words were still clear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked out across the field.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The wind blew through the cottonwoods along Spring Creek, carrying the cool, damp smell of the water and the sweet, heavy scent of freshly baled grass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Down in the draw, the iron plunger hit the back of the chamber. A clean, tight, fifty-pound bale dropped onto the chute. Reed caught it, swung it smoothly into the stack, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Thump.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Thump.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Thump.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n It isn’t just an old machine thumping out in the grass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s Lars Lindeman on an August evening in 1988. It\u2019s Arvid Lindeman sitting by his room window at Prairie View, humming an old hymn off-key. It\u2019s Brock learning how to remember his father. It\u2019s my sons building a life with their hands on ground that was paid for with forty years of sweat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nobody bales small squares anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Except us. And as long as the grass grows along Spring Creek and the iron holds together, we always will.<\/p>\n\n\n\n THE END..!<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Brock was still laughing as he counted the bills. \u201cNobody bales small squares anymore, Jana,\u201d he said, folding my three hundred dollars into his shirt pocket. \u201cYou\u2019ll see.\u201d We were … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":138,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-166","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-truth-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/166","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=166"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/166\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":167,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/166\/revisions\/167"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/138"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=166"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=166"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=166"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}The Dry Year<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
The K-State Shop<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
The Last Cutting<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
The Iron Legacy<\/h2>\n\n\n\n