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 17th Short Story
Jackknifed
"Jackknifed"
ANDY JUNIOR'S CHILDHOOD STORIES
Life After the St. Joseph Home for Boys
My 17th Short Story
I hope you enjoy more of Andy's life experiences and the lessons that come with them. Truthfully, I considered shortening this story by summarizing all of the baling activities and getting to the more exciting action. However, I decided to leave the details, because I figured there were a lot of readers who may not know about such things and might find the details interesting.
"Jackknifed"
“Do what is necessary to avoid getting killed.”
--Andy Skrzynski
I was thrilled to see another morning after the incident with the John Deere popping a wheelie, when the plow got wedged under the mighty root. Being fortunate to escape the reaper’s grasp once, didn’t mean I'd be so lucky the next time we faced each other. Since I wasn't born a cat, it was unlikely I’d get nine chances.
Narrowly avoiding a meeting with my creator made one thing immensely clear. Those who keep their wits about them, have a chance to survive a near-death crisis. Those who don’t -- won’t!
While I waited for the cornfields to mature during the summer months, it was time to conduct another essential chore to provide winter forage for our cows -- baling hay. Since our 20 acres were barely enough to produce the needed corn for the grain to feed all our livestock, we had to seek alternatives to produce the necessary fodder.
One such opportunity resided next to the old Odd Fellow & Rebekah Home for the elderly, near the intersection of Michigan Avenue and Brown Street, in Jackson, Michigan. A luscious field of alfalfa stood where the Westwood Mall was later built. My dad worked out a deal with the owner, and we were in business.
A few days later, I hooked up the hay rake to our orange, 1930’s-vintage Allis Chalmers, with a single-bladed mower attachment. After a quick inspection of all connections, I climbed into the seat and slowly made my way from our house, on S. Sandstone Road, toward the Rebekah Home.
Normally, I would open up the throttle and travel down the road as fast as the over-aged tractor could go, but in this case, I had to keep a watchful eye on the spirally rake contraption. It had the unfortunate tendency to fishtail, when towed too fast.
I traveled east on McCain Road and down all the back streets, on the western outskirts of Jackson, to avoid the heavier traffic along Michigan Ave. Even so, plenty of cars and trucks honked and zoomed past me in their desire to get somewhere quicker.
Being an amiable farmer, I’d simply smile and wave at the drivers as they sped along their way. Most of them appeared to be wearing their unhappy faces that day.
After finally reaching my destination, early in the afternoon, I pulled into the driveway and stopped near a fence. Dismounting, I removed my shirt and stretched for a moment before proceeding with the chore at hand. It was a bright and sunny day -- perfect for working on that tan of mine.
I unhooked the rake and lowered the mower blade -- ready for action. Revving up the putt-putt of an engine, I proceeded to slice through the tender crop of alfalfa down the first row, closest to the fence line. As I continued along the way, I drew a deep breath and closed my eyes for a second. Ahhh, I love that smell.
Of the fragrances to pass through my nostrils, the scent of freshly cut alfalfa had to rate near the top, when it came to farm work. I continued taking extended whiffs of the sweet pleasure, throughout the afternoon until I finished mowing.
Then, I secured the mower blade in the upright position and reconnected the rake -- ready to go after the hay dried over a couple of days. My dad showed up after finishing his workday at a tool and die shop and drove me home in his turquoise Chevy pickup.
After the alfalfa aired out, I returned with the green John Deere and a red New Holland baler in tow -- a colorful getup that only Santa would have been proud of. When I arrived at the field, I parked the baler to the side, and hopped on the Allis Chalmers.
By then, the dew had evaporated, and I started turning the slightly browner hay into rows with the rake I brought the first day. With my fitting impression of a nerd, I merrily whistled as I worked. Gotta make a boring job a little more pleasurable somehow.
I’m sure anybody that heard the noise escaping my puckered lips most likely covered their ears. Oblivious to any onlookers, I continued on my bright orange ride that could be spotted a mile away on a foggy day. As usual, raking the alfalfa proceeded much faster but dustier than cutting it, and I finished the job in no time at all.
After parking the pipsqueak of a tractor behind the baler, I removed the two spark plugs from the John Deere and inspected the gaps to make sure they were clean. Then, I sprayed the piston chamber and plugs with starter fluid we kept in a small storage compartment with a few tools. The brute of a tractor was reliable as all get-out, but it took some hocus-pocus to get the blasted thing started most times.
When done tightening the plugs and putting the spray can and wrench away, I climbed onto the tractor. I reached for the key in the ignition and bit my lower lip. Please start the first time so I don’t have to do this all over again. Establishing lift off on the initial try was typically a 50-50 proposition.
I closed my eyes and turned the key. The mighty John Deere spit out a couple of half-hearted chugs and finally took off. Yay!
After letting it warm up a minute, off I went. I slowly drove along each row of hay as the baler swallowed up the brownish-green fodder. The New Holland contraption banged and clanged while cutting the hay, packing it tight, wrapping the rectangular bale with two strands of twine, and spitting it out the back. It was actually pretty amazing to witness the precision at which the thing operated.
Later that afternoon, all the rows of alfalfa had been converted into packed bales, strewn across the field. I checked all the tires and returned back home with the John Deere and baler in tow, before it got too dark.
The next morning, on a Saturday, more of our family joined the action. Our dad towed our large wagon with his Chevy pickup, while our stepmother sat in the passenger seat. My brother and I stripped our shirts off and hopped up in the bed of the truck.
We sat with our backs against the cab, since seat belts weren’t even an option back in those days. Nobody seemed too worried about the consequences, because lots of kids sat in the back of pickups on a regular basis. In fact, it was much cooler back there, especially on hot days.
When we got to the field, we disconnected the wagon and hooked it up to the Allis Chalmers, to be used later. Our stepmother slid in behind the steering wheel of the pickup and slowly drove along the rows of bales, while us boys tossed them onto the bed of the truck. Dragging and lifting them in position, our dad would kick and smash the bales into neat rows as tightly as possible, until the truck was stacked as high as he dared. After tying it all down with ropes, we proceeded to the bigger chore of loading the large wagon.
Tossing the heavy, freshly cut bales up in the wagon required a lot more umph, particularly when the stacks reached two rows high. By the time our dad finished positioning all the bales in place and we secured it all, I was plumb tuckered out.
My brother and I were covered in dust, head to toe. Worse yet, our shoulders were red and stinging from a little too much sun that afternoon.
Unfortunately, my duties weren’t done. Next, came the part I didn’t particularly relish. The last thing I wanted to do was to drive the Allis Chalmers on the road while towing a huge wagon filled with hay -- stacked 5 rows high.
It had to weigh many times what that tiny tractor would register on any scale. Worst of all, the dang brakes were practically worthless. It can barely stop itself! How on Earth will it stop such a heavy load?
The color of the farm implement said it all. Who in their right mind paints a tractor orange? Allis Chalmers? Who is he, anyway? He should have painted “Toy Tractor” on the side for all to see!
The puny thing looked like a peewee next to the mighty John Deere. Now, that’s a real tractor!
The rest of the gang headed home in the pickup to start the evening farm chores, while I towed the biggest of the payload to our barn. Shaking my head, I shifted the transmission into gear. Who am I to challenge Tata? He’d just give me that glare of his and make me do it anyway.
All the whining in the world wasn’t going to change a thing. Off I drove, while towing the massive load with the pitiful putt-putt along the usual route back home.
I’m sure it offered quite a sight to see for those passing me in the other lane -- sometimes waving, other times shaking their fists or tooting their horns. I never saw so many unhappy faces in my life, as they whizzed past me.
When I approached the steepest valley on McCain Road, sweat started dripping down my sideburns. The drop off, leading down to the bridge over Sandstone Creek, was very steep.
All sorts of worries nagged at me, as I feared heading down that slope. What will happen if the wagon’s too heavy? Ain’t no way those brakes will hold!
My heart pounded even harder as the nose of the weakling of a tractor turned downward. I gulped. I’ll know any second now.
The heavy wagon kept pushing the tractor a little faster, as it chugged ever so slowly down the hill in second gear. Frazzled, my nerves were a mess as I held my breath. That bolt better hold!
The wagon kept jerking as it duked it out with the hitch in the back. I ground my teeth. I’m going to get squashed for sure!
The closer we neared the steep ditches leading to the creek, the more scared I got. The herky-jerky motion worsened the further we descended down the hill. I kept my left hand on the steering wheel with the other gripping the brake lever to the right of my hip.
My ears were tuned to listen for any unusual noise, so I could yank that handle to slow us if needed. I didn’t dare exhale, until we finally made the bottom and slowly crossed the bridge.
I released a deep sigh. Thank you, Lord! The tiny bit of relief faded immediately as I spotted the ominous incline on the other side of the creek.
Turning the fuel lever, I fed the hungry, orange beast more gas. Gotta pick up speed to make it up that hill!
I sucked in a couple of deep breaths and rocked forward, as if I could help it along. Go faster, you stupid tractor! Hurry!
The Allis Chalmers sped up ever so slightly before reaching the base of the hill. It didn’t take long to feel the pull of the wagon behind me. Halfway up the slope, the worn tractor began to struggle and lose momentum.
I gulped. Come on! Keep going!
Suddenly, the engine choked, and the tractor almost halted to a stop. My heart practically leapt from my throat. No! What’s happening?
The only thing I could think of was to downshift it to first, but this stupid contraption had to be at a near standstill to change gears or it would grind like nobody’s business. I held my breath, pressed the clutch, and tried to downshift just as it slowed to a halt. To my dismay, the weight of the wagon quickly stalled us faster than I expected and started pulling us backward, before I could set the gear.
My eyes almost popped out of my head. I pulled on the brake lever, but nothing happened. The load was way too heavy for the worn pads.
Twisting in my seat, I tried to look behind, but the wide stack of hay blocked my sight. I hope there’s no cars back there!
The further we retreated down the hill, the faster we picked up speed. Visions of plunging into the creek flooded my mind.
Horrified, I shook my head. Hurry, you idiot! You’ve got to do something -- NOW! Without another thought, I jerked the steering wheel to the left and jackknifed the trailer.
The nose of the tractor rose at least 5 feet high as we screeched to a halt with a boom. I held tight to keep from being thrown from the tractor. A moment later, the front wheels plummeted and smacked the pavement with a bounce.
Within seconds, the owner of the house next to the road ran out the door and yelled, “Are you okay?” He raced to my side. “Are you hurt anywhere?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I was more embarrassed and upset than anything. How am I going to explain this to Tata? He’s going to be hopping mad!
The friendly man extended his hand. “Let me help you down. You’re welcome to use our phone if you’d like.”
I barely made out what he said. One thing kept flashing before me. I’m lucky I survived. I whispered emphatically, “Thank you, God.”
Still shaking from fright, I could hardly stand after I stepped down. When I wobbled a moment, my newfound helper dipped his shoulder under my arm and steadied me.
Mustering a bit of a smile, I looked into his eyes. “Thank you, sir. I need to call my dad, if that’s okay.”
About 20 minutes later, Tata pulled into the Samaritan's driveway with a dump truck he borrowed from his brother, earlier that week. After I prudently explained what happened, we looked for any obvious damage. Fortunately, the tongue of the wagon was slightly bent, but not enough to worry about.
Together, my dad and I wrapped a couple of heavy chains around the front axle of the tractor, and he pulled me and the load up over the top of the hill. When he slowed to a stop on a flat section, a bit down the way, we inspected the tractor for any other damage. Then, we checked the gas tank. It was still a quarter full.
My dad shook his head. “It may have stalled out from too much of a load. You probably should have shifted it down to first gear, before going down and up the hill.” He sounded gruff but not too mad as he looked me in the eye. “Let’s see if we can get this thing started again.”
Sure enough, with the turn of the key, the engine started chugging like a charm. I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of driving the load the rest of the way home, but I really had no choice.
I wasn’t old enough to drive the dump truck, so the tractor was the only option. My dad let me pass him so that he could follow me in the truck the rest of the way home.
Unfortunately, another steep hill appeared up ahead. I wasn’t looking forward to another thrill ride. Once in a lifetime is more than enough!
Heeding my dad’s word, I stopped the tractor before the hill and downshifted it to first gear. That ought to do it.
Like I had done before, I cranked up the accelerator to pick up maximum speed before reaching the bottom of the hill. I drew a deep breath before the tractor began its climb. Up it continued as the weight of the wagon still strained the engine as we began to lose a little momentum.
Partway up the hill, the engine choked once again and almost stalled. I yelled, “Son of @#$%! Not again!”
I didn’t think twice and turned the key off immediately. The engine halted with a clank, and we remained fixed in gear, halfway up the hill.
As my dad marched around the wagon, I could tell he was as unhappy as me -- maybe more so. If he had been a locomotive, smoke would have been pouring from his ears. His face turned beet red. “What’s wrong now?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I did like you said and put it into first gear, but it began to stall out again before it got too far. I just turned the key off before it started going backwards this time.”
My dad looked confused. “Let me take a look at that gas tank again.” I moved to the side, as he climbed aboard and unscrewed the cap. He peered into the hole. “No wonder. All the gas has moved to the back of the tank, so the engine must not have been getting any.”
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Whew. It wasn’t my fault after all.
Lowering my head, I spoke softly. “Am I in trouble.”
The muscles in his face relaxed a bit. “Not this time. We just can’t let that tank get that low anymore, when driving on the road.”
Feeling a bit relieved, I smirked to myself. It isn’t exactly a pat on the back, but it’ll do.
**********
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.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski
ANDY JUNIOR'S CHILDHOOD STORIES
Life After the St. Joseph Home for Boys
My 17th Short Story
I hope you enjoy more of Andy's life experiences and the lessons that come with them. Truthfully, I considered shortening this story by summarizing all of the baling activities and getting to the more exciting action. However, I decided to leave the details, because I figured there were a lot of readers who may not know about such things and might find the details interesting.
"Jackknifed"
“Do what is necessary to avoid getting killed.”
--Andy Skrzynski
I was thrilled to see another morning after the incident with the John Deere popping a wheelie, when the plow got wedged under the mighty root. Being fortunate to escape the reaper’s grasp once, didn’t mean I'd be so lucky the next time we faced each other. Since I wasn't born a cat, it was unlikely I’d get nine chances.
Narrowly avoiding a meeting with my creator made one thing immensely clear. Those who keep their wits about them, have a chance to survive a near-death crisis. Those who don’t -- won’t!
While I waited for the cornfields to mature during the summer months, it was time to conduct another essential chore to provide winter forage for our cows -- baling hay. Since our 20 acres were barely enough to produce the needed corn for the grain to feed all our livestock, we had to seek alternatives to produce the necessary fodder.
One such opportunity resided next to the old Odd Fellow & Rebekah Home for the elderly, near the intersection of Michigan Avenue and Brown Street, in Jackson, Michigan. A luscious field of alfalfa stood where the Westwood Mall was later built. My dad worked out a deal with the owner, and we were in business.
A few days later, I hooked up the hay rake to our orange, 1930’s-vintage Allis Chalmers, with a single-bladed mower attachment. After a quick inspection of all connections, I climbed into the seat and slowly made my way from our house, on S. Sandstone Road, toward the Rebekah Home.
Normally, I would open up the throttle and travel down the road as fast as the over-aged tractor could go, but in this case, I had to keep a watchful eye on the spirally rake contraption. It had the unfortunate tendency to fishtail, when towed too fast.
I traveled east on McCain Road and down all the back streets, on the western outskirts of Jackson, to avoid the heavier traffic along Michigan Ave. Even so, plenty of cars and trucks honked and zoomed past me in their desire to get somewhere quicker.
Being an amiable farmer, I’d simply smile and wave at the drivers as they sped along their way. Most of them appeared to be wearing their unhappy faces that day.
After finally reaching my destination, early in the afternoon, I pulled into the driveway and stopped near a fence. Dismounting, I removed my shirt and stretched for a moment before proceeding with the chore at hand. It was a bright and sunny day -- perfect for working on that tan of mine.
I unhooked the rake and lowered the mower blade -- ready for action. Revving up the putt-putt of an engine, I proceeded to slice through the tender crop of alfalfa down the first row, closest to the fence line. As I continued along the way, I drew a deep breath and closed my eyes for a second. Ahhh, I love that smell.
Of the fragrances to pass through my nostrils, the scent of freshly cut alfalfa had to rate near the top, when it came to farm work. I continued taking extended whiffs of the sweet pleasure, throughout the afternoon until I finished mowing.
Then, I secured the mower blade in the upright position and reconnected the rake -- ready to go after the hay dried over a couple of days. My dad showed up after finishing his workday at a tool and die shop and drove me home in his turquoise Chevy pickup.
After the alfalfa aired out, I returned with the green John Deere and a red New Holland baler in tow -- a colorful getup that only Santa would have been proud of. When I arrived at the field, I parked the baler to the side, and hopped on the Allis Chalmers.
By then, the dew had evaporated, and I started turning the slightly browner hay into rows with the rake I brought the first day. With my fitting impression of a nerd, I merrily whistled as I worked. Gotta make a boring job a little more pleasurable somehow.
I’m sure anybody that heard the noise escaping my puckered lips most likely covered their ears. Oblivious to any onlookers, I continued on my bright orange ride that could be spotted a mile away on a foggy day. As usual, raking the alfalfa proceeded much faster but dustier than cutting it, and I finished the job in no time at all.
After parking the pipsqueak of a tractor behind the baler, I removed the two spark plugs from the John Deere and inspected the gaps to make sure they were clean. Then, I sprayed the piston chamber and plugs with starter fluid we kept in a small storage compartment with a few tools. The brute of a tractor was reliable as all get-out, but it took some hocus-pocus to get the blasted thing started most times.
When done tightening the plugs and putting the spray can and wrench away, I climbed onto the tractor. I reached for the key in the ignition and bit my lower lip. Please start the first time so I don’t have to do this all over again. Establishing lift off on the initial try was typically a 50-50 proposition.
I closed my eyes and turned the key. The mighty John Deere spit out a couple of half-hearted chugs and finally took off. Yay!
After letting it warm up a minute, off I went. I slowly drove along each row of hay as the baler swallowed up the brownish-green fodder. The New Holland contraption banged and clanged while cutting the hay, packing it tight, wrapping the rectangular bale with two strands of twine, and spitting it out the back. It was actually pretty amazing to witness the precision at which the thing operated.
Later that afternoon, all the rows of alfalfa had been converted into packed bales, strewn across the field. I checked all the tires and returned back home with the John Deere and baler in tow, before it got too dark.
The next morning, on a Saturday, more of our family joined the action. Our dad towed our large wagon with his Chevy pickup, while our stepmother sat in the passenger seat. My brother and I stripped our shirts off and hopped up in the bed of the truck.
We sat with our backs against the cab, since seat belts weren’t even an option back in those days. Nobody seemed too worried about the consequences, because lots of kids sat in the back of pickups on a regular basis. In fact, it was much cooler back there, especially on hot days.
When we got to the field, we disconnected the wagon and hooked it up to the Allis Chalmers, to be used later. Our stepmother slid in behind the steering wheel of the pickup and slowly drove along the rows of bales, while us boys tossed them onto the bed of the truck. Dragging and lifting them in position, our dad would kick and smash the bales into neat rows as tightly as possible, until the truck was stacked as high as he dared. After tying it all down with ropes, we proceeded to the bigger chore of loading the large wagon.
Tossing the heavy, freshly cut bales up in the wagon required a lot more umph, particularly when the stacks reached two rows high. By the time our dad finished positioning all the bales in place and we secured it all, I was plumb tuckered out.
My brother and I were covered in dust, head to toe. Worse yet, our shoulders were red and stinging from a little too much sun that afternoon.
Unfortunately, my duties weren’t done. Next, came the part I didn’t particularly relish. The last thing I wanted to do was to drive the Allis Chalmers on the road while towing a huge wagon filled with hay -- stacked 5 rows high.
It had to weigh many times what that tiny tractor would register on any scale. Worst of all, the dang brakes were practically worthless. It can barely stop itself! How on Earth will it stop such a heavy load?
The color of the farm implement said it all. Who in their right mind paints a tractor orange? Allis Chalmers? Who is he, anyway? He should have painted “Toy Tractor” on the side for all to see!
The puny thing looked like a peewee next to the mighty John Deere. Now, that’s a real tractor!
The rest of the gang headed home in the pickup to start the evening farm chores, while I towed the biggest of the payload to our barn. Shaking my head, I shifted the transmission into gear. Who am I to challenge Tata? He’d just give me that glare of his and make me do it anyway.
All the whining in the world wasn’t going to change a thing. Off I drove, while towing the massive load with the pitiful putt-putt along the usual route back home.
I’m sure it offered quite a sight to see for those passing me in the other lane -- sometimes waving, other times shaking their fists or tooting their horns. I never saw so many unhappy faces in my life, as they whizzed past me.
When I approached the steepest valley on McCain Road, sweat started dripping down my sideburns. The drop off, leading down to the bridge over Sandstone Creek, was very steep.
All sorts of worries nagged at me, as I feared heading down that slope. What will happen if the wagon’s too heavy? Ain’t no way those brakes will hold!
My heart pounded even harder as the nose of the weakling of a tractor turned downward. I gulped. I’ll know any second now.
The heavy wagon kept pushing the tractor a little faster, as it chugged ever so slowly down the hill in second gear. Frazzled, my nerves were a mess as I held my breath. That bolt better hold!
The wagon kept jerking as it duked it out with the hitch in the back. I ground my teeth. I’m going to get squashed for sure!
The closer we neared the steep ditches leading to the creek, the more scared I got. The herky-jerky motion worsened the further we descended down the hill. I kept my left hand on the steering wheel with the other gripping the brake lever to the right of my hip.
My ears were tuned to listen for any unusual noise, so I could yank that handle to slow us if needed. I didn’t dare exhale, until we finally made the bottom and slowly crossed the bridge.
I released a deep sigh. Thank you, Lord! The tiny bit of relief faded immediately as I spotted the ominous incline on the other side of the creek.
Turning the fuel lever, I fed the hungry, orange beast more gas. Gotta pick up speed to make it up that hill!
I sucked in a couple of deep breaths and rocked forward, as if I could help it along. Go faster, you stupid tractor! Hurry!
The Allis Chalmers sped up ever so slightly before reaching the base of the hill. It didn’t take long to feel the pull of the wagon behind me. Halfway up the slope, the worn tractor began to struggle and lose momentum.
I gulped. Come on! Keep going!
Suddenly, the engine choked, and the tractor almost halted to a stop. My heart practically leapt from my throat. No! What’s happening?
The only thing I could think of was to downshift it to first, but this stupid contraption had to be at a near standstill to change gears or it would grind like nobody’s business. I held my breath, pressed the clutch, and tried to downshift just as it slowed to a halt. To my dismay, the weight of the wagon quickly stalled us faster than I expected and started pulling us backward, before I could set the gear.
My eyes almost popped out of my head. I pulled on the brake lever, but nothing happened. The load was way too heavy for the worn pads.
Twisting in my seat, I tried to look behind, but the wide stack of hay blocked my sight. I hope there’s no cars back there!
The further we retreated down the hill, the faster we picked up speed. Visions of plunging into the creek flooded my mind.
Horrified, I shook my head. Hurry, you idiot! You’ve got to do something -- NOW! Without another thought, I jerked the steering wheel to the left and jackknifed the trailer.
The nose of the tractor rose at least 5 feet high as we screeched to a halt with a boom. I held tight to keep from being thrown from the tractor. A moment later, the front wheels plummeted and smacked the pavement with a bounce.
Within seconds, the owner of the house next to the road ran out the door and yelled, “Are you okay?” He raced to my side. “Are you hurt anywhere?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I was more embarrassed and upset than anything. How am I going to explain this to Tata? He’s going to be hopping mad!
The friendly man extended his hand. “Let me help you down. You’re welcome to use our phone if you’d like.”
I barely made out what he said. One thing kept flashing before me. I’m lucky I survived. I whispered emphatically, “Thank you, God.”
Still shaking from fright, I could hardly stand after I stepped down. When I wobbled a moment, my newfound helper dipped his shoulder under my arm and steadied me.
Mustering a bit of a smile, I looked into his eyes. “Thank you, sir. I need to call my dad, if that’s okay.”
About 20 minutes later, Tata pulled into the Samaritan's driveway with a dump truck he borrowed from his brother, earlier that week. After I prudently explained what happened, we looked for any obvious damage. Fortunately, the tongue of the wagon was slightly bent, but not enough to worry about.
Together, my dad and I wrapped a couple of heavy chains around the front axle of the tractor, and he pulled me and the load up over the top of the hill. When he slowed to a stop on a flat section, a bit down the way, we inspected the tractor for any other damage. Then, we checked the gas tank. It was still a quarter full.
My dad shook his head. “It may have stalled out from too much of a load. You probably should have shifted it down to first gear, before going down and up the hill.” He sounded gruff but not too mad as he looked me in the eye. “Let’s see if we can get this thing started again.”
Sure enough, with the turn of the key, the engine started chugging like a charm. I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of driving the load the rest of the way home, but I really had no choice.
I wasn’t old enough to drive the dump truck, so the tractor was the only option. My dad let me pass him so that he could follow me in the truck the rest of the way home.
Unfortunately, another steep hill appeared up ahead. I wasn’t looking forward to another thrill ride. Once in a lifetime is more than enough!
Heeding my dad’s word, I stopped the tractor before the hill and downshifted it to first gear. That ought to do it.
Like I had done before, I cranked up the accelerator to pick up maximum speed before reaching the bottom of the hill. I drew a deep breath before the tractor began its climb. Up it continued as the weight of the wagon still strained the engine as we began to lose a little momentum.
Partway up the hill, the engine choked once again and almost stalled. I yelled, “Son of @#$%! Not again!”
I didn’t think twice and turned the key off immediately. The engine halted with a clank, and we remained fixed in gear, halfway up the hill.
As my dad marched around the wagon, I could tell he was as unhappy as me -- maybe more so. If he had been a locomotive, smoke would have been pouring from his ears. His face turned beet red. “What’s wrong now?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I did like you said and put it into first gear, but it began to stall out again before it got too far. I just turned the key off before it started going backwards this time.”
My dad looked confused. “Let me take a look at that gas tank again.” I moved to the side, as he climbed aboard and unscrewed the cap. He peered into the hole. “No wonder. All the gas has moved to the back of the tank, so the engine must not have been getting any.”
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Whew. It wasn’t my fault after all.
Lowering my head, I spoke softly. “Am I in trouble.”
The muscles in his face relaxed a bit. “Not this time. We just can’t let that tank get that low anymore, when driving on the road.”
Feeling a bit relieved, I smirked to myself. It isn’t exactly a pat on the back, but it’ll do.
**********
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.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski
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.
Andy Junior, a couple years before we moved back home on the farm.
Tata (Polish for dad), in one of his more jovial moments. This picture was taken in Pa-Pete's (great grandfather) house, after Tata had remarried and we all moved back home.