We had attended a baptism.
The baby was the best I’d ever seen at being baptized.
My father wore a suit, tie and wingtips. He polished the shoes before taking a step and polished them again before putting them away. As an in-law, his job was chauffeuring, eating and then standing around at a relative’s home, sighing deeply until it was time to leave.
A fellow in-law told my father about an Allis-Chalmers tractor that was for sale. He thought Dad might be interested. Dad was. The man sketched the directions to the place where the tractor was on the back of an envelope. He cautioned that the owner was a fruitcake.
Dad wanted to see that tractor. He told my mother, “Allen and I are going to look at a tractor. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
My mother was pleased to hear that. She had a lot of visiting to do.
Finding a rural residence by use of a few scribbled pencil lines on the back of a repurposed envelope was challenging.
Dad drove past where the old schoolhouse used to be and turned left where a sad school bus had been parked for 14 years.
We needed to make a right by a pasture hosting Brown Swiss cows. The cows had taken the day off.
We made a couple of wrong turns. My fault. I was the navigator operating the envelope. But we were zeroing in on the target.
We finally came to what was our last chance. Dad drove up a driveway lined with farm machinery and construction equipment in various states of disrepair. The only thing they had in common was a serious rust problem. It could have been a bad amusement park. Angry trees grew where they could along the long driveway, which was one big pothole. If a driveway has a lot of potholes, it’s going to be a long one.
The lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed once during the last two presidential administrations. Trash kept some grass from growing too long, and weeds grew like weeds. The lawnmower had been destroyed in a collision with a large thistle.
We saw a cloud of dust headed our way. It wasn’t the cavalry, unless the soldiers were riding dogs. They were enormous canines that looked as if they’d be the kind to go for the jugular. How do you get past a pack of vicious dogs and all the unrelenting slobber? The rough seas ahead were dog drool.
Dad said, “Cheese and crackers.” He said that because he didn’t swear, even when a situation called for it.
Dad parked the car and suggested I get out first because I could run faster than he could.
I looked at the house; it was a leaner with the direction of the lean dependent upon the wind. The roof had so many leaks that the residents needed to go outside to get dry.
A man, wearing a grubby long underwear top, bib overalls with only one strap fastened, and a straw hat with a couple of bites taken from it, emerged from the hovel.
He wasn’t holding a shotgun. That was a good sign.
He blinked in the sunlight before yelling, “Ghjoiuytslnxseer!”
It might have been “Get out of here!”
Did he mean us?
Photo by Al Batt
The dogs said, “Our bad,” and put their tails between their legs and slunk away.
“Sorry about that. They’re my wife’s dogs,” he said. “She started with Chihuahuas, but she overfed them. If they weren’t mostly slobber, I’d put a saddle on one and ride to town.”
He eyed my father suspiciously, ready to sic the dogs on us if necessary.
“Are you from the county? I’ve been meaning to get those taxes paid at the courthouse. I’ll do it next week, the week after at the latest.”
Dad said he wasn’t from the county.
“You the new preacher? My wife sent you, didn’t she? I’ve been sick. I was out of town. My truck wouldn’t start. I’ll be getting to church one of these first Sundays. You can count on it.”
Dad denied being a preacher.
“Then why are you wearing a suit when it’s not a Sunday?”
Dad answered, “It’s not every day a man buys a tractor.”
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