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Most people only know what farms are like by what they see on television or as they watch from the highway, passing by to visit a grandparent. I know farm life first-hand by that irritating dust on the back of my neck and barley beards in my hair. I know it by that crunch on my feet, those wheat stubs trying desperately to poke through the soles in my tennis shoes. I have been there to climb inside those bins to make an attempt to sweep up every kernel of corn from the cracks and crevasses made in the cement floor that have grown from age and wear.
I was there when we had to fill the planter hoppers with seed -- -corn, soybeans, wheat, barley, and sunflowers. I was there in the poring rain, hooking chains from one machine to the next, helping as best as I could to try to get that green monster out of the mud that covered half of its tires and pinned it down like one of those famous wrestlers on television. I was told that I was even there lying next to dad in a car-seat, watching each row of cut grain get eaten by the mouth of the huge machine, and finally closing my heavy eyes, the steady shake putting me to sleep. This is probably the reason I was there years later, wanting to ride with dad just for fun, sometimes getting to sit on his lap and pulling the dump lever to empty the grain in the hopper we had just filled. That gave me such a thrill.
I remember waiting impatiently on dads armrest until he said the words. Not more than a second went by before I had grabbed hold of that yellow lever, pulling it skyward, and then I would watch the grain magically transfer from machine to machine. I think all these memories keep me coming back to my farm each year. It is about the time of year just when the leaves start to turn that color of a beautiful sunset and smell of my grandmas herbal tea. It is called harvest, and this is the time of year I go to the farm to help my dad.
Not only did I play the role of a farm girl, but I also lived up to my role as a tomboy. I will never forget some of those things that my big brothers would do that would have me tagging along right behind them. At age five I was one of those females that always thought, If a guy can do it, so can I. It was all Quins fault! He taught me how!
Those were my words that I had when they found me hiding in the chicken coup with blood running down onto my white corduroy bibs. My brother Quin always loved to take me on wild rides on the dirt trails deep within our shelter belt. Hed always be the driver and I would be the rider with my arms wrapped snug around his tummy. He revved up the engine of our three-wheeler, shifted the gears, and we were off. He brought me on this certain ride often, because he knew how much I loved it. The sound of the engine at high speed, the wind blowing my hair in front of my eyes, and the bumps underneath the wheels added suspense to the ride.
The side of my head would be pressed tightly against my big brothers back, and my eyes clamped together as if not seeing where we were headed would save my life. I would only sneak quick peeks when I got enough guts or when we neared the end, but my head would immediately snap back against his body for my protection. Just before we hit the end of the dirt trail where the Honeysuckle trees were lined perpendicular with the dirt trail, Quin would drop his foot like a cannon ball against the brake pedal. The sudden friction would cause both of us to become victims of a great dust storm, and for me this was better entertainment than a roller coaster. The smile on my face was big enough to make Scrooge smile back at me and I would laugh until my abs ached. I must have woken up that day with a new set of guts.
That sudden burst of confidence and feeling of rebellion is the reason that I ended up staring with eager eyes down that worn, dirt path. I didnt think about it much, nor did I take any precautions such as those large Honeysuckle trees I was about to encounter. I revved up the engine, shifted into first gear, and sped off. I was feeling a little hot headed for those few seconds, because I was such a big girl that I could do this whole stunt by myself. This was something that if done with enough skill and ease, it could maybe make me one of the guys.
The tomboy inside me pressured me more and more. My heart raced and I could feel my blood pumping hard through the many routes within my body. Shifting into second, third, then fourth gear, I neared the end. Without another thought, I pushed my foot down against the bread pedal, and waited and waited and waited. Nothing happened, that is, nothing except me catapulting at full speed into those Honeysuckles at the end of the path.
This heroic story ends with a broken tree, a broken three-wheeler, a little girls broken face and her broken ego. This attempted skill never did give me the title of being one of the guys, and more importantly, I didnt even get the thrill of being the cause of a dust storm. If I would have known that I wouldve gotten the shifting pedal and the brake pedal switched I never wouldve attempted such a stunt. I most definitely believe that I was worthy of being as great as my big brothers. I bled tearless just like them and did certain tasks calm and smooth as if my heart wasnt actually about to beat its way out of my little chest. They will probably never really know how much I looked up to them and they probably wont give my credit for all those daring things I did to impress them.
Now that I am grown up, I see that being a farm girl is something I am never really going to grow out of. Being a tomboy, however, is a different story, because I would not trade being girlie for anything in the world. My family will probably see me driving the tractors around in the fields forever, but I dont think that they will ever see me trying to show my brothers who can be the best three-wheeler Evil Kevin. Bibliography:
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