Trucks, Tractors and Trails

Grandpa’s truck started out as an old blue Ford that would drive slowly by my house. Normally you could hear the rushing of traffic on the highway in front of our house, but you could always tell when it was grandpa because the engine noise slowed to a crawl. He would drive by carefully checking the water in the irrigation ditch, checking the alfalfa fields, checking the beef cows in the fields behind us. He was always checking—at six in the morning while the sun was rising, until six at night when dusk was setting in. Sometimes you could even hear his dusty old truck in the wee hours of the morning as he went off checking on cows that could be calving.

That truck was his loyal companion. And the place on the carport was always left open for when grandpa came home. It was rare for me to ride beside him in the truck. It probably could have happened more, except my idea of fun was not to forge my way through the wet and heavy hay fields to change sprinklers and dam up ditches.

However, when that chance did come it was usually on our way to feed the baby calves. Grandpa would pick me up and we’d bump along to the barn just down the road. Grandpa would break up a hay bale and give me the pieces to stick in the feeding trough by the calf pens. We would continue all down the row until each calf was a proud new owner of their very own chunk of hay.

Then, grandpa would let me go back all by myself and give them handfuls of corn kernels. That was my favorite part: sprinkling those kernels on top of the hay as the calves were eating. I loved it because by this point the calves had come forward and started to eat. Sometimes, if they were really distracted, I could even pet one. Occasionally, they would look up at me with their drool covered mouths and snotty noses and try to eat right out of my hand. When we had finished, I would climb back into the truck and head back to tell grandma and mom how brave I had been while feeding the baby calves.

It seems like whenever I felt most connected to my grandpa we were on a ride. Along with his farm truck and baby calves, he’d let us ride the tractors with him as well. One time my little brother and I both got to go help grandpa cut hay in the chopper. It was the field at the end of the property, and after a couple of rows of chopping, grandpa let us take the steering wheel to turn down the next row. It was difficult, especially as a youth, to make the turn, get the tractor steering straight, all while making sure the chopper part was still on the right path to scoop up the hay and shoot it into the back trailer. And apparently it was a little more than two kids could handle, because we soon heard a whooshing sound and the tractor stopped dead in its tracks.

We had broken the tractor. Grandpa looked back, while our gazes followed, and we saw the frayed and broken cords and cables that connected the tractor to the trailer. He turned to tease the two of us about how we could dare to break his tractor. The giant smile on his face as he climbed down to assess the damage convinced us he wasn’t really mad, and we tried to put the blame back on him. Later in the week, driving past that tractor still sitting in the middle of the field with only have the hay picked up, I smiled as I remembered the three of us crammed into the tractor cab.

A smile stays with me now as I ponder the times when grandpa allowed me to ride with him. There were the times on the 4-wheeler with Grandpa. Whether it be driving the miles home from the sand dunes, bouncing to trail after trail, all the while following the power lines to make sure we were still headed in the right direction. Or me white-knuckled on the back as we climbed the steep hill by our little red cabin in the mountains, I always knew I was safe with grandpa.

And years later, as I picture the gold Ford of my later years slowly putting by my house, carrying a four-wheeler, a shovel, his knee high water boots, old farm parts, or whatever else he needed, I think of a man who was strong and unwavering. A man who always packed what you needed, and gave you a ride to remember.