“Would you have time to cut the west field?” she said, “the grass is getting really high.”
The tools that give a tractor purpose are heavy, made of steel and chain. Some do work powered by the same diesel energy release that powers the machine. Some accomplish their task through their sheer weight as the machine pulls it on its way. A tool of the latter sort was attached as I strolled behind the barn.
Changing the tools on a tractor is a fickle affair. Sometimes one slips off, you back the tractor up to the other and slip it on. Sometimes there are bruises, sometime there is blood, of the skinned knuckle variety. Often there are words, not pleasant words, but the tractor and the back of the barn keep your secret tantrums to themselves.
This time there were bruises and words. Off with the box blade, bruises, words. On with the brush hog, more bruises, more words. On to the tractor and off to the field.
Tallgrass and wildflowers. So many wildflowers of every color and hue. Bees and butterflies, busy about their labor. The brush hog had just begun to ply its trade when I saw her waving from the drive. Remove the power from the brush hog, lift the tool and drive over to hear what she is saying.
“The wildflowers are so beautiful, maybe we should give them a week or so, what do you think?”
More bruises but no words, just the remembrance of the look in her eyes as she watched the butterflies.