To get a gal to smile, you must a tractor. :)

It’s supposed to come one of those rains today…a gully washer! a toad strangler! as the old folks around here say. So, I headed out to get my chickens done early. They are going out tomorrow, which means the poultry company comes and gets them for “processing”. Isn’t that a nice word for their future demise and consumption?

  As I drove to the chicken houses, I noted that Clint had left his tractor in the pasture. It has the front end loader on the front and hay forks on the back. Where he had left it often floods, so I thought I’d better move it. I climbed up onto it, starting it and listening to the  diesel engine. It’s an old tractor, a Ford. It may be close to my age. Tractors age well and are for the most part, dependable if unattractive, solid pieces of farmery. I raised the front bucket and then the back hay forks. I let off the clutch and turned it slowly, climbing up the little rise to the road. I plodded sturdily toward the chicken houses, feeling the wind in my face, feeling the tiny mist floating in it. Tis a fine thing, to be on a tractor in the cool air.  I parked it up on higher ground, carefully lowering the front bucket…assuredly lowering the back hay forks…preventing it from rolling away or a horse running up onto the hay fork, impaling itself in the chest, requiring stitches from the hurriedly called old veterinarian. Yes, we must prevent that. Again.

  I climbed down to walk back to the Kubota and thought of tractors. I think of the first tractor I saw, it was my Papaw Derald’s. He kept a huge garden, plowing it in the early spring with his old horse Buck, a vicious thing that had to be re-broke every time he hooked up the plow. Once, Papaw had to put hobbles on Buck’s feet, so that if he reared up or tried to run, Papaw could pull the reins and jerk him down onto his chest, pulling his feet out from under him. It was a terrible thing to see, and my aunt Muff shooed us kids into the house that beautiful day so we couldn’t watch. Buck finally settled down and not long after that, Papaw relied solely on a tractor. It was small and low to the ground, with no cover on it, the sun beating down on his big hat. Once, he got Bobbie and I to sit on the fenders so he could plow deeper. We weighed about a 100 pounds each, me being 5’2” and Bobbie being 5’10”. We sat on the fenders, singing old hymns over the noise of the tractor, Papaw chiming in, his off key baritone making Bobbie and I smile. We sang and plowed, raising dust on that hot Arkansas spring day, praising Jesus and singing “I’ll Fly Away”, Bobbie doing the alto, plowing away, sowing seeds for harvest.

  The next tractor I recall was my brother Ray’s yellow tractor. Ray was 3, the youngest at the time and the only boy. Daddy went with us to Walmart and when we walked past the display of toy pedal tractors, Ray stood in front of them transfixed. We really didn’t have the money, but daddy bought it anyway and Ray drove it proudly out of the store, both hands on the wheel, paddling as hard as he could across that parking lot. Daddy put it on the back of the flatbed and Ray stared worriedly out the back window the long drive home down those bumpy dirt roads. It made the trip home safely and Ray pedaled it all around the yard, tying our wagon to the back of it and pretending to haul hay.  Bobbie and I were too big to ride it and it was Ray’s alone, that yellow tractor. We have pictures of Ray sitting on it proudly, a big smile on his face, his hand possessively on the black steering wheel.

  I thought about tractors as I walked. I’m built like a tractor, I said to myself. I’m low and sturdy. I’ve got a powerful back end. I’m not lithe and long, like a ten speed bike…built for speed and quickness. I have torque and tread, traction in my walk. I am a farm girl, made for endurance, a solid chunk of corn fed-ness over the hunk of muscle in my legs and arms and belly from carrying chickens and buckets and children. I am not fat, I am not skinny. I am solid and I am soft. I am tough and I am tender.

  I thought about Ray, my brother, who lives in Wisconsin. He is a grown man now, the yellow pedal tractor long gone  and much like my husband, doesn’t have many words. I only talk to him when there is something going on. He’s not a “visitor” meaning he doesn’t call just to chat, but I know he loves me and never fails to kiss the top of my head when we see each other.

  

  Once, in the middle of a beautiful spring day, my phone rang. I saw with surprise it was Ray. I answered it. Ray asked how I was and I prattled on about the weather and the kids and the chickens and the new dog and OH, we built a new pond and OH we’ve got daffodils blooming. Ray would wait til I took a breath and ask another question. What did you make for lunch? Where do you go to church? What was it Granny used to say? I would answer and laugh and chat and interrupt myself, the thoughts come so fast sometimes, my mouth can’t keep up. I noticed that Ray sounded odd and echo-ey but didn’t think much about it. After 15 minutes or so he said “well, I better get back to work. just thought I’d check in on you.” “ok! good to hear from you! I love you! give Angella and the kids hugs! When y’all coming down? Can you come eat? maybe go to church? we’ll discuss it when y’all get here! love you!” I said and we hung up.

  A few minutes later, my phone rang again and I didn’t recognize the number. I answered it and heard laughter. “Lichea?” said a female voice. “you don’t know me, but I work with your brother. It’s yucky and cold and dreary up here in Wisconsin and we said somebody needed to bring us some sunshine. So Ray said I know JUST the person and he called you and put you on speaker phone. We can’t stop laughing at your accent, your bubbliness, just….the things you said and the WAY you said them. We’ve imitated you ever since we got off the phone with you.”

  I told her what a compliment I thought that was and we chatted for a few more minutes, again putting me on speaker phone so the other ladies in the office could listen and interject and ask questions. Everything I said brought more laughter and pretty soon, we were pretty near crying we had laughed so hard. After a little bit of that, they had to get back to work and I had to get back to mowing and we hung up. One of the girls sent me an email and friended me on facebook and we are friends to this day.

  I thought about Ray, about him needing yellow sunshine…his yellow tractor…about drinking yellow  lukewarm Mountain Dew, him sitting in the truck between Bobbie and I, passing the can between the three of us. Ray got a big gulp everytime it passed by him..I shouted HEY!! just as he took a big drink…You’re getting a drink EVERYTIME!! You’re getting MORE than us! and Ray carefully spitting back into the can what he just drank, to make it fair. The time Ray had on a yellow t shirt and mom went into the grocery store, leaving us kids in the car. Ray got nosebleeds if you even BUMPED his nose and we got to scuffling and Bobbie popped him and GUSH the blood came and I pulled Ray’s shirt off to staunch the flow, soaking that yellow shirt with blood, getting it stopped, putting the shirt back on him, Bobbie and I..our hands smeared with Ray’s blood, the doors and windows printed in it. Mom came carrying the groceries, getting in and seeing us kids smeared and specked with blood, Ray’s shirt soaked in it.

  “What happened??” asked mom and we played dumb. “nothing” said Bobbie. “yeah, um, Ray got a nosebleed but we took his shirt off and stopped it.” said I. “Ray? is that what happened?” asked mom. “yeah, that’s it. “ said Ray and smiled, the red stains on his yellow shirt, drying, turning yucky brown, the blood dried and specked under his nose.

  We headed home from the grocery store, where Ray got on his tractor and we played farm and pretended to haul hay, picking the yellow daffodils and putting them in the wagon tied behind tractor.

   We’re supposed to get a rain today. A gully washer! a toad strangler! and yet, all I see right now is yellow sunshine out my window, daffodils swaying in the wind, the  tractor sitting silently at the chicken houses, waiting for me.