I Like My Tractor by Eugene Wyatt

May 2006

I like my tractor; it's a 35 HP Massey Ferguson and it's a sun-faded red, like the farmhouse and the old barn and the red shale on which I farm; there isn't a straight body panel on it after rolling it down the 35 degree slope of the West Hill two years ago. The cowling is rippled, the fenders are bent, the lights are smashed and the steering wheel is now oval, but it still runs well.

Farmers will tell you that most accidents happen, doing what you always do, and this was no exception. I was descending the grassy slope as I had done many times in 16 years, but as we went over the ridge the Massey broke loose, skidding, going faster than the wheels were turning and the brakes were useless. We accelerated, out of control, bumping over woodchuck holes; I gripped the wheel tightly to keep from being thrown off. Down we went toward the old barn; but before it was a 5 foot drop-off into a lane traversing the hill and I knew that drop-off was death and it was seconds away—I WILL not die here—I dived head-first off the tractor and tumbled several times, got to my knees, watched the tractor careen for the barn and yelled "NO" with a force that surprised me, maybe shaking the nearby red pines. The tractor turned; hit a metal fence post; rolled over making horrible, deep crunching noises; and landed in the lane, upright on its tires, but still running. I got up and sidestepped down to the tractor; I looked us over: not a bruise or an abrasion on me and nothing but cosmetic damage to the Massey. I took the torn-out fence post and pried the fenders away from the tires, then backed it slowly down the lane. I like my tractor and we don't go that way anymore.

Tuesday, I'm spreading manure in the West Field; the ewes have come down the hill, back to the barn in the midday heat as they do and I glance up the hill, at the ridge where the Massey and I lost it, to see a solitary ewe looking down at the barn. She had lambed and was staying with her tottering newborn, a good mama. I walk up the hill; it's twins, but the ewe stamps her foot at me. Ok my dear, I'll go back to my sweet manure and you bring your babies down. An hour goes by—daylight blinks—passing between me and the sun, a big turkey vulture glides through the cloudless sky and I watch in dismay as it's shadow moves jarringly over the manure-clumped field toward the ewe on the ridge. I jump off the Massey and start running up the hill as the vulture dips within feet of the sheep, then out of the red pines, two black crows fly at the vulture which lands near the ewe; one of the crows flies into it, flapping its black wings, and makes the vulture take wing again while the other one nips at its tail, flying it off—bless those greedy crows. Deeply panting, after running 75 yards uphill, I get to the sheep, pick up the lambs and carry them off the hill with the ewe anxiously following us.

It's a mean hill and if you die on it, the crows will pluck out your eyes and puncture your side to feast on your liver; after, the vultures will take the rest of you into their gullets, then into the sky.