It was a sad day for Grandad when tractors began to replace horses. He never made the transition. I wasn’t there at the time, but I can imagine he had tears in the corners of his eyes when he sold the horses and all the rest of his farm equipment.

He moved then to the edge of town, an historic little Illinois village called Vermont. He and my grandmother had a big garden, an orchard, a barn, a chicken house, and a two-hole rest room with a path. There was also a small pasture where they kept a milk cow and a few sheep. Granddad was not as fond of the sheep as he was of his horses. He also held Old Bossy, the cow, in low regard. Especially when he was milking her and she upset the milk bucket.

Every day he walked uptown to get the mail at the post office. Then he sat on a bench in front of the hardware story and “chewed the fat” with his friends. Most of them were retired farmers, too. I can imagine one of the things they talked about was the fine horses they had owned. Granddad probably talked, and laughed, about the difficulty his only grandson had with his horses. One of those times was when I tried to plow.

When I was about ten, visiting back on the farm, Granddad decided it was high time I learned how to plow. At the time he was plowing with Old Tobe, his favorite horse, hitched to a single plow. I ambled along behind him as the plowshare turned over the rich, black Illinois loam. The June day was beautiful and warm. I was barefoot, and I still remember feeling the dirt between my toes. Granddad and Old Tobe plowed furrows that were straight as an arrow. When he got to the end of a row, Granddad would pivot the plow skillfully and start another furrow. This looked pretty easy to me, so I said, “Can I try it?” He said, “Sure.”

So I tried it. At ten years old I thought I could do anything. I failed miserably. The plow went up and down and sideways – every way but straight. Finally Old Tobe became annoyed at my futile efforts. He stopped, looked back, and shook his head like he was totally disgusted with this clumsy city boy. Granddad was kind. He said, “Well, son, you did purty good for your first try. You’ll do a heap better next time.”

I must admit I was not too unhappy when my grandparents moved to town. I never had to try to plow a furrow another time. I regretted that Granddad never owned a tractor so I never got to try my hand with that. I was purty sure I could do better steering a tractor than a plow pulled by Old Tobe.

And read more of his stories at USADEEPSOUTH!
Spoonerisms
Once a Yankee, Always a Yankee
Kudzu ~ The Alien Invader
Cowpots ~ An eco-friendly invention

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