When Chris came over yesterday, I talked to him about my vegetable garden; telling him about my plans to roto-till the area near the barn.
“Denise, if you’re not six-feet and two-hundred pounds, you’re going to have a hard time. If you are, its kind of fun.”
“Really.” I said in my most insightful way.
“You need to rent something for the tractor.” He said authoritatively. Authoritative is something Chris does well. And in this case he seemed perfectly justified. “Absolutely. There’s no other way.” he added, in case I was at all in doubt.
Knowing I’ve gotten in over my head countless times, I called Scholten’s in Lynden where I got my tractor. I spoke to a very friendly woman on the phone who told me exactly what I needed. She understood I didn’t know the model number of my tractor off the top of my head. I asked if I could fit the tiller in my truck. She said yes and that she’d reserve it for me if I wanted to come get it this afternoon.
I took Henry to school in my newly clean car, and my dad to The Woods, a fabulous coffee shop in Boulevard Park, where he had chosen to read a book and wait the morning while his car was being serviced.
The Woods is kind of modern looking with huge windows directly over-looking the bay. You can sit up stairs and read or downstairs by the duel fireplace – or even on the other side of the fireplace out on the patio.
The only place other that close to the water I can remember was Alice’s Restaurant in Malibu. Oh, how I loved to go there for the view, a bloody, and eggs "benny". Memories. Why, at a time when I’m trying to reduce my food intake (a little too much winter insulation) do I continuously associate food with fun? Not a good sign.
Anyway, I did some errands, dashed home and got the farm truck, Daisy. Heading back to town, I got stopped at the one-lane bridge. They were doing some safety work and I had no choice but to wait. Seconds later, my trucker friend, Todd, came up behind me. The guy with the “Stop” sign, Todd and I waited in the drizzle as we watched the giant machine check all the supports. We discussed bridges in a global manner, the future of this bridge in particular and how many more loads Todd would have to do today. It was very neighborly.
I dashed back to town, grabbed Henry, as it was a half-day, and swung by to pick up my father. He told me to scoot over, he’d drive. From the moment he gets in the car, the classical radio station turns on. Henry gave me a sideways glance. It isn’t so much the classical music as it is music. I know this isn’t compliant with most social moray’s, but I don’t’ listen to the radio all that much. Henry and I like to talk without background “noise”. Maybe it’s because we’re musically inept. My friend, Laurie, thinks this is a dark view into my personality. She’s all about music. She won’t date anyone who has my musical deficit. It’s not that I don’t like music. I like everything from Bing Crosby to Ozomatli and many things in between. I have a full jukebox. I just don’t play music in the background all the time like so many, including my sister and Chris, who also think there is something wrong with me. They site many more unrelated examples, however.
The drive to Lynden was picturesque. The landscape was littered with huge dairies, modest farms, cute little houses and empty fields just waiting for crops to be planted. Screaming red rhododendrons, shy colts and curious calves were everywhere. I could tell my viewpoint was changing as I passed the farms and started examining how straight their crop rows were. I appreciated the dark rich soil free from weeds. It looked beautiful to me, suddenly. I think I’ve gone over the edge into some sort parallel farmer universe.
We drove through a coffee kiosk on our way, my father grousing about the turning radius of this %#@!$ truck to the smiling woman at the window.
We finally arrived at the tractor place and I immediately felt as if I was in the shoe department of Nordstrom’s. I wanted everything. I couldn’t believe my intense case of tractor envy. There were all sorts of implements I didn’t even have an idea what they did, but I was sure I could put them to use. Toby and I learned early on, as we struggled through so many home improvement projects, that there is a tool for absolutely everything. There are strange little gadgets that twist and lift and pull and, Lord knows, what else. The trick is you have to know what it is, which at times can be impossible for the nubie, and once you’ve identified what tool it is, you then have to find it.
Lickety-split, they got the tiller in the truck and we were crawling down the 9 on the way home. The tiller is incredibly heavy and because there are so many curves we didn’t want it to shift our weight too much. We dropped my dad off at Mount Baker Automotive. He gave us a wave that all was well. We turned off the radio and headed for home.
“Mom, do you think Miracle is lonely?”
“Maybe. I’m not happy with her enclosure. Your daddy and I want to move her and the goats down with the cows. I think she might like them. She knows Anna from being in the barn.”
“Maybe we should get another donkey.” Henry suggested thoughtfully.
“Well, Daddy thought maybe she should have a baby.”
“How long does it take for donkey’s to have a baby?”
“I have no idea. Maybe you could do some research on it when we get home.”
“OK. I can do that.” Good I thought. He can turn his evil ways into something positive. I know he needs to practice researching and this seemed like a great way to start. Practical. I was more than a bit surprised to learn that the answer was 11-14 months. We’d have to get her pregnant now for next summer. Talk about your planned pregnancy.
When my dad got home a few minutes behind us, he promised to help me get the tiller hooked up when it stopped raining. I think he’s the only person in Washington who waits for the rain to stop. Knowing it wasn’t going to stop, I got changed and braced myself for the “Could it rain any harder.” “Jeez this is comfortable.” “What a great day this turned out to be.” “The sun is shining somewhere.” Barrage.
First, we tried to shove the tiller out the back. It wouldn’t budge. Next, we got the tractor and tried to pull it out the back. We broke the tailgate on the truck. Wonderful. This project was getting more expensive by the minute.
At this point, my dad wanted to hook a cable to the bucket and try to lift it out, but I was terrified of breaking the tractor. The thing is not cheap and he’s not going to pay to fix it if it breaks. He’s been my father a long time. I called the tractor place and, this time knowing my model number, I asked them if it had the capability to lift the thing. They said my dad was right and the tractor could indeed lift it with a cable. We parked the truck downhill of the tractor to give the tractor some extra height. We hooked it up
and realized the tractor still wouldn’t be able to lift it high enough,
so at his sign, I drove the truck out from underneath the tiller while my dad lifted it with the bucket and the cable.
Once out, we tried to hook the thing together. I thought I could do it. After all, I’d done the backhoe plenty of times. Not so easy. It didn’t make sense. Something was wrong it looked like a physical impossibility.
We looked and looked and studied the thing, but couldn’t figure it out. I called Scholten’s again. They were now closed, but magically a man answered. I told the guy the model number and explained the problem. I felt like girls do when a mechanic is speaking to them like an idiot. “Yes, I did that, yes, I know that’s what is supposed to happen, but we can’t get it close enough to hook it up.” Knowing, men like to talk to men, I put my father on the phone. My father will be the first to admit he’s about as mechanical as a jackrabbit, but men like to talk to men. After chatting up the guy, he handed me the phone.
“Listen, I’m going to send a guy out there if I can get a hold of him.”
“Really? It’s 6:00PM.”
“He lives out that way off the 9. He won’t mind.” I want you to be able to use the thing.
I hung-up. “A guy’s coming out here to help us.”
“You are kidding? Tonight?” My dad said wide-eyed and incredulous. “Well, that’s what we need or this isn’t going to happen.”
The phone rang again. “Yep, he’s comin’ out just as soon as he finishes supper.” Duane said.
And he did. It was the same guy who serviced the tractor last month, Wayne. He took one look at it and said there were missing pieces. “Lots of missing pieces.” He looked around, went to the barn where I keep the tractor and took the pieces off the mowing implement.
He said, when the tractor came they weren’t on and you don’t use them for the backhoe, so I wouldn’t even know they exist. He walked back to the tractor, flipped the seat up to reveal a secret storage compartment full of little rings and things to keep implements in place. In a few minutes, he had it all put together.
He turned to me and said with pride “ I’ve got to brag a little. My corn is already coming out of the ground. First time in twenty years I’m ahead of everybody else. I’m no farmer. I planted my garden where my donkeys used to poop. You know they always poop in the same place.” I nodded. I did know that.
“Did you know it takes more than a year for a donkey to have a baby?” I thought I’d dazzle him with my bit of newly acquired knowledge.
“Yep. My jennet had a baby once. Cutest thing I ever saw. She wouldn’t have anything to do with the baby after a couple of days.”
“What did you do? Bottle feed?”
“Nope. Called the vet, he came out and spent the day with her. Trained her on being a mom. She was perfect after that.” Housecalls are not something I’m used to.
After he drove away, I started thinking. I looked out into the field. Now that I have the tiller hooked up, I can plow anything, even the big field in the pasture. I can plant corn. I can plant a big giant corn maze. Maybe some heirloom pumpkins and sunflowers and do a whole fall-apple-cider-thing if I get my permits. What’s the worst that can happen? I plant some seeds, after all, that’s what farmers do.