The modest farm in Spring Arbor, Michigan, where our family lived after my dad remarried and my brother and I returned home from the orphanage.
The 16th Short Story
The Mighty Root
"The Mighty Root"
ANDY JUNIOR'S CHILDHOOD STORIES
Life After the St. Joseph Home for Boys
My 16th Short Story
When my dad remarried in 1965, he brought us three kids back to live at our farm on Sandstone Road in Spring Arbor, Michigan. I hope you enjoy more of Andy's life experiences and the lessons that come with them.
"The Might Root"
“A farmer’s life can depend on how quickly one reacts, when operating powerful equipment.”
--Andy Skrzynski
Most activities involving a farm tractor absolutely bored me to death, but I knew better than to be caught napping if the slow-moving contraption decided it was time to demonstrate a bit of shock and awe.
Toward the end of Michigan’s winters, I always chomped on the bit while awaiting spring’s arrival. By the time February rolled around, I was tired of the cold, dreary days, that never seemed to end, and that stinging feeling in my toes and fingers after a long, frigid day of farm chores.
Most times, our winter activities varied from digging post holes to repair fences to shoveling corn from the cribs into the bed of the pickup and driving to Parma to grind grain for our livestock. Worse yet, I still had to scoop the smelly poop of the cattle, pigs, and chickens, no matter how cold Michigan's storms blew our way.
I really didn’t mind the never-ending farm chores that much. It was just that the tips of my fingers, toes, and ears would get so doggone numb at times. Then, I had to suffer that burning sensation when my extremities began to thaw in the evening.
Anticipating warmer weather was plenty enough encouragement to want to see the end of Old Man Winter, but what really excited me was the chance to prepare the fields for the planting season. One could have questioned my sanity, but I truthfully loved hopping on that, green John Deere tractor and absorbing the rumble of that powerful, two-piston engine as it towed the plow, drags, discs, and corn planter across the field.
Boys will be boys, and I thoroughly enjoyed my toy. Yes, it moved slower than a snail at times, but that sense of accomplishment after turning the last couple of rows of the dark humus-ladened soil with our two-bladed plow was worth it. Smoothing the dirt to prepare it for that final task of planting the crop deepened my gratification.
By the time I had worked the fields for several days in the spring for a couple of years, I actually felt “one and the same” with the earth. I absolutely loved the smell of the damp dirt and even the worms as they wiggled while still stuck half in and part way out of the freshly turned soil -- mmm, mmm, mmm.
Filling the corn planter with golden nuggets and running the red, metal contraption across the field, while it deposited four rows of the treated seeds into the ground with each pass, added icing to the cake. Better yet, I couldn’t wait to closely monitor the slightly indented rows during the days that followed to finally catch that first glimpse of the little, green shoots, sprouting through the soil to bask in the sunlight. By then, I knew it wouldn’t take long before those slender stalks would quickly climb higher during the spring’s rains and warmer weeks that were sure to come.
No yardstick would be required to measure the growth -- no sirree. As long as the stalks grew “knee high by the 4th of July” everything would turn out just fine.
After my rookie year, plowing became a breeze. As I neared the end of the field, I’d pull up the hydraulic lever to lift the blades of the plow while stomping on the right brake pedal and spinning the steering wheel around. This handy technique spun that big tractor on a dime until you’d let off the brake.
When I neared the next row to plow, I’d reverse the order to turn the tractor and lower the hydraulic lever to drop the blades, until they sliced through the dirt. I had duplicated those steps hundreds of times and could have mastered them in my sleep.
That’s about the time, I should have known things couldn’t possibly continue without some kind of hitch. I’d seen plenty of old farmers, roaming the auctions yards in Napoleon and Coldwater with their backs hunched over from some mishap, encountered while working their farms.
Some shared stories of a tractor that rolled and caught them off guard. Others simply suffered the scourge of arthritis that had weaseled its way, deep into their bones after decades of hard labor.
No matter the cause, the results were not a pretty sight to behold. It pained me to watch them shuffling their feet to slowly maneuver between one piece of equipment to another, while inspecting the wares.
I didn’t allow such unpleasant thoughts to linger too long. I was young and spry, and my reflexes were quick as a cat’s. That’s never going to happen to me!
One particular spring witnessed far more than the usual dose of thunderstorms, and our field remained too wet to work for way too many weeks. My dad shook his head on several occasions. “If those fields don’t dry out soon, we’ll never plant that corn on time.”
His mood remained sour during that unfortunate period, so I made sure to keep a wide berth and keep ahead of my chores. No sense poking a bear when it’s already angry.
Finally, the sun broke through the clouds for three solid days, and things appeared more promising. Once I started plowing, I knew there was no time to waste. With each pass up and down the field, I opened the throttle a bit more. Even so, the John Deere still crawled slow as molasses, but I didn’t dare push it any faster for fear of overloading the noisy engine.
Toward the latter part of the afternoon, the tractor approached a clearing to the right of a massive oak tree that must have stood for more than 100 years. It’s lower, thick branches spanned a length greater than two railroad cars.
As I neared, I reminded myself, don’t get too close to that…. Before I even finish the thought, something jarred the mighty tractor to a halt, jolting me forward out of my seat and slamming my knees into the metal casing directly before me. I yelled, “Ow!”
The tractor paid no heed as sharp pains shot up my legs. The plow blades had wedged under a mighty root, preventing us from moving forward.
Nonetheless, the loud engine kept churning, and the huge wheels continued to turn. By then, the front end of the tractor slowly began rising higher and higher as if trying to perform a “wheelie,” but we were stuck and going nowhere.
I gulped as my heart practically leapt from my mouth. I’ve got to find the clutch! Even though my knees were screaming in agony, I scrambled to locate the flat, metal pedal that controlled the drive shaft.
Visions of hunchbacked farmers flooded my mind as fear gripped my soul. The thought of jumping to safety shot to the forefront, but I knew better. Tata will kill me if I bust up his tractor!
The nose of the John Deere rose higher than the tallest man I’d ever seen. Hurry you idiot! You’re gonna get killed!
For a split second, I was so scared my body refused to respond. Summoning the tiny bit of courage I had at that moment, I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled myself into my seat.
Without hesitation, I slammed my foot down on the clutch. The front of the tractor plummeted to the ground and bounced a few times as I caught my breath.
My heart pounded so hard I feared it was going to explode on the spot, and they’d find me slumped over, deader than a doorknob. As the air rushed from my lungs, I turned the key and shut down the engine.
A chilling frost raced through my veins. Never had I felt so scared for my life. My hands trembled, and my knees continued to scream bloody murder.
I gathered myself and looked toward the sky. Thank you, Lord, but I’d surely appreciate it if you could avoid making my job so exciting next time. My heart can’t take much more of this!
**********
That's it for now.
All I can say, is that I'm thankful I survived some of those farming incidents. Many jobs during our existence offer life-threatening moments, and like many of you have done, we scramble our best to survive those unexpected challenges.
I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences. I'll continue to share more of my short stories.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski
ANDY JUNIOR'S CHILDHOOD STORIES
Life After the St. Joseph Home for Boys
My 16th Short Story
When my dad remarried in 1965, he brought us three kids back to live at our farm on Sandstone Road in Spring Arbor, Michigan. I hope you enjoy more of Andy's life experiences and the lessons that come with them.
"The Might Root"
“A farmer’s life can depend on how quickly one reacts, when operating powerful equipment.”
--Andy Skrzynski
Most activities involving a farm tractor absolutely bored me to death, but I knew better than to be caught napping if the slow-moving contraption decided it was time to demonstrate a bit of shock and awe.
Toward the end of Michigan’s winters, I always chomped on the bit while awaiting spring’s arrival. By the time February rolled around, I was tired of the cold, dreary days, that never seemed to end, and that stinging feeling in my toes and fingers after a long, frigid day of farm chores.
Most times, our winter activities varied from digging post holes to repair fences to shoveling corn from the cribs into the bed of the pickup and driving to Parma to grind grain for our livestock. Worse yet, I still had to scoop the smelly poop of the cattle, pigs, and chickens, no matter how cold Michigan's storms blew our way.
I really didn’t mind the never-ending farm chores that much. It was just that the tips of my fingers, toes, and ears would get so doggone numb at times. Then, I had to suffer that burning sensation when my extremities began to thaw in the evening.
Anticipating warmer weather was plenty enough encouragement to want to see the end of Old Man Winter, but what really excited me was the chance to prepare the fields for the planting season. One could have questioned my sanity, but I truthfully loved hopping on that, green John Deere tractor and absorbing the rumble of that powerful, two-piston engine as it towed the plow, drags, discs, and corn planter across the field.
Boys will be boys, and I thoroughly enjoyed my toy. Yes, it moved slower than a snail at times, but that sense of accomplishment after turning the last couple of rows of the dark humus-ladened soil with our two-bladed plow was worth it. Smoothing the dirt to prepare it for that final task of planting the crop deepened my gratification.
By the time I had worked the fields for several days in the spring for a couple of years, I actually felt “one and the same” with the earth. I absolutely loved the smell of the damp dirt and even the worms as they wiggled while still stuck half in and part way out of the freshly turned soil -- mmm, mmm, mmm.
Filling the corn planter with golden nuggets and running the red, metal contraption across the field, while it deposited four rows of the treated seeds into the ground with each pass, added icing to the cake. Better yet, I couldn’t wait to closely monitor the slightly indented rows during the days that followed to finally catch that first glimpse of the little, green shoots, sprouting through the soil to bask in the sunlight. By then, I knew it wouldn’t take long before those slender stalks would quickly climb higher during the spring’s rains and warmer weeks that were sure to come.
No yardstick would be required to measure the growth -- no sirree. As long as the stalks grew “knee high by the 4th of July” everything would turn out just fine.
After my rookie year, plowing became a breeze. As I neared the end of the field, I’d pull up the hydraulic lever to lift the blades of the plow while stomping on the right brake pedal and spinning the steering wheel around. This handy technique spun that big tractor on a dime until you’d let off the brake.
When I neared the next row to plow, I’d reverse the order to turn the tractor and lower the hydraulic lever to drop the blades, until they sliced through the dirt. I had duplicated those steps hundreds of times and could have mastered them in my sleep.
That’s about the time, I should have known things couldn’t possibly continue without some kind of hitch. I’d seen plenty of old farmers, roaming the auctions yards in Napoleon and Coldwater with their backs hunched over from some mishap, encountered while working their farms.
Some shared stories of a tractor that rolled and caught them off guard. Others simply suffered the scourge of arthritis that had weaseled its way, deep into their bones after decades of hard labor.
No matter the cause, the results were not a pretty sight to behold. It pained me to watch them shuffling their feet to slowly maneuver between one piece of equipment to another, while inspecting the wares.
I didn’t allow such unpleasant thoughts to linger too long. I was young and spry, and my reflexes were quick as a cat’s. That’s never going to happen to me!
One particular spring witnessed far more than the usual dose of thunderstorms, and our field remained too wet to work for way too many weeks. My dad shook his head on several occasions. “If those fields don’t dry out soon, we’ll never plant that corn on time.”
His mood remained sour during that unfortunate period, so I made sure to keep a wide berth and keep ahead of my chores. No sense poking a bear when it’s already angry.
Finally, the sun broke through the clouds for three solid days, and things appeared more promising. Once I started plowing, I knew there was no time to waste. With each pass up and down the field, I opened the throttle a bit more. Even so, the John Deere still crawled slow as molasses, but I didn’t dare push it any faster for fear of overloading the noisy engine.
Toward the latter part of the afternoon, the tractor approached a clearing to the right of a massive oak tree that must have stood for more than 100 years. It’s lower, thick branches spanned a length greater than two railroad cars.
As I neared, I reminded myself, don’t get too close to that…. Before I even finish the thought, something jarred the mighty tractor to a halt, jolting me forward out of my seat and slamming my knees into the metal casing directly before me. I yelled, “Ow!”
The tractor paid no heed as sharp pains shot up my legs. The plow blades had wedged under a mighty root, preventing us from moving forward.
Nonetheless, the loud engine kept churning, and the huge wheels continued to turn. By then, the front end of the tractor slowly began rising higher and higher as if trying to perform a “wheelie,” but we were stuck and going nowhere.
I gulped as my heart practically leapt from my mouth. I’ve got to find the clutch! Even though my knees were screaming in agony, I scrambled to locate the flat, metal pedal that controlled the drive shaft.
Visions of hunchbacked farmers flooded my mind as fear gripped my soul. The thought of jumping to safety shot to the forefront, but I knew better. Tata will kill me if I bust up his tractor!
The nose of the John Deere rose higher than the tallest man I’d ever seen. Hurry you idiot! You’re gonna get killed!
For a split second, I was so scared my body refused to respond. Summoning the tiny bit of courage I had at that moment, I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled myself into my seat.
Without hesitation, I slammed my foot down on the clutch. The front of the tractor plummeted to the ground and bounced a few times as I caught my breath.
My heart pounded so hard I feared it was going to explode on the spot, and they’d find me slumped over, deader than a doorknob. As the air rushed from my lungs, I turned the key and shut down the engine.
A chilling frost raced through my veins. Never had I felt so scared for my life. My hands trembled, and my knees continued to scream bloody murder.
I gathered myself and looked toward the sky. Thank you, Lord, but I’d surely appreciate it if you could avoid making my job so exciting next time. My heart can’t take much more of this!
**********
That's it for now.
All I can say, is that I'm thankful I survived some of those farming incidents. Many jobs during our existence offer life-threatening moments, and like many of you have done, we scramble our best to survive those unexpected challenges.
I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences. I'll continue to share more of my short stories.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski
Andy Junior, in 1963. Two years later, my dad taught me to operate the tractors and other farm equipment to prepare the fields and plant crops.
The "Mighty Root" of this short story belonged to the huge oak in the upper-right-hand corner of this photograph. It stood as the lone tree in the field where we planted and harvested corn that was ground into grain to feed our animals. Right-to-left: my stepmother, her mom (Granny to us), our stepmother's first child, and her grandfather, who preferred to be called Pa-Pete.
This was our modest farm on Sandstone Rd. in Spring Arbor, Michigan. We worked and planted crops on our 20 acres and on other neighboring properties, where we shared what we harvested. The straw, alfalfa hay, corn, and oats we raised was used to bed and feed our milk cows, steers, pigs, and chickens.