No Excuses. J. Larry Simpson I
said, “I love this.” The woods were very low lying, only twenty-eight miles from Lake Michigan.
Looking and walking down the rusty fencerow way out in front of us was a dark, vine-ribboned object. It was huge, brown, and covered with moss and old crinkling leaves and limbs.
“A tractor,” Happy burst with glee, strangely smiling from ear to ear.
“Come on. Let’s get on it and see if we can start it and drive it,” Happy said as our pace quickened.
I thought we could silently, then said boldly, as if in charge, “Go on up. Help Jeanie up.” Walking up to it, it was, all rust-covered, square-shaped, and huge. A homemade metal roof set over the two seats with two steps up to the seats. All three of us climbed upon the ole-timey machine.
“I figure it has a key start,” start less crank. “Let’s crank it and take off.”
Happy, more thoughtful and cautious, said, “No, we can’t.”
I retorted, “Sure, we can!” while I wrinkled my eyes like “I think” with a very uncertain face on Jeanie and rightfully so.
We could find no key or way to start the monster, so climbing down, I began to look around the front to see what was what. Both Jeannie and Happy were perched up in the cab with Happy in the driver seat. They now felt more at ease.
“Here it is,” I yelled, “an old crank!” with breathless words. That’s where the saying “Crank your car” came from. Then I remembered seeing Dad start an old Euk dirt Grader by cranking it.
“No, no,” Happy exclaimed, seeing what was about to happen while Jeanie silently, wild-eyed, waited for the event with the green and hazel flashing like a flashlight.
Grabbing the handle, I tried to twist it clockwise around in circles, but it was too tight and stuck. Breathlessly, turning it clockwise slowly then faster as it loosened up. Determined, with sweat now running down my face to my chest and middle of my back, I worked with all I had. Stopping to slap a mean bloodsucking giant mosquito, it came to me.
“Counterclockwise,” I said out loud and twisting the “crank” one time, two times, three times, and out of breath, I gave it one last heave with all I had left in me.
“Now!”
“Listen, Jeanie, it’s starting,” Happy said as he hit her on her left shoulder. The engine sputtered, turned over, and finally set into a rough, missing run, then a steady stuttering purr.
But! But the big old square Allis Chalmers started to move forward!
“Oh no,” Jeanie pleaded, as Happy said, “We got to stop this Simpson!”
“Yeah I know!”
“Larry!” Jeanie, chocking, cried, as I madly, with every muscle, scrambled from the front of the tractor and jumped straight up, poking my left foot into the square step.
“Move over!” I pantingly shouted as I tried to pull myself up. But like Happy, I was stupefied and rendered, almost malfunctional.
As the 1930s fifteen-thousand-pound tractor started rambling forward with increasing speed, Jeanie hollered “Larry!” again.
I shouted, “Move over! I’m coming up!”
My next step on my right foot with my dirty white tennis shoe slipped off the step! I was holding on frantically to the step handles now hanging out in the middle of the air. I knew if I fell, I’d be run over. I refused to let that happen.
“Come on, buddy,” my great Granada pal encouraged.
The giant man killer was moving faster, and I thought, What if it goes through the fence and all the cows get out? What if I never see Happy and Jeanie again? What if…? What if…? As I fought gravity, hanging out in midair, and the shaking ole machine seemed to be trying to eat me up. As it jerked forward and shook me like a freezing man, my hands were wet from sweat and slipping dangerously.
A huge faded, cracked half-flat black tire was reaching for my right leg as it hung, swinging way too close to it. I saw the black, rubber monster with my right eye, looking over my shoulder, and pulled with all I had.
By God’s dear mercy, with all I had left, I pulled myself up, my feet dangling under the monster, and I climbed the next two steps and set in the driver’s seat! By now, we were mowing down saplings and bushes. If we tore open the fence, I just knew we’d have to work for the old farmer for the rest of our lives…after we got out of prison!
Looking fearsomely for a switch or key, I finally discovered it but looked up, and we were headed for the fence! “Oh no!”
As I twisted the crude key, the motor whimpered down with a loud as a cannonball of backfire and smoke.
Shaking with tears of relief and words of thanksgiving, the three of us hugged one another, and Happy prayed a very short prayer to God for delivering us. We set silently, breathlessly a few moments as Jeanie squeezed my right hand with tears. The path of the tractor was about twenty-five to thirty yards!
We humbly walked back through the woods breathing deeply as a conquering and relieved, maturing spirit of success came over us. We were both humbled and proud.
“We better learn from this,” Jeanie softly said, and we agreed…as I was looking sideways with a “sure.”
The tractor path had only taken a minute or so, but we had lived through a war!
Soon no words were spoken, and we “crossed our hearts and hoped to die” if we ever told anyone. I didn’t for years, and I only revisit that scene every few years and then with reverence and wonderment. We told Mom and Dad just before I went to Memphis State in a moment of family reflection.
Dad just said, “Son, son,” slowly shaking his head.
The years passed and the secret miracle was just ours.
In 1986, I went to Mr. Rice’s funeral. Happy and I briefly mentioned the day of the secret tractor run-away.
After another thirty-four years, I’ve not seen my good old friend. I’d like to talk about this adventure with him and other great times, but I don’t know where he is.
No excuses. Live life as an adventure.
Arkansas and Ready
“The earth would move beneath my feet,” said in a good old western.
—J. L. S.
“Boy, you’re ready,” Granddaddy Mac said one day to me as I was hanging around his rocking chair, the one with a hole or two in the seat.
I looked up at him and said, “Yes, sir. I’m ready.”
He grinned, just puffin’ on his pipe and patted my head.
Ready Teddy was another of those sorts of sayings in the fifties, and I was “ready.”
Prince Albert was Granddaddy’s favorite pipe tobacco, which filled the air with its august aroma.
“Why do you smoke a pipe?” I asked one morning as I filled in my time before tearin’ up the countryside.
“Your great-granddaddy McCollum smoked one, so I do too.”
I just looked at him and said, “Okay,” and went outside in the cooler morning air.
Jeanie and I were in Arkansas with Mom’s mother and father. I do not remember the nearest town, but we were there because we were about to have a baby brother born in a few days. Dad brought Jeanie and I to stay with Grandma and Granddaddy Mac for safekeeping.
“Joy” and “fun” best describe our stay with them as we waited for what was to be born. Back in those times, we couldn’t know what sort of human was to be born, nor did we need to.
Nevertheless, Troy David was born into this world, August 6, 1949.
Dad called the neighbors phone, one mile down the