As we were packing up the Chevy with my things for col lege, Father handed me a checkbook from the Stock Growers Bank. It looked odd and official in his hands-legal, even-and nothing like the buckets of milk or the hay bales or any of the other things of agricultural that I usually saw him carrying around. Inside the plastic navy blue cover, tucked into the crease, was a stack of bound checks with my name on them...