11,966. RUDIMENTS, pt. 770

RUDIMENTS, pt. 770

(farm field and glory....or not)

Have you ever just sat 

around and made stuff up? 

To pass the idle time while 

you're working or at some 

task  -  I used to do that, 

never understanding how 

it all got started that 

mankind took it upon 

itself the idea of chaining

people to jobs, making 

their heads have to stay 

vacant, while they worked

at some sort of manufacture

of beads or baubles. Machine 

shop guys, up at Elmira, were 

usually Germanic, tough and 

grumpy, and they'd dig down, 

right into their task, never 

interrupting for a minute the

slide-rule and fractional

measurements and calculations

needed for the grinding 

and cutting they had to do. 

They never complained,

but I never saw happiness 

either. It seemed as if they

were willingly ruled by

machines, and set to their

tasks without happiness..

Farmers, of course, as I 

said, they were always 

'chained' as well, to their

tasks  -  which at least involved

living, breathing, animals. Life. 

To me, that had to make a 

difference, sad as it sometimes 

got to see something die that 

was alive just before. I never

saw a block of steel expire. 

Did I?

-

It always struck me, in the 

new midst of all that farm 

equipment and machinery, 

everything powered and

running under gas or diesel,

why it worked out that I was

born in such a machine age. I'd

never asked for that; it was all

strange and annoying to me,

alien and distant. I didn't like

the noise, or the power. Riding

a tractor sometimes felt like

running a chainsaw blade along

my chin. I didn't like any of that,

and anything I did like was

because I was able to connect it

to the past. Not a future. It was

all backwards and out of place,

as was I. I wanted old, and wood,

and hand-operated, and slow. The

only results I wanted were the

ones that withstood the power

of the present and stayed solid

and traditional in spite of it.

Yet, everywhere I turned I was

led to production, speed, and

efficiency. Boy I hated all that.

-

I had to stay pretty quiet about 

any of that stuff. My thoughts

were OK for me, but they sure

didn't travel well. When I was 

young, I was able to recall, my

father was always talking about

oddball things I never understood.

But they were all ass-back simple 

too; nothing deep or philosophical.

The words he used  -  up against
my new and present words of farm

implements and machinery and

repairs  -  I found, were the same

words these guys were using:

Cotter pins; kingpins; ball joints,

universals. It went on from there;

solid words, I guessed, for solid

things. I still found myself confused.

It was all crazy : when you go to 

a big-deal party, it's a 'ball.' So

why wasn't a 'ball-joint' then a

'dance-hall' instead of a mechanical 
reference?'  I wondered, did

those guys ever think that stuff,

did it ever cross their minds?

The word 'clutch' too. I thought

it was a wonderful word. As 

descriptive of what it was as to 

what it actually did. One side

of the powerplant was engine, 

and the other end was the 

transmission. They couldn't

always be running together,

otherwise you'd never get to

stop. So the 'clutch' was the

mechanism for separation of the

two  -  when you wished to be

in neutral, changing gears, it

separated things, and when you

wished to go it 'clutched' the

one to the other  -  sweet word  -

unifying them, mating them,

joining them, so the power from

one, by being clutched, could

turn into power for the other,

and have your vehicle move.

Pretty ingenious. And an

ingenious and basic use of 

words as well. Clutch.

-

My mind was filled with crap

like that amidst the drudgery

too of milk pails, cows, and 

pans. I dug using the old trucks,

and the assorted tractors that

were all around  -  each was

different. Yet, again, in their
own respects, they were but 
machinery, the present and 
the now. I still sought the old.
Yet, I admit to enjoying the feel

of the Massey-Fergusen we had.
Tractors each had their quirks.

It was 'old' and heavy, deliberate,

cranky like an old guy. There

was also an 'Oliver'  -  another 

brand  -  that was a much

more sportier-seeming model,

light on  the touch, speedy,

always ready to pace. The Fords

and Fordsons around, they were

all business, almost deary and to

task. I could hear them : 'Tell me

what we need to do today, show

me the schedule and let's get

to it...' They were sour, and yet

based on service. The John

Deeres were the traditional 

workhorses, powered and 

powdered and each, always

and but a key-turn away.

There were other brands and 

names too  -  each brand had

its own color; you could tell

what they were, immediately, 

by shape and form and color.

These were all old tractors, mind

you, early 1950's, or mid; not

much newer than that. They were

open to the elements, had rude

metal seats, not always sprung.

Most of them had this weird

little exhaust-tip flapper, at the

end, that slapped around, open 

and close, making a little, metallic,

noise, responding to acceleration

or slow down. Instrumentation 

was nil, or bare. As driver or

rider you were exposed to

everything  -  sun, heat, rain,

hail, wind, debris. You had to

check your own gas-level,

mostly, and listen to the groan

and spit of the engine. They

seldom overheated, but they

did, and you needed to watch.

Paltry temp-gauges and the rest

were never worth relying on;

if the cover glass wasn't broke,

then the gauge itself was. At the

rear, where you sat, driving, the

big, tall, rear wheels were up

almost to ear height, right outside

your head. And fenderless.

- 

And then, yes, the newer model

tractors started being seen. They 

were crazy  -  the average poor

farmer guy with maybe 250 acres 

or so, was poor and had no use

anyway for such massive tractors.

And they still called them tractors!

They were made, really, for the

large agri-business well-organized

and often consolidated farms of

big acreage and big production.

A person couldn't drop that kind

of money, and defend doing so, on

the small-scale kind of undertaking

they had. The new tractors (and

I'm talking now of the mid-1970's,

at most  -  it's all changed again

since) had enclosed cabs, keeping

the drivers protected, higher up,

in temperature control, AC, and

radio too! Turn signals, often! A

complete bevy of gauges, and 

some had communication modules

for contact and messages to other

tractors or back to the home-base 

barn! It was all truly another world

getting started there too, and I had

and wanted none of it.

-

Some days, when it was rainy or

something, when things slowed 

down, I'd review a lot of this, in

my head, and write some down

too. Fascinating stuff, and all I

ever did was realize  -  in spite

of trying to learn, in spite of my

lame upbringing and all my

recent adventures and NYC

stuff  -  how little I knew, really,

about anything. The one day it

really hit me, I'd realized how I

still couldn't explain the difference

between Atlas and Hercules. The

story-lines, the myths, which one

had the globe on his back, or

whatever it was, and who had

the pillars and the rest. I knew I

didn't HAVE to know, but I sure

as hell wanted to. It had to be a

better crunching than any of that

work crap every day; farm-field

and glory, or not.