Hay, Hay!
Me: “Why does it start in third?”
"It's not a car”, said Jake, looking like he had more urgent things to do than explain further. “Don't let the oil gauge needle go below 30. That's the most important thing”.
The oil gauge needle suddenly plunges to zero. Me: "Oh! How did that happen?"
Him: "Don't over turn “.
I immediately over turn.
My instructor swiftly leans over me, his red beard hair stroking my temple, and he puts one massive, dusty finger into the spokes of the steering wheel, spinning it effortlessly. He smiles at me benevolently out of the corner of his eye and we continue to sway together with the rhythm of the tractor.
July was hay season and I had decided to join Jake in his world for a day. Apparently, for the same reason that you should never say good luck to an actor (it's break a leg), or you should never mention The Scottish Play by name, farmers should never say that they are haying, or will hay, because nature is in charge. The weather is your boss and she will change your plans if she thinks you have allowed yourself a little too much confidence. Sometimes, even the hay baler catches fire.
This city girl in muck boots and skinny jeans hopped up into the farmer’s happy place and had a poke around. Jake had asked me if I wanted to take a ride on the tractor with him and I wondered who on god's green earth would decline such an invitation from the big fella. Not me! Presented with this ginormous machine, an Oliver 1650, and Jake’s green eyes twinkling down at me, I briefly pondered any slight possible danger of being on a tractor, without a seat belt, on what looked like the 45-degree slopes of the Catskill Mountains. I then swiftly dismissed all my reservations and clambered up.
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