When I was a youngster, every once in a while I was granted a ride on the tractor. I don't remember ever mowing, that's a dangerous thing not to be attempted by a child as I reason. Though I most certainly was told that I could drive the tractor around our field.
So I did. Unhinged to any wagon, with my grandparents out in the garden, I felt pretty free. That enticing smell of engine effluent I drew in in drafts through flared nostrils. It didn't smell too healthy, so I'd keep myself to breathing more of the good air. Even then I could enjoy the hint of gasoline.
There's a special allure to the track left by a tractor. The grass would twinge as it went under wheel, then a back view to where the grass surfaced showed it pressed down. There wasn't some crude imprint in mud or soil, there was a rich green of cross-hatched grasses.
After any admiration of scenery, there was the liberty to take the tractor to great speeds. There was a special procedure, pushing a shaft to specify the maximum speed. The composure adopted in this seat of control was an empowering thing. The jolt of a sudden acceleration had such an enlivening zing.
Yesterday, I was driving the tractor. It was a short trip, in the soft glow of barn-obscured sun. I noticed one thing the previous day, about how the capacity for speed was not too great, and contemplated this. But far from dwelling on this, I was quick to give a goof's glare to my grandmother as I passed by.
However, as I tried to engage in this frivolity I noticed the intent in which she was following the maneuvers of the tractor. Such was the intent that she would jump any moment I might stray the slightest from my path and closer something fragile. I stopped the foolish facializing and pondered this.
Why do people think?