MONTA NA PERSPECTI V ES
I’M JUST SAYIN’
Killing TimeBy GeneOn A Tractor Colling I illustration by lee hulteng composed of metal frames with rows of spikes attached. Its purpose was to prepare the field for planting. Pulling two sections of harrow seemed as futile as painting a house with an artist’s brush. To my eyes the field seemed to stretch to infinity. For a couple trips up and down the field I tried to pay attention, but then my focus started to drift to the puffy cumulus clouds floating in the azure sky. There was a pirate ship next to a rabbit followed by an airplane. My dog, Shep, faithfully trotted behind, his monotony broken only by an occasional jackrabbit, which led him on a frantic chase. When these diversions no longer held my attention, I launched into singing the only song I knew the words to. Drowned out by the tractor motor and feeling uninhibited by the vast space around me I belted out: North to Alaska You go north, the rush is on North to Alaska I go north, the rush is on...
Over the span of 10 years that I worked on my father’s farm, I spent a lot of time driving tractors. I was the second son and bereft of farmer aptitude, so I was usually delegated lower-end jobs that did not require much focus. What I did have was a natural talent for daydreaming—not something that mixed well with operating heavy machinery.
My dad started me out on the smallest tractor on the farm, an Allis Chalmers B. It was advertised as “the replacement of the horse.” OK, maybe one horse. Behind the tractor were two measly sections of a harrow. Normally, there would be 10 or more sections. The harrow was
50 I OCTOBER 2013 I MAGIC CITY MAGAZINE
I didn’t know the whole song or the right sequence, but I sang anyway, making up lyrics until my voice cracked from fatigue. Eventually, I felt the powerful need for a nap. In that moment the one feature of the tractor that made sense to me was the padded bench seat—like it was a throwback to a buckboard wagon. I scrunched into a fetal position, resting on my side while still holding onto the wheel... half an hour later I jolted awake to find myself in the middle of the field. Behind me was a meandering pattern that if viewed from an airplane could have been the first documented alien script. It took me a couple days to erase the errant plow lines. As talented as I was at daydreaming, my friend Ron was world-class. Several farms away, he also logged countless hours of tractor time. Since