Reflections - Occam’s Razor

Spence Tinkering with his Mahindra

 

Kathy’s weary voice came through the land line receiver the first Monday of November. “I’ve got an auditor question for you.”

Phone against my ear, I gazed through the kitchen window. Spence strolled past milkweed floss sparkling with sunshine. He planned to spend an afternoon hauling logs in his tractor bucket to the woodshed.

A sigh, stronger than the wind bending the dried milkweed stalks, brought my attention back to Kathy, one of our township supervisors. “Jill’s resigning. She’s pregnant with twins. We need to find a new secretary.”

“Oh, no!” Not kind, I admit. However, our township has suffered through four new secretaries in the past four years—two worse than incompetent and two competent novices. We’d just got stabilized only to need another new secretary?

“Gretchen might take the job again. But she’s expecting in January. Jill’s due in May. She says she’ll wait until Gretchen delivers. If not, Jill will quit December thirty-first. Do we need one audit or two?”

Gretchen, a real sweetie, was the third in the string of secretaries. “Two audits if you hire Gretchen—the yearly audit and an audit for the time Jill is secretary in the new year.” I paused while Kathy’s pen was scratching. “If you hire a new secretary starting January first, then one audit.”

From there our conversation diverged to other township dramas. I wondered why Spence hadn’t driven the tractor out of the garage. And I hadn’t seen Kathy’s husband driving his pickup past the house lately. “How’s Tom?”

“O-o-oh” she strung the word into three syllables. “He hasn’t felt well for about a month. He mostly watches TV,” she chortled, “or talks to his bull.” Her voice softened. “I wish he’d go to the doctor but he won't. You know men.”

We disconnected and Spence walked back from the garage.

“The tractor won’t start.” He pushed his lip up, wrinkling his mustache. “I waited and tried again. No click. The engine wouldn’t start.”

He turned the key to start the tractor several times during the week. Then he tossed papers around his coffee table desk in search of the battery charger instructions. “I need to charge the charger,” he mumbled, grabbed the pages he wanted, and propped his feet up to read.

With the charger on the tractor battery, he attended the township meeting the Monday after I’d talked to Kathy. Back home, he slapped the minutes in front of me. “Tom’s in the hospital.”

“What?” I dropped the dish towel I’d used to wipe the kitchen table and picked up the papers.

“It’s not there.” He pointed at the minutes. “Kathy told me. She drove Tom to emergency Sunday. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“Good idea.” I scanned the minutes. Spence had scribbled Kelli in the margin. “Whose Kelli?”

“Someone considering the secretary job.”

Kathy didn’t answer Spence’s call the next day. He left a message. “Hi, Kathy. This is Spencer. I was checking on Tom. Call when you can.”

And charging the battery didn’t get the familiar click for starting the tractor. Grumbling unintelligible words, he settled his butt on the sofa, feet on the coffee table, and laptop on his belly to find the online Mahindra Manual. “I connected the charger right. I’ll do it again.” Growling about needing to pull off the front of the tractor and replace the battery if charging didn’t work, he trudged out.

Wednesday, the tractor battery charged and Spence grocery shopped in Meadville. Kathy returned his call. “They’re giving Tom fluids. He’s had blood tests, an MRI, a CT scan . . . ” She took a deep breath. “They have no idea what’s wrong.”

“Is he any better?”

“No. He’s lost his affect. He gives one word answers. He doesn’t even want to watch TV.”

“Whoa!”

“I know. In our house the TV is on from morning till bedtime. Sometimes I find him asleep in the middle of the night in front of the TV.” She paused. “I even told him his bull misses him. Tom didn’t react at all.”

Tom and His Short Legged Baby Bull

“He must really feel horrible.”

“Yeah. When I go back, I’m gonna tell them to check for Lyme disease. There have been so many ticks this year.”

While I helped Spence put away groceries, I shared Kathy’s update and her idea about Lyme disease.

Spence stuffed sausages into the refrigerator meat drawer. “Makes sense this year. We both got multiple tick bites.” He left to investigate how to replace the tractor battery.

On a sunny walk the following Saturday, Spence and I studied wild cucumber seeds.

Kathy stopped her car and rolled down her window. “Tom came home last night.” She smirked. “He has Lyme disease.”

“All those tests the hospital gave him.” I shook my head slowly. “You’d think living in the country—”

“I know,” Kathy blurted. “Ticks are bad this year! He goes to the disease center Wednesday to find out which of the two hundred varieties he has.” A white pickup crept up behind her.

“I’ll see, ya.” She drove off.

The next week Spence slipped into his winter vest. “I’m going to Daryl’s. He might diagnose the tractor issue.” Spence fastened his boots’ Velcro. “Could save pulling off the front bars.”

Spence returned a half hour later, stepped inside, and slapped his palm against his forehead.

“What?” I looked up from scraping roasted pumpkin pulp into the food mill.

In his outdoor gear, he assumed his wide-legged country road conversation stance. “Daryl asked, ‘Were the dashboard lights on?’” Spence touched his left index finger with his right. “Yes.”

“He asked, ‘Did you hear a click?’” Spence touched his middle finger. “No.”

“‘Was the safety lock engaged?’” Spence threw his arms in the air. “I never checked that.”

“That’s why Daryl’s the tractor repairman and you're not.” I swirled the food mill handle. Pumpkin aroma tickled my nostrils. “No worries.”

He groaned and trudged outside.

I bagged the pumpkin puree, wiped orange splotches off the table, and listened to the tractor engine rumble outside.

Wind and rain kept Spence off his tractor the third Tuesday of November. Booted and carrying umbrellas, Spence and I braved the downpour for a health walk.

Kathy stopped her car. “What are ya doing out in this rain?”

Spence asked, “How’s Tom?”

“Getting better.” She pressed her lips together as if remembering the long struggle at the hospital.

“Did I tell you about my tractor?” Spence repeated the questions Daryl had asked.

Kathy grasped the steering wheel. “Was it in gear?” 

We bent over laughing. “Yes.”

“I do that all the time with my riding mower.” She let go of the steering wheel and fluttered her fingers.

“And the secretary? Did Kelli take the job?” As auditor I hoped we had someone in place even though it meant the fifth secretary in five years.

“Yeah. We’ve asked Mary to be an advisor. She’s been the secretary of two other townships for years.”

An experienced secretary—rather than one pregnant with twins and only a year on the job—giving advice made sense. Though no vehicle crept up behind Kathy, she said, “I’m going.” She added in a mock scold, “Yins need to get out of this rain.”

Despite the umbrellas and boots, Spence and I arrived home soaked. He let his clothes dry on him and headed for his sofa. I hung mine in the bathroom and snuggled into warm, dry ones.

Like drying out after the rain, Occam’s razor—testing country folk for Lyme disease in a year of abundant ticks and checking if a tractor is in gear rather than complicated fixes—proved best.

 

West Creek Road