Grand Change

by William Andrews

  “Maybe what Dan said about Fred James was right.”

  “Could be, unless it’s got something to do with something further down the road. Your progress, maybe.”

  “Well, if it is, ain’t nothing going to stop it.”

  We finished filling in the hole.

  “Think you can dig the hole for the brace post on this side, Jake?” The Boss said. I took the metal rod-handles of the digger—lying near—scissored them open, drove the half-cylinder-like jaws into the ground, forced the handles to and lifted a round junk of sod.

  “He’s getting ’er, Harv,” John Cobly said. “They soon grow up.”

  “That’s the way it goes,” The Boss said. “Before too long, instead of him helping me, I’ll be helping him.”

  I began struggling with a junk of stone I had hit into.

  “That’s all right, Jake, just leave it for now and take a rest,” The Boss said. He turned then, his eyes sweeping up the road. “Not going to be the same around here.”

  “Oh, bit of a change for a while,” John Cobly said. “We’ll be blessing it when the mud and snow hits.”

  We all noticed the flashes of blue showing and disappearing amidst the maze up the road. Eventually a late-model car emerged with glints of sun on its grill teeth and its round, bloated fenders. Weaving its way with a lazy bounce, it came to our gateway and tucked in angle-wise behind the wagon.

  The man behind the wheel wore a grey fedora with a feather tip in its band and a matching grey suit. His face was lean, with a thin mouth and large eyes that had a constant shift. He stepped out of the car, turned and looked briefly at the roadwork, then walked casually toward us, his right hand taking a bellied lighter and a pack of tailor-mades from his pocket. He paused and lit a cigarette, snapping the lighter’s flipper and shielding the flame with his hand. He put the cigarettes and lighter away in a smooth motion and moved closer.

  John and The Boss quietly watched him approach, sizing him up.

  His words came quick and friendly when he spoke. “You’ve got a going concern here,” he said, blowing out smoke.

  “Yeah, they’re driving ’er,” John Cobly said.

  The man turned and looked toward the pasture and the cattle grazing there. “Nice herd of cattle,” he said.

  “Not bad,” The Old Man said. “You a cattle buyer?”

  The man glanced at The Boss, dropped his eyes and briefly studied the ground, then looked up, taking a quick suck of his cigarette.

  “No, my name’s Jim Shirley. I deal in farm machinery, primarily tractors. Wondering if either of you two gentlemen would be interested.”

  “What breed?” John Cobly said.

  “Ferguson,” Jim said.

  “Never heard of them,” John Cobly said.

  “They’ve caught on quite well in other parts,” Jim Shirley said, taking a brochure from inside his coat, flicking it open and holding it out like a sign. The brochure’s black and white pictures showed a small, squat tractor in front, side and back views.

  The Boss put on his glasses and moved with John to get a better look.

  “Kind of looks like a Ford,” John said.

  “Better than a Ford,” Jim Shirley said. “Most up-to-date tractor there is. Way ahead of its time, actually: hydraulic transmission, three-point hitch, smoothest power takeoff there is. More horsepower than any other tractor its size.”

  “What about the Farm-All A?” John said.

  “They’re a good, tough little tractor, like most of the thirty or so horsepower tractors. They’ll all get the job done, but this one is a cut above the rest. Anybody who’s tried them will tell you.” Jim Shirley was talking fast, his eyes shifting almost in sync with his words.

  “What about the price?” John Cobly said.

  “Fifty to a hundred dollars more than the others, depending on which one, but they’re worth it. And we offer the easiest, simplest financing.”

  A dump truck roared past and the conversation went on hold until the noise subsided.

  “I’m not sure I’ll buy a tractor,” The Boss said.

  “I should think a man your age would be glad to have one,” Jim Shirley said.

  “They’re a great work saver, especially at harrowing and plowing.”

  “I’m not completely sold on this financing you’re so hot about,” The Boss said.

  “It’s like I told you,” John Cobly said. “All it’ll take is an extra milk cow and another acre of potatoes.”

  “The way I see it, that it’s just the beginning of a bunch of expenses that’ll saddle us with a debt we won’t be able to handle with what we produce,” The Old Man said.

  “You’re looking at it the wrong way,” John Cobly said.

  “It’ll just be a matter of better farm management enabling you to grow a heavier cash crop, like adding an acre of potatoes and increasing your dairy output,” Jim Shirley said.

  “I ain’t so sure about all this,” The Old Man said, canting his head and scratching his chin.

  “You’ll look cute slaving away with your three horses while everyone is riding high on a tractor, Harv.”

  “He’s right,” Jim Shirley said. “We’ve got the tools to make life easier, put more enjoyment in life.”

  “I’d sooner slave and make sure my bills are paid so I can get a decent night’s sleep.”

  Jim Shirley went to speak but paused with his eyes shifting from John to The Boss. He was still holding the brochure like a sign, but at about waist level now. His eyes shifted full to John. “What about you, sir?” he said.

  “I’ll take a brochure,” John Cobly said.

  Jim Shirley took out a fountain pen and hastily wrote his name and business address on the brochure.

  “My office is in town, right by the old bakery,” Jim Shirley said, handing the brochure to John Cobly. Without him noticing it, the half-burnt, dead cigarette in his left hand dropped to the ground. “Drop in any time.”

  “Would you like one, sir?” Jim Shirley said, eyeing The Old Man.

  “I’ll know where to go if I ever decide.”

  “And your name, sir?”

  “Harvey Jackson.”

  Jim’s eyes turned to John.

  “John Cobly.”

  Jim Shirley shook both men’s hands. “Well, they’re making progress,” Jim said, turning to the roadwork, his words barely audible above an approaching conglomeration of motor bursts and metallic tread knocks. “By the way, who’d be living across the road?” Jim Shirley said, shouting now.

  “Joe Mason,” John shouted back.

  Jim nodded and got into his car.

  The dealer started his car seemingly without sound and worked his gearshift and waited, looking over his shoulder while a Caterpillar clunked past, then backed the car onto the road.

  We watched the car weave, halt and poke its way through an access path, pause for the Caterpillar on its return, then finally shoot into Joe Mason’s lane.

  The noise was deafening now. John Cobly just nodded his head at The Old Man and left, too.

  We finished digging the hole, put in the anchor and the brace posts, chopped the notches for the brace and spiked it top to bottom between the two posts. The Boss grabbed the puller bar lying on the pile of poles; I grabbed the end of the wire curling close by and jammed it into the flipper-like catch on the puller bar.

  The Boss, setting the bar’s end hooks against the corner post, with the bar across his thigh, leg-levered it, and the wire strand whipped taut, cuffing up dirt on the mounds by the upright posts spaced down the field to the other corner post. “Might as well run another strand before noon,” The Boss said, holding while I stapled on the wire with the claw hammer. He wired out a fresh bale then and held the end to the post while I stapled it. Then he rammed the puller bar through the bale hole and, taking an end of the ba
r each, we headed down the field with the bale ticking and rolling on the bar between us and the barbed wire trailing off behind.

  Prelude to

  Summer on Hook Road

  Regardless of the roadwork, the summer scenes came on as usual on Hook Road. In fine early mornings, the sun, rising above the ragged gloom along the horizon, blazed patches along the cow paths that wound their way through pasture greens like angleworms. The sweet summer smells of new mown hay mingled with the soft summer breezes that faded the lowing of the cows, rising from their rest, stretching stiffly, ambling in their lines through the paths and into the lanes, their ankles cracking, their hooves puffing powdery clay, their long shadows jabbing at the peeling fence posts lining the lanes like guard soldiers with rifles held at ease.

  In the stables, the smells of dry manure and sour milk from yesterday’s spills mingled with the mists of DDT being sprayed over the cows’ backs with plunger-worked sprayers in a fight against the warble fly. Buckets rattled and clanked. Board-made milking stools creaked under the weight of being squatted on. Heads ducked under the casual swish of tail brushes.

  At roadside stands, bearing cap-headed, shoulder-gripped cream cans, on their day, came the revving, roaring and stopping of the cream truck.

  In the hayfields, the breeze —what there was of it—blew hot, and it seared as much as the sun. The hands of the forkers were calloused as smooth and hard as their fork handles. The forkers would often spit on their hands for grip before sweeping the coils onto the stack-like loads where the builders built, wading, high-stepping and jump-tramping. Over the sheared fields, curlews darted in low, gliding flight, as if cutting through drudgery; horses moped in high-wheeled rakes, the sleepy drivers toeing the trips at the windrow, the half-hooped rake teeth rising tail-like to fall with a wang. Through stands of timothy and clover the hay-mowers swept, their cutting bars rattling, their drivers bouncing on stemming seats as if riding something’s tail, their horses plodding, with sweat-soaked muscles shining in the sun.

  At the barns, the horse-drawn cables ran through pulleys on barn walls and pulleys on the track carriages down to pulleys on the two-tined forks. The workers would plunge into the loads with their feet, then step aside and shout their commands to the horsemen. And a wig-like lift would rise, lock into a carriage and sweep through the loft to fall with the pull of a rope. The fall of a lift would puff cool air at the stowers, standing with sweat pouring down their faces, waiting to wallow in the unsettled hay, fork-pulling at the lift, spreading it, ramming it into corners, gritting, grunting and jump-tramping.

  In the potato fields, at intervals, the farmers stalked the drills, searching the tops, bending at times to brush with their hands or root up the “black leg” and the “blight.” Sometimes they would spray the potatoes, too, with sprayers that were not much more than a half-barrel on wheels with a pressure pump, a pipe boom and a network of hoses, pipes and end nozzles.

  In the evenings, there were games of what could best be termed as “cow pasture ball.” Rocks, shingles, junks of board were used for bases, board clubs for bats and usually a sponge ball, which, regardless of its colour, always wound up with a green cast either from cutting through the grass or the odd cow splatter. Care had to be taken not to hit the ball over the fence, especially if the other side was a grain field: you could lose the ball. And it was a good idea to note where the cow splatters lay, for obvious reasons.

  Saturday night was the big night. We’d get spruced up to the smells of boughten soap and shoe polish and clatter into town with the lowering sun poking blazes between fence posts and glinting dully on the steel tires of the light wagon.

  We’d pull up at the long, open shed with its ever-present smell of horse manure, its roof showing black patches where shingles had blown off. The Boss would tie the mare to the tie rail—gouged by the bites of restless horses—that ran the full length of the back wall, with its gaps from missing boards.

  Presently, we’d stand looking into the glass-panelled showcase of the theatre. Usually a gaudily painted man would be looking back with a mysterious eye, the brim of his stetson canting back, a bandana wedging his throat, smoke curling from his brandished six-gun. The smells of popcorn would waft through the open door as we walked through. After getting our thirty-cent ticket at the wicket, we’d pause in the lobby, with its dry stately atmosphere (somewhere between a restaurant and an undertaking parlour) and check out the future billings on the wall.

  At the showroom door, the ticket taker looked much like an undertaker, with his sombre expression. Inside the dimly lit room there’d be the murmur of multiple conversations mingling with the sound of the odd pop bottle clunking off the steel seat legs as it wobbled down the slope. We’d flip down a hard seat and sit, waving at familiar face here and there, with bright smiles for the occasion.

  Suddenly, the flicker would flash in the flapping rooster as he crowed in the show. Trumpets would blare in the news of the world, with the usual scenes of war and political notables. Gloomy, eerie music would conduct the safari man through his jungle serial and his dealings with bad traders and treasure-seekers, which usually ended with him in a death struggle with a lion or a gorilla (to be continued next week). Somewhere in the preview segments, the singing cowboy would run down a train on his super smart horse, jump a boxcar on the fly, tangle with owl hoots and sing, riding through the sage with his cowgirl.

  Then the man with the smoking gun would enter, stalking his way down the dead streets at high noon, his spurs clinking, his right hand poised over the six-gun at his hip. Then came the showdown stare into the eyes of a snake-faced rustler, the flashing quick draw, and Snake Face bites the dust. Then there were the death rattles of more six-guns and lever-action rifles, seasoned with shootouts and riders tumbling from their saddles until a pretty lady got rescued and she and the hero rode into the sunset with THE END at their backs. After the show, we’d be ready to swagger down the streets of Tombstone for a showdown.

  But we’d settle for a gallhoot run through the shadowy alleys between the windowless sides of the bank and the funeral parlour. Then we’d swagger out onto the crowded sidewalks of Main Street and coolly greet those we knew and wonder about those we didn’t.

  Up one sidewalk and down the other we’d go; past the booth, with its smells of steamed clams and hot dogs; past strong, quiet men slouching around shadowy storefronts talking of farm concerns, their black suit coats augmented by the rolled-up cuffs of their new overalls showing white. And through the muddle of bodies onto the sidewalks, the ladies with wave-set hair bustled from shop to shop with their lists.

  We’d pause now and then at a store showcase and gaze at the merchandise in the big windows: a shiny bicycle (we’d never own) standing beside an array of axes, picks and shovels in the hardware store; denim jackets hanging in the clothing store above a shelf spaced with boots and folded plaid shirts.

  We’d come to the open door of the restaurant with the red-capped stools at a circling counter and rows of booths along its walls. Usually, someone we knew would be in one and we’d go and sit with them and flip through the nickelodeon song leaves in the glassed-in box on the wall while they ate. And the bass-booming songs from the nickelodeon would weave through the buzz and ripple of conversations and there would be the steamy smells of hot hamburg sandwiches and coffee and thick waves of tobacco smoke.

  If we had an extra dime, sometimes between the two of us, it would go for a comic at the small shop smelling heavily of the smoked herring that were kept in an open crate with a “five cents each” cardboard tab in their midst. There the proprietor stood, peering through a visor shadow and leaning on a counter cluttered with bubble-gum packs, candy bars and glass jars of candy canes, candy cones and licorice cigars.

  The comics were in individual stacks on a back shelf. There would be Kid Long on a cover, standing feet apart with his 45s brandished high, gun smoke wafting around him, his hat behin
d his shoulders, hanging by the chin laces knotted at his throat. The G Man would be on another cover, in a trench coat, confronting ugly hoodlums with a blazing tommy gun. The combat soldier, advancing through shellfire, firing his rifle from the hip, would grace another cover. And it would be too bad, but you’d have to make a choice and live with it.

  Soon it would be ten o’clock and we’d be back at the shed at our prospective wagons. In the shallow glow of a naked bulb on an electric pole we’d mount up and move out. Fleeting shadows would flare at the mare’s feet; now and then the glare of a car’s lights would sweep, leaving it hard to see. And the town lights would fade, the pavement would break into clay, the darkness would turn the mare into a dark silhouette. We couldn’t see the road, but she could and she’d road along making the turns in the darkness until she stood in the barnyard, snorting and waiting to be unhitched.

  Summer on Hook Road

  CHAPTER 6

  The Saturday night trips to town were always highlights, regardless of whatever else did or didn’t stick out. That summer there were few other things that did. The road grading stood out, of course, but by the time summer got going anyways decent, we had grown used to the stink, dust and noise and having to either work our way through it or detour when we went somewhere.

  Joe Mason was taking a heifer to Young Tom’s bull one night and got her tangled up in a road grader. That was interesting. I was heading out with my guitar to play with Wally and I met Joe and the heifer coming out of Joe’s gateway. The heifer was hauling Joe, with the rope wrapped behind her ears and muzzled at her nose, her head bent low and back, her nostrils snuffing dust around her front hooves, her mouth belching out mournful bawls, foam and saliva. Joe was leaning back, dragging on his heels, with the rope running around his shoulders and his left hand clutching the lead with his arm straight out. But his lean went too far, either that or he slipped, and his rear end whumpfed into the dust in the lane and then Joe was sprawling in a slow turn like a chip in an eddy, his bald head barely visible in a cloud of powdery red clay.