The Summer of 55

I will never forget that summer. I was not yet eight, living in up state New York on a dairy farm.The sweltering sun sat high in the late August sky. It was the kind of day you dreamed about sitting in the shade by a slow moving brook, but the heat melted the visions before they could materialize in your mind.

There was no time to waste. The hay was baled and we had to get it to the barn before it rained. I was so proud; this was the summer when I was old enough for real jobs. My Pop put me on the seat of the tractor, it was the biggest John Deere made back in those days. He tied a block of wood on the clutch and he set the speed to about three miles per hour. My job was to steer the tractor between the rows of hay bails. My father would throw the bales on the wagon and my older brother Chris, he was ten, would stack the bails in place. When my father would start falling behind I would push the clutch in and the tractor would stop. When he was caught up I would very carefully and slowly let the clutch out so the tractor and the wagon would not jerk when it started moving forward again.

Pop hoisted the last bale on the end of a pitch fork so my brother could pull it in place. I saw Pop stop to wipe the sweat from his face in the rear view mirror. Then something happened that I will never understand. It was like the Devil whispered in my ear. I stepped on the clutch and looked back at my brother on top of the hay. He looked at me and read my mind. Before the word “no” could escape from his lips I took my foot off the clutch.

The tractor jerked forward with such force that it almost threw me from the seat. I looked back; the wagon filled with a mountain of hay with Chris on top was swaying back and forth. Then it all came tumbling down. My brother bounced like a ball across the field. In the rear view mirror I saw Pop running toward me. He was screaming words I never heard before, his face red and his eyes were filled with murder.

I jumped to the ground and started running for my life. I looked back over my shoulder, Pop had unhooked the tractor and was bearing down on me full throttle. My end was on its way. I made it to the stone wall just in time. Pop jumped off the tractor and was right behind me.

Even at seven I could always think on my feet. This field was at the low spot on the farm.  It was the place tadpoles, turtles, muskrats and snakes called home. There was a mud hole we called the quicksand pit. I figured if I jumped in the pit Pop would have to save me, so in I leap. I was waist deep and sinking fast by the time Pop got to me.

Pop looked at me in that mud. He reached down and picked up a huge rock and held it over his head like he was going to throw it on top of me. Now I already knew I made a dumb mistake but the death penalty seemed a little excessive. I started to cry like a baby. When Pop realized that he went a little too far he put down the rock and dragged me from the mud. He asked me why I did that and told me that I just made more work in a day that was already too full. I stopped crying when he hugged me. The thing I remember most about Pop was his kindness.

We all worked hard that summer and Pop paid us five dollars a week.  That was a lot of money back in those days.  The only place we could spend money was a gas station out on Route 9.  I remember the man that ran it looked exactly like Steve Allen.  As my brother and I cut across the back part of Fullers Farm on the way to the station I bragged to him that I was going to spend a whole dollar.  My brother he just laughed.

I had two Orange Crush sodas 10 cents apiece, one Dreamsicle 10 cents, one Fudgesicle 10 cents, two candy bars 5 cents apiece and a bag of potato chips 10 cents.  Sixty cents that was it.  I was about to burst.  Half way back to the farm I got sick to my stomach.