Farm Work

They are out there again today, from dawn until dusk, like always. The two ancient men, crusty, dried and brittle, they are beyond the age that their number of years on earth can be guessed from observation. Placed strategically in their webbed aluminum lawn chairs, they appear as gargoyles guarding the tarnished Airstream trailer from the onslaught of the natural world. Their efforts fail as vines and bushes obliterate all but the entrance and the hard packed patch of dirt where they keep vigil. A wilted pecan tree shades the gerontic stewards from the blazing Texas sun. Later in the year, when an occasional coastal wind finds its way across the savannah, the tree may be coerced into giving up a generous load of tiny native pecans. Today, its only purpose is shade.

"Well, boy, about time to cut the hay," states the smaller man, gazing across the field from under the edge of his sweat-stained fedora.

"Reckon so," the larger man replies.

He slowly stands putting his hands on his knees for support. He walks beyond the perimeter of the shade and places a gnarled hand to his forehead. The sunlight glistens on the mist of perspiration accenting the maroon and purple lesions on his bald pate. He surveys the uniformly tall stand of reedy grass covering the 40 acre field.

"Good crop this year. Might get three cuttings," he states.

"If it rains," says the father.

The son returns to his chair and settles back in, adjusting his weathered body to a position of least discomfort. The father pulls a small, flat bottle from among the folds of his oversized denim coveralls. He unscrews the black plastic cap, takes a small sip and passes it to his son. The son reaches with both hands. The fingers of his right hand encircle the bottle while he supports the bottom with the back of his left hand. The strange disease that is turning his body to stone has made it difficult to grip with any force. After repositioning his hands, he is able to get the bottle to his mouth for a drink. He passes the container of warm brown whisky back to his father who closes it and puts it away. Time passes quietly and with little discernable motion under the pecan tree. An old spaniel looking dog of questionable ancestry twitches in his sleep while lying in a depression at the base of the tree. His only functions are keeping renegade skunks out from under the trailer, disposing of the meager remains of the old men's dinner and providing comfortable accommodations to a large population of fleas. The dog raises his head and looks toward the meandering two lane blacktop road that passes by across the drainage ditch. Soon the neighbor boy rides his bicycle into view. He rides slowly, aimlessly. His eyes focused on the clover filled ditches that line the narrow lane.

Tommy had finished his morning chores hours before and he had a while until he needed to exercise the horses. His little brother and sister were building a hay fort from the bales of redtop cane in the barn. Tommy was too old for that nonsense, besides the hay made him itch. He decided to take a bike ride. His bike always seemed to have the same destination lately, down the road past Mr. Eli's place and right on the dirt road that was a shortcut over to the highway. On that road was a small lot of less than an acre. The widow Agnes Parsons had cut the lot from the back of her spread after her husband had passed many years ago. It was finally sold to a man from town.

Tommy didn't think anything of it until one day last fall when he happened by the lot and there was a family working to clear the brush, a dad, a mom and a young girl. He did a double take when he realized the girl was Tina. She was in his class at school. She wasn't wearing the frilly dresses and patent leather shoes she wore at school. She had on jeans , boots and a long sleeved denim shirt. Her wavy cotton-blond hair was tied up in a red bandana. She was mowing the grass - on a tractor! So now anytime he takes his bicycle out for a ride it seems to guide him toward this lot. Today he was still on the paved road when he heard a man's voice.

"Hey, boy, c'mere!" It was old Mr. Eli calling him. The father stood up from his chair, stretching, letting the rigor slip from his muscles. By the time he had walked to the edge of the shade, Tommy had wheeled his bicycle up the driveway and slammed on his coaster brake. Loose gravel skittered across the dust.

"Good morning Mr. Eli." Tommy said, leaning his bike against the old man's truck and removing his baseball cap.

"Mornin', boy. Tommy ain't it?" The withered man asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Your dad has the stables that butt up to the back half of my field, right?"

"Yes sir."

"Could you ask your dad to stop by? I'd like to ask him if he would be willing to bale my hay. Y'all have the equipment, don't you?"

"Yes sir. we have a windrow rake, a baler and a brand new sickle mower so the grass don't get beat up so bad like with a shredder. Problem is, Dad's got a full-time job now. He's working for Daddy Dow. He works six nights a week in the mag-cells - graveyard shift. He's not takin' on any outside farm work but maybe I can do it for you."

The old man looked a little surprised. "What are you, about nine?"

"I'm eleven, sir, be twelve next month. I baled our back pasture." Tommy lied, but only a little. He had cut and raked the field with the little Farmall 'C' but his dad had driven the big Case that pulled the baler.

"Well, I don't know. Ask your dad to call me. If he says it's okay with him, it's okay with me." "Mr. Eli, that's Johnson grass, ain't it? My dad says you should just burn it off and plant some Coastal or alfalfa that's worth something."

“Well, boy, I appreciate the input but you can't kill off Johnson grass by burnin'. It grows underground like the Devil and, like the Devil, fire just makes it stronger." A slight grin cracked the old man's face.

"Well if you want it baled I'm sure I can do it. I'll have him let you know in the next day or so."

"Be quick about it. It's starting to head out so it's not going to grow any taller. If you do a good job you can bale my next cutting too. You don't have to worry about hauling it. I sell it in the field. Get me a price per bale."

"Yes sir!"

Tommy jumped on his bike and headed for home. He had forgotten all about Tina. As he approached his house he began to have second thoughts. He knew he could cut and rake the field. It was a clean field, no trees or stumps. The only problem was the baling. The little Farmall would not run the baler. The Case would but it did not have electric start. He had seen his dad with the crank shoved into the front of the tractor cranking and cussing and getting thrown in the dirt by the recoil. He knew there were tricks to starting it, priming the carburetor, adjusting the spark advance and even then sometimes the tired old machine refused to fire. He had helped his dad pull start it with a tow chain in the Spring when it had not been started for a while. It took them half a day to get it going.

Tommy had a lot to think about as he exercised the horses through the afternoon. He had to approach his dad about his offer to Mr. Eli. He was worried about his ability to get the Case started. He didn't have any idea what to charge for the job. He wanted to make sure and schedule the job so he would be doing the baling on the weekend. He wanted to be sure Tina saw him operating the huge Case tractor while baling 40 acres of hay. He decided he would wave to her nonchalantly as he made one of the many passes through the field across the street from her family's lot.

Tommy brushed out the mane and tail of the last mare of the day and fed all the horses. He entered the house and washed up just as his mom was setting the table for dinner. His dad was sitting at the head of the table, his usual spot, staring into a cup of black coffee. Tommy missed spending time with his dad but he realized his dad felt good about elevating his family's standard of living. Tommy took his regular seat at his dad's right hand. His brother and sister were creating a screaming ruckus in the adjoining living room.

"Dad, I got a job offer," Tommy said.

Dad's gaze shifted from his coffee to Tommy's eyes and stuck. Mom suddenly found a seat at the table. Even the noise in the next room diminished as if Tommy had crepitated in living color.

"Mr. Eli wants me to bale his hay. Actually, he wanted you to do it. I told him you were too busy," Tommy stated.

"Oh no, no, nope! Not a chance!" his mom interjected.

That's when Tommy knew he had a chance.

"Wait just a minute. Let the boy talk," Dad demanded.

"You know I can do it," Tommy spoke directly to his dad as mom glared and fidgeted. "The only thing I might need help with is getting the Case started and setting up the twine feed on the baler. You can go over that with me on your day off."

"This is a bad idea!" Tommy's mom hissed and stomped back toward the counter.

Dad just shook his head. "When does he want it done?"

Tommy saw a ray of hope. "The grass is headed out. I thought I could cut on Thursday, rake on Saturday and bale on Sunday."

Tommy's dad glanced toward the kitchen where mom was violently shredding lettuce with her bare hands.

"That might work. I'm off Sunday night so if I have to stay up to help you get the Case going I can sleep later. Once it's warmed up it's easy to start."

By this time Tommy's little brother and sister were standing by the table awestruck. Tommy's chest was about to explode.

"Can you let Mr. Eli know it's okay with you?"

"I'll stop by and talk to him on the way home from work in the morning. You make sure and do a good job and you could get more work out of it."

"Dad, I don't know how much to charge. He wants a price per bale." Tommy waited while his dad rubbed the stubble on his chin.

"I tell you what," his dad offered. "Why don't you take all the costs into consideration and come up with a number? Tell me what you come up with and I'll see if you're in the ballpark."

Tommy wolfed down his dinner while his mother continued to fume. He even let his little brother have the last pork chop without confrontation. He immediately excused himself to his room, eager to do math. The irony of this was lost on him in the excitement. He knew some of the costs such as gas and twine. He guessed at how many bales the 40 acres would produce. He had worked hauling hay the last couple of summers so he knew the thick stand would produce at least 600 bales. Most prairie hay brought in just under two dollars a bale in the field at 1968 prices. He would need at least 30 gallons of gas and six rolls of twine.

Tommy's dad was pulling on his steel-toed work boots. Tommy's mom had her arm slung across his shoulder. She smiled at Tommy as he came into the living room with his notebook paper covered in figures. It was encouraging to see that the tension had dissipated.

"Let's see what you came up with," Tommy's dad said, reaching for the paper.

He studied it for a few minutes. "Your costs look accurate, or close. I think you will get closer to 800 bales but it's better to figure on the short side. So, you really like Mr. Eli?"

"Well, I guess - he's okay. Why?"

"Well, son, according to this, you're working for free. You didn't figure in any labor."

Tommy suddenly felt like he was lost. Of course he wanted to make money, but how much? It would be three days of labor or more like two half days and one full day. He grabbed the paper from his dad and ran back to his room. He knew if he turned around he would see his dad and mom shaking their heads in amusement. Tommy finally figured that he would like to make 150 dollars. He felt greedy. That was a huge sum for a twelve year old boy to make. On the other hand if he were an adult it would be meager pay. He could do just as good a job as an adult, couldn't he? By the time he finished his calculations his dad was walking out the door. He handed the revision to his dad.

"I'll look at this. We can go over it in the morning," his dad said, neatly folding the paper and putting it in his shirt pocket.

Tommy stood silently by the door as his mom walked his dad to the truck and kissed him goodbye. When his mom entered the front door she looked at Tommy. Her wet eyes sparkled as she pulled him into a hug.

"You're growing up too fast," she said, her voice cracking. She released him and headed toward the kitchen.

The next morning Tommy was going through his routine automatically. His dad had stopped on his way home and informed Mr. Eli that is was okay if he wanted Tommy to bale his hay but other than that it was between Mr. Eli and Tommy. When he got home Tommy was waiting with chores completed.

" I looked over your figures. They look okay, pretty generous really. I stopped by and let Mr. Eli know that you have my blessing."

"Was he satisfied with the price?"

"We didn't discuss that. It's between you and him. I've got to get to bed. I'm pulling a twelve hour shift tonight."

Mr. Eli's son is named Bart. Everyone calls him that, the mailman, the barber, the widow Mrs. Parsons. According to Mr. Eli, even dogs call him Bart. When Tommy rode his bicycle into the driveway, Bart waved him over. Mr. Eli was nodding in the lawn chair, snoring grandly, a stream of spittle running down his drooping jaw. Bart motioned for Tommy to wait so Tommy took a seat on the rusted chrome bumper of Mr. Eli's old truck.

"Your dad stopped by this morning." Bart said. "He seemed confident in your ability to handle the job. You just have to get it passed my dad. He's skeptical."

Tommy just looked over at Mr. Eli and shrugged. "I was hoping to cut on Thursday, weather permitting. The dew should be dry by ten, I figure."

"Poppa!" Bart shouted. Mr. Eli started awake, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Tommy's here."

Mr. Eli shifted the fedora back on his head and stared at Tommy through ice blue eyes as his brain caught up with his consciousness. He fished the flat bottle from his coveralls and took a sip then held the bottle out toward Tommy.

"No thanks, Mr. Eli. It's a little early for me."

Bart snickered under his breath and reached for the bottle. Mr. Eli snatched the bottle back and snorted. He replaced the cap and shoved it down into the folds of his garment.

"So,---- your old man seems to be under the impression that you are capable of handling my harvest."

"Yes sir."

"Well I don't know. You look a little wet behind the ears to me."

"I'll tell you what, sir. Give me the chance. I'll cut and bale your hay for thirty five cents a bale on the ground. That's a good price. If it don't suit you, you don't pay. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough." The old man stuck out his grizzled hand and Tommy shook it firmly.

"I'll cut it Thursday. We'll take a look at it on Saturday morning. If it's cured I'll bale it Sunday as soon as the dew dries."

"That's a workable schedule." Mr. Eli said.

Tommy straddled his bike and rode away but he didn't go straight home. He rode back toward his house but instead of turning down the driveway he continued on down the road past the pecan farm to where the trees grew close to the road allowing the branches to intertwine above. Between the Spanish moss and the wild grape vines the sun was almost totally blocked. It was as if dusk had come at midday. Only small dappled patches of sunlight filtered through the canopy. The road descended into a low area through a swampy marsh surrounding a natural pond. A baby alligator ambled across the lane, picking up its pace slightly upon seeing the approaching bicycle. This was a place Tommy felt was his own, his secret, where he was at peace.

Wednesday Tommy spent his free time attaching the sickle mower to the Farmall. He checked the oil, aired up the tires and topped off the fuel tank in anticipation of the next morning. The humidity was low for south Texas. It was still officially Spring but the brutal coastal heat was radiant in the still air. The rains had slowed so much that cracks were beginning to form in the heavy clay soil. He planned for an early start upon awakening. If he could even sleep. "Tomorrow is the big day." His dad mentioned that night at dinner. "Don't forget, you have chores here before you leave. if your job runs late maybe your mom and brother can exercise the horses in the afternoon."

"I guess we could cover that," Mom grinned, "but don't make a habit of it."

"Thanks Mom. I won't."

"We are really proud of you, son." Dad smiled and handed Tommy the last chicken leg prompting an evil eye from his little brother.

Thursday started out smoothly. Tommy drove the tractor into the field just as the two old men were stationing themselves beneath the pecan tree. He waved at them. Bart waved back and Mr. Eli touched the brim of his fedora. Tommy lowered the mower to cutting height, pulled down the bill of his baseball cap and engaged the blade. The crop was so thick that he could only manage second gear. He began at the perimeter and worked inward. When he stopped for lunch around one o'clock he was disheartened to see how much of the field was left to cut. The afternoon went quicker as each pass grew shorter with the shrinking of the stand. By six p.m. he was done, dirty and exhausted. He was convinced he had made a horrible mistake taking on such a job. When he returned home there were two places set at the table. Tommy washed up and joined his dad for a late dinner.

"Tired?" His dad asked.

"Sore!" Tommy replied.

"Just wait 'til tomorrow."

"I'll be fine"

His dad just smiled and attacked another spare rib. As it turned out his dad was right. When Tommy tried to roll out of bed in the morning every muscle burned. His dad was just getting in from work and he gave Tommy a pat on the back. Tommy tried not to flinch, but failed.

"Keep moving," his dad said. "You'll work that soreness out in no time."

Turns out his dad was right again. By the time he finished his morning chores he was moving at a more or less normal pace. No free time today, though. Tommy spent late morning switching out the implements on the Farmall and cleaning and servicing the equipment. Everything was go for Saturday until early afternoon when a couple of thunderheads built up to the southeast. Tommy watched them with an unfamiliar trepidation. Usually he could care less about the weather but a storm could delay the job or ruin the crop completely. He stood outside watching the sky and paced. The sky grew dark and the wind picked up sending powerful gusts through the brittle limbs of the oak in the back yard. After only a light smattering of huge raindrops the storm dissipated. Tommy had rarely experienced such relief. He still needed to exercise the horses before dinner. Saturday morning Tommy slept in until seven a.m. There was no hurry. The dew and residual rain had to be completely gone when he started raking. After his morning chores he fired up the Farmall and drove over to Mr. Eli's field. As he arrived, both of the old men were standing in the pasture kicking at the hay.

"Good afternoon," Mr. Eli said. "Sleep in?"

"Yep. No hurry, what with the rain last night."

"What rain?" Mr. Eli grinned. "I've made the ground wetter than that blowin' my nose."

"Does it look ready to rake?" Tommy asked, changing the subject.

"Looks okay to me. What do you think?"

"It's your hay."

"Rake it!" The old men headed back to their post by the trailer. The raking went much faster than the cutting. Tommy kicked the tractor into third gear and notched the throttle to full. Four hours later he was waving goodbye to Mr. Eli.

If ever a boy needed his father it was now. Tommy was out of his element. He had driven the Case while pulling the twenty one foot disc. He had no experience with the baler, a complicated contraption that was prone to malfunction. At dinner, Tommy had no appetite. He was pale and scared.

"How was your day? Did the raking go okay?" His dad asked.

"Really quick. Windrows are straight....but Dad? I've never run the baler."

"I guess you won't be able to say that after tomorrow.”

"Yeah, I guess not." Tommy chose to let it pass.

In the silent edge of dawn when even the roosters question the day, Tommy stands face to face with the massive Case tractor. The cold steel crank pulls his right hand toward the black earth causing his shoulder to slump. He shoves the heavy crank , the key to life for the colossal machine, into the dark orifice below the grill. He opens the fuel cock, sets the choke and the spark advance as he has seen his dad do. He checks the transmission. It is in neutral. Back at the front of the iron behemoth, he engages the crank and slowly turns the engine to the top of a compression stroke. Every muscle in his body tenses as he throws all of his energy into the revolution of the crankshaft. Nothing. The crickets chirp. The cicadas tease the sunrise. Tommy takes a walk around the tractor, checks the ignition switch and turns it on. He returns to the crank. Once again his muscles tense. Once again the engine spins. An explosive report awakens the morning, throwing Tommy's limp body into the dust. The world is awake yet the tractor is silent. A pair of headlights illuminate the driveway. His dad is home. Quickly Tommy slides the crank into its orifice. Using the sum of his will he thrusts every morsel of energy into the crank. The Case pops loudly falters and then catches, idling loudly through the open exhaust. Tommy climbs up into the seat of the tractor. Ancient levers control the antique beast. Tommy feels small atop the throbbing machine. A simple hook and eye hitch and spring locking driveshaft connect the baler to the tractor. The twine is threaded in the apparatus. Full rolls are in position for service. Tommy sees the decal, faded but legible, explaining how to thread the twine through the machine. He loads a half dozen extra rolls of twine into the cargo box and pulls the equipment out onto the driveway. He leaves the tractor idling and joins his father who has been observing from the fender of his truck. He notices the light flicker on in the kitchen window. The horizon is beginning its amber show.

"Looks like you have it under control," Tommy's dad remarks.

Two proud men survey the scene.

"No dew this morning," Tommy says. "I can get an early start."

"Let's grab a bite first."

The father and son enter the kitchen to the smell of coffee and bacon. After breakfast, Tommy rushes through his chores to the sound of the tractor calling. Before Bart and Mr. Eli exit the trailer Tommy has lined the baler up with the outermost windrow. Tommy climbs down from the tractor seat as Mr. Eli carefully steps down from the Airstream.

"I didn't expect you this early," Mr. Eli says.

"The ground is dry. I thought I would get an early start in case I run into some snags."

Old Mr. Eli seems to smile his approval but who can tell on a crusty face like his. Tommy mounts his perch atop the tractor and engages the PTO. The baler awakens, a monstrous iron lung breathing in grass and coughing out bales with a rhythmic mechanical pulse. Slowly the tandem mechanism lurches down the windrows spitting tight bales in its wake. As Tommy completes his second round he sees Mr. Eli dragging a sledge hammer and a yard sign to the corner of his property. The sign says simply "Hay for Sale".

It's about ten a.m. Tommy stops for a drink of water and to load the next rolls of twine. The bale counter is at 184. Four pickups, two with trailers, are parked at the entrance to the field. Tommy waves to several of his friends who are loading and hauling the hay. A couple of times during the morning, trucks are following the baler, loading the bales as soon as they are ejected. Every time Tommy passes the north side of the property, he checks the lot that Tina's family owns. As of eleven-thirty there is still no activity. No problem. Tommy estimates that he will bale over 800 bales by the time he completes the job. He is already planning what to do with his new wealth. After several hours of baling the sun is directly overhead in the cloudless sky. The shadows have disappeared. The rhythmic churning of the machine is becoming hypnotic. Tommy inches the tractor down the backbone of the endless hay snake while his mind wanders aimlessly to fishing the river with his little brother, spending some of his new wealth at the local skating rink and, of course, to Tina. There is still no sign of her family at the lot across the road. Suddenly a blaring truck horn brings him back to reality.

Looking behind, he sees over a half dozen broken bales strung out behind the baler. He stops the tractor and disengages the PTO. The pulsing of the baler slows until only the low rumble of the tractor breaks the silence. The pickup that had been following backs away and heads for the entrance. Tommy opens the access panel and finds a tangled wad of twine the size of a basketball. Pulling out his pocket knife, he begins cutting and ripping at the mess until he is down to nothing but metal. He rethreads the twine according to the decal and latches the cover. He climbs back on the tractor and engages the baler. It sounds normal so he begins to slowly move along the windrow. He watches behind as the first few bales exit the chute. They are tied up but look somehow crooked. When he checks them he finds that one of the strings is tighter than the other giving the bales an unnatural curve. Tommy shuts down the machine and pops the access panel open again. Everything looks normal. He reads the decal and notices an illegible paragraph with arrows pointing to some adjusting rods. He checks them and observes that the lock nut has backed off on one. He adjusts the rod back to where the rust indicates a previous setting and tightens the lock nut. After latching the door he cuts the strings on the misshapen bales and resumes baling. All goes well. He turns the baler around and repairs the broken bales then continues down the windrow. Soon another crew is in the field loading the bales as soon as they leave the chute.

As Tommy loops around the north side of the field he sees Tina standing at the driveway to her family's lot watching as he comes closer. She waves. He waves back. The next time he comes around Tina is standing at the edge of the field holding a blue plastic tumbler. Tommy shuts down the baler and dismounts. Tina meets him halfway across the field.

"You look like you could use some tea," she says.

Tina had not said that much to him the entire time he had known her.

"Thanks," he replies. "It's pretty hot out here. I need to finish this today so I'm working through lunch. I sure do appreciate the tea."

"Sure. You live around here?"

"See that big silver barn behind the pasture?"

"Yeah."

"My house is behind it."

"We might be neighbors soon. My parents want to build out here."

"That will be good. Not very many kids from our class live out this way. Jerry Sullivan and Arty live off the highway at the end of the road but that's a mile away."

"Yeah, I know them. Jerry's a little weird but Arty's okay."

"Jerry's alright too. He just likes everyone to think he's smarter than they are."

"That can get annoying."

"You just have to let it roll off of you."

"I guess."

"Well, hey, thanks for the tea. I better get back to work."

"Me, too. I'm helping Dad set some fence posts."

"That's hard work!"

"You're telling me! I'll see you. Holler if you want more tea. We have plenty."

"Thanks. See you later." Tommy floats back over to the tractor and begins making the slow circles again.

The western horizon is glowing a warm red when Tommy disengages the PTO and lets the baler slowly wind down. He pulls the contraption up to the front of the trailer where Mr. Eli and Bart lounge. Tommy looks at the field. Only a few dozen bales remain on the ground.

"What did we get?" Bart asked. Tommy checked the counter.

"Counter says 827 but I had to re-bale a few. Let's call it 800 even."

"You sure?"

"Works for me."

Mr. Eli pulls a wad of money from his coveralls and peels off 14 twenty dollar bills, handing them to Tommy. "Good job, son. We'll see you back in August if we get some decent rain in the meantime."

"Yes sir. Thank you."

"Hey Tommy," Bart hollers after him, "I think the little neighbor girl is sweet on you!"

Tommy just smiles and shakes his head hoping the darkness is masking the flush forming in his cheeks. He drives the tractor home and pulls it into the pasture. When he turns off the key the silence engulfs him bringing with it a level of exhaustion he has never experienced.

"Hungry?" Tommy's mom asks when she hears the screen door slam.

"Just a sandwich, I'm too tired to eat."

Tommy's dad is kicked back in his recliner reading a "Horse and Rider" magazine. "How'd you do?"

"Made 800 bales. What do I owe you? I used 6 rolls of twine plus what was in there and I'm pretty sure both tractors are almost out of gas."

"How about you cut and bale that ten acres in the back end of the pasture next month and we'll call it even."

Tommy grinned. "Sure, but I'll need some help putting it in the barn."

"That's what little brothers and sisters are for," his dad chuckled.

His little brother looks up from the coffee table where he is building a model car and gives him the evil eye.