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I grew up on a farm in Plumstead Township-what I heard others call a "gentleman's farm," to differentiate us from those people who actually knew how to raise animals and harvest food crops. We began our life there in the early 1950s with big plans, lots of animals and the 4H Club. We had horses, hogs, chickens, dogs and cats. To his credit, my father believed that if you couldn't do something "right," you shouldn't be doing it at all-which meant that in a few years we were down to one dog. The "farm" areas gradually became acres of lawn that had to be mowed, including some 4 or 5 acres of grass airstrip that stretched west from the dirt road that edged our property.
We had an old full-sized tractor that pulled a trio of reel mowers. Around 10, I was considered old enough to handle the tractor to mow the airstrip-not much to run into there. Dad showed me the basics and turned me loose, characteristically confident that he needn't go into too much detail. His "sink or swim" approach proved prophetic.
This is how to start our tractor: Make sure the stick shift is in neutral. To be extra safe, stand on the clutch pedal, which is the inside one of two metal foot bars on the left of the fuselage (or whatever it's called-we had airplanes!). Slide the accelerator on the steering column to midway along the notches. Turn the key "on." Press the black ignition button until the motor turns over. Shove the stick shift into 2nd gear and let out the clutch gradually. I'm driving!
There were two brakes on the tractor, one each side of the fuselage. To engage them, I had to stand up off the seat and put every bit of my weight-what, 60 pounds?-onto each pedal, simultaneously. Even so, they were next to useless, and I just assumed they were supposed to be that way. It was never a problem until the morning I tried to cut a turn too sharp and ended up heading down the bank into the pond. I was 12 then, still too light to have any success with those brakes. I was certain the engine would explode when it hit the water, so I turned off the key and leaped sideways from the seat to get clear. Instead, I got caught by the big back wheel and pulled down into the muck. The tractor followed, dragging the still-churning gang of reels. They stopped just short of me. I was saved from serious injury by the thick mud beneath the tire-and whatever angel told me to turn the key off.
I got "back on the horse" a few days later, after Dad had the tractor drained and reconditioned. As a sign of his continuing (and inexplicable) confidence in my ability, I soon graduated to driving the car on the airstrip. Real brakes, real gas pedal, real gears. That was fun, but not much of a challenge, so I would occasionally sneak out the dirt road and drive as far as I dared before turning around to bring the car back before we were missed.
I somehow got my license at 16, but it wasn't until years later that I gained any mastery behind the wheel, when finally a friend taught me the finer points of driving. Still, I don't trust brakes to work, and I avoid driving too close to bodies of water.
© 2005
Anne Biggs |
