Scrap Iron

He said it’d be easy…said I’d be done by noon.

I was still doing a good job of ignoring him when he started to beg, and I folded like a cheap sheet. “Okay,” I said. “But at eleven-thirty I’m going back to the house to make lunch and get some laundry done.”

Victorious again, my husband flashed me his famous lopsided grin. It was the same expression he’d used to lure me to the altar twenty years ago, along with the usual promises of peace and prosperity, but without a word about me having to learn to drive a tractor when our children left for college.

John grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the rumbling beast. “Come on, Karen, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” I stared at the rear wheels knowing I’d seen smaller airplanes. “Then those must be the landing tires,” I mumbled.

John chuckled and shook his head. “No, they’re called duals. They’re like training wheels for tractors. I put them on so you won’t roll over when you harrow the hill.” My mouth made guppy motions he chose to ignore.

“Her name is Scrap,” he said, stopping to brush a speck of mud off her faded green fender. “It’s short for Scrap Iron.” And to think I worried about my suburban sister ever since the day her husband started naming his golf clubs.

I began to climb the ladder when my husband, always the romantic, gave my tush a push, vaulting me into the cab. Lucky for him I ended up on the ratty towel that held the seat together. John scooted in beside me, ignoring my practiced glare.

“What are those?” I asked, pointing to a million gauges and levers.

“Those are the controls. Don’t worry about them; you’ve already used everything here to drive your car.”

I could have sworn I heard Henry Ford roll over in his grave as John patiently pointed out the clutch, two brakes, throttle, shifter, and hydraulics. I sat in a daze trying to absorb what he was saying, all the while wondering why anyone would want to design a machine only an octopus could drive.

“Let the clutch out slowly,” he said.

I did…and nothing happened.

“Ah, you have to put it in gear first.” He reached over and slammed the shifter into its notch. “Try again.”

I did…and this time Scrap popped a wheelie before clunking out. I looked to John for help, but he was busy peeling himself off the back window. He looked a little strained, but still managed to flash me his famous lopsided grin.

“That was a good first try,” he said. “Now let’s practice some more.” So for the next hour I drove around in circles, throttling up, throttling down, shifting up, shifting down, and working the hydraulics.

“Okay, I think you’re ready,” decreed the patron saint of tractors.

He climbed down from the cab, giving me the ‘thumbs up’ sign. I nodded to him, turned Scrap toward the field, and began to throttle up. Her engine began to scream and thick black smoke belched from her stack. When I shifted up to third gear, the cab started to rattle and fluids spewed everywhere – in every color. Must be why John named her Scrap Iron, I thought, but what did I know? I was the driver, not the mechanic.

I cranked the radio up to an old Patsy Cline tune, lowered the harrow, and made my way over the mountain John had referred to as a hill. When Scrap grunted and shuttered, I instinctively down-shifted then heard her roar back to life, confident that NASCAR had nothing on us.

The second pass was easier, and by the fourth pass, I was having the time of my life. It was long past noon and I wasn’t the least bit hungry yet. If John was, he’d have to fend for himself because an experienced tractor driver like me shouldn’t have to waste her talents in the kitchen.

I made another pass, still savoring the scent of rich soil. Last year’s plow furrows disappeared behind me leaving fertile black stripes throughout the field. But as all good things must come to an end, I was done before I was ready to quit. Feeling a little misty, I pulled back on the hydraulic lever to raise the harrow, and then headed for home.

My husband was waiting for me by the machine shed. I steered Scrap in and shifted her into park. John walked over when I opened the door, and before I could say a word, he let out a whoop, hoisted me from the platform, and swung me through the air.

“Good job, Karen! I knew you could do it!”

“Thanks,” I said, blushing at the compliment.

“Let’s celebrate. I want to take my best tractor driver out to supper tonight.”

“Hey, that’d be great, and John?”

“Yes, honey?”

“It’s your turn to do the laundry.”

Deb Klein holds an Associate Degree in Science, a Bachelor’s in Human Behavior, and has begun her Masters Degree in Adult Education. She owns and operates Emerald Hills Farm near Maribel, Wisconsin, along with her husband Sid Kittelson. You may visit Deb at http://www.ddklein.com