What to do today? There’s a disparity between what should be done and what will actually get done–like always.
My big brother’s 70th birthday is upcoming on May 26th. This is indeed a milestone for my precocious older brother. He was blessed with the gift of gab that I never had.
Yesterday, was the dogs annual check up. I need to clean out the car, reconfigure it for human passengers. It’s always a fun experience.
I was chided by the Vet for passing out too many dog treats. Max’s fun car ride ended, when he saw we were outside the Vet’s office. He kept trying to jump back in the car.
Were the car windows ever dirty on the inside from nose and paw prints. The windows got an thorough cleaning inside and out. Just in time for my wife to make a trip to the grocery.
Nature’s humidity blanket got kicked off sometime last night. Coolest morning temps since last spring.
Max, the Wonder Dog, agreed and went on our long walk this morning. He made up for lost time by refreshing scent markings at every turn. It was nice, not to be drenched in perspiration, for a change.
What do you remember about your first car? Was it a hand-me-down old clunker or beater brought back from the dead? Did you give it a nickname? Perhaps Green Hornet, Silver Streak, Old Blue, or the Batmobile?
Only on television did older brothers hand down their classic muscle cars. Latest rendition on “Bluebloods”–Jamie inherited his late brother’s classic, big-block, Chevelle Super Sport; sacrificed in the name of episodic wretched excess.
My first car was a hulking, full-size Ford, Custom four-door sedan. Nothing sexy or dramatic about it–just good dependable, point A to point B transportation. Wonder of wonders, it had power steering and air conditioning. That was luxurious in those days.
The three-speed stick shift, “three on the tree,” had overdrive to go with it. A single dashboard speaker blasted the latest top 40 hits from the AM radio. Only bonafide car nuts, like myself, will appreciate the irony of Plymouth hubcaps on a Ford.
Pals, best buddies, posed by dad’s ’54 Ford sedan, in Canton, OH. Left to right, brother, Jerry; oldest McNamara boy; middle McNamara brother; youngest McNamara brother–with BB gun, who was also the meanest; myself, and older brother, George.
–Arlo Guthrie, “Motorcycle Song”
I was a nine-year old boy riding atop a stack of haybales gliding across a field. We were travelling the breakneck speed of five miles per hour–it seemed much faster. School was out, it was the beginning of the busy harvest season. …The hottest, most humid part of the summer. Raising livestock required tremendous amounts of hay. This was in preparation for long cold winter months and future drought. There hadn’t been any freak summer snowstorms in the upper midwest. Snow wasn’t necessary for our “summer sledding.”
Putting up hay was labor intensive. Farmers helped each other out. Area farmers used a unique homemade conveyance to transport bales. It travelled on top of the ground. Once moving, it was a smooth ride. A wagon required more lifting. Picture a wooden gate, eighteen feet in length and seven feet wide laying flat on the ground. Construction was of sawmill oak, true dimensioned lumber. Two by six slats were placed lengthwise about three inches apart. A transverse two by eight cross piece was placed on top of each end. Everything was bolted together with carriage bolts. Evenly spaced U-brackets on the front secured the tow chain. Friction polished the planks to a smooth finish.
A fully loaded sled could hold sixty to eighty bales–depending on the skill of the stacker. It held the more common rectangular bales and smaller round bales. It was an unwritten rule, the stacker was responsible for any spillage. Re-stacking bales was an embarrassment. The process was witnessed through the eyes of a curious young boy. I was too young to help. The hay stubble hurt the bottoms of my tender bare feet. It required vigilance to avoid splinters and the gap between boards. Older and wiser, the fun wore off. I learned what a dusty dirty job it really was.
Nothing stirred the pulse of farmers like the competition of a tractor pull. An official tractor pull used a rig with a sliding weight. Resistance increased as the tractor moved forward. The goal was to pull the furthest. Our unofficial test, was starting dead weight with a haysled. Tractors dug in and sometimes lifted front wheels off the ground. The engines pulled hard and sometimes backfired when shut off. I thought the sound was cool. Our neighbors had different brands of tractors. There were orange Allis-Chalmers, red Farmalls, red and yellow Massey-Harris, and green Oliver tractors. I liked red Farmall tractors, just like my Dad’s. Tractor brands were a sense of pride, just like automobiles. At elementary school, boys brought toy tractors to play with, just like their Dad’s.
My younger brother and I hired out to local farmers. We did what was asked–chopped weeds, cleaned out chicken coops, put up lots of hay. It became friendly competition to see who made it to the end of the row first. There were occasional interruptions for, dirt clod throwing, other spontaneous bouts of silliness. Farmer’s wives served noon meals befitting a threshing crew. Our ravenous appetites were satisfied and we didn’t gain an ounce of weight. Wish that were still true today. We were the descendents of generations of European farmers. None of us farm today. There still is no one I’d rather work with than my little brother.