I was a farmer’s
daughter who’d never driven a tractor. But when I married into a farm family
with all boys, they assumed I brought this skill with me and would be an asset
to the operation. Turns out I proved more of a liability.
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| Remember "Green Acres?" |
The first summer
after Hubby and I tied the knot, he looked forward to working on his parents’
farm between university semesters and having his bride join the crew. I started
off enthusiastically, too. I really wanted to personify the good little wife
and impress my in-laws. Besides, it sounded like a great chance to work on my
tan, seated atop that open tractor like a queen on her throne, warbling the
theme song from Green Acres.
Hubby gave me a
quick lesson on the tractor and got me started plowing a field with an offset
disk. Then he went off to work another field and I drove round and round, proof
that I was not “out standing” in this field.
It wasn’t too bad.
At first. I kind of freaked out when a dead goose became tangled in the prongs
of my plow, but I recovered. Once in a while I’d turn too sharp and the plow
would start riding up the rear tractor tire toward me.
“I don’t think
that’s supposed to happen,” I thought.
Somehow I turned
the wheel in the right direction to correct the problem, oblivious to the fact
that farmers have died that way.
The hours dragged
into days and the days into weeks. I began feeling increasingly trapped in my
new career. What had I done? I was nineteen years old and stuck in the middle of
a hot dusty field all alone, muscles aching, sweaty, and covered in dirt. I remembered
the invitation to work on Parliament Hill in Ottawa that I’d turned down for
love and marriage. Good thing there was no “undo” button or I might have pushed
it that summer.
One gorgeous
morning while pulling a deep tiller, I determined to make the best of my new
life. This really wasn’t so bad. I could enjoy the outdoors with plenty of time
to think. I probably should have been thinking a little harder about what I was
doing.
Suddenly my tractor
stopped with a jarring jolt, the engine silenced. I heard a sickening crack and
noticed wires dangling menacingly overhead. I looked behind me. The cultivator
jutted out to the side further than I had estimated, and I’d driven too close
to the edge of the field where the power lines were strung. My plow had hit a
pole, cracking it in half. Once again unaware of the danger I was in, I could
only think about what a mess I’d made and how stupid I felt. One name rose to
my lips.
“Jesus.”
But it wasn’t a
curse. “Help me.”
And he did. Like an
angel that appears out of nowhere, a neighbour happened to be driving by. This
man had been part of our church since I was a little kid and in that moment, I
needed a daddy figure. He quickly instructed me to stay put and not touch
anything until it could be determined it was safe to dismount without
electrocuting myself.
The equipment was
okay. I was physically unharmed, but shaken to my core. I went home and yanked
weeds out of the flower garden with a vengeance. And to this day I’m not
certain whether my father-in-law reimbursed Manitoba Hydro for their pole or
not. I know I didn’t.
The biggest things
I gained that summer were a keen appreciation for those who spend their lives performing
hot, dirty, back-breaking farm work—and a conviction that it was not for me. Surely
an alternate way to make a living would present itself.
And it did. I spent
the remaining weeks of that summer suffering a new kind of torment: selling
Amway.
But that’s a story
for another day.
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