Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Fall

         Camera dangling from my neck, I followed Spence outside to take photos of him harvesting wood. He had another idea. When we reached the garage to fetch his tools, he said, “You drive the tractor.” He handed me the ear protectors and wandered down into his garden.

      Having driven the Mahindra just last week, I figured I could remember how to start the tractor. I fit the protectors over my ears, turned the key one notch, and waited for the light to indicate the cylinders were warm. It glowed. I turned the key one more notch.

      Spence rushed back to the driveway. “You have to count to ten and wait for the engine to warm up.”

      “I did. It's warm.” I put my heel on the reverse pedal.

      “You have to give it gas.”

      Oops. I pushed the lever from the turtle symbol halfway up to the rabbit. The engine roared. I hit the reverse pedal again. Screech. Crunch. Double oops.

      Hands waving over his head, Spence yelled “Stop! You have to lift the bucket.” He walked around the tractor, pulled the hydraulic lever, and, when the bucket lifted, gave me the thumbs up to drive.

      Frequently checking over his shoulder, he led me back to the house, down that driveway, through the tree nursery, and down the path to Deer Creek. Like an airport ground handler, Spence guided me around curves and stumps. The tractor rocked back and forth, but I stayed in the seat. Following his hand motions I backed the tractor up to the bank of the creek.

      Wearing his knee high yellow boots, Spence grabbed the chain saw from the bucket and waded across shallow ripples.

      Since I wasn't wearing boots, I stayed on the tractor side.

      He stepped over downed trees on his circuitous route to the ready-to-cut cherry. Sawdust flew as the chainsaw ripped through the trunk. Spence held a log under each arm, stepped over tree debris, and waded through the creek to load the wood in the bucket.

      Because the logs came from a freshly fallen tree which had roots in the water, the firewood was wet and heavy. Spence needed to split the other sections before carrying them across the creek. He drove the tractor back up with the chain saw and four logs to exchange them for his maul, wedge, and sledge hammer. Ready, he stepped to the side of the tractor and said, “You drive.”

      This time I started the tractor, gave it gas, and lifted the bucket with no prompts. On the way down the hill, I watched the tires to manage the curves.

      Spence waded back across the creek.

      I clicked the camera trying to time his swings and the wood splitting.

      After cutting and hauling three loads, he said, “It's going to be a Ben Gay night."