In my mind, Harley-Davidson motorcycles are motorized music in motion. Their muscular, deep-throated, all-American, guts-and-glory roar brings tears to my eyes. Their sensuous sound thrills me, as does that of any powerful machine. Many times, I have let myself be hypnotized by the steady, staccato rhythm of huge diesel engines, effortlessly driving lengthy center pivot irrigation systems, pumping life-giving water over my father’s Mississippi Delta cotton fields. Once this love of machines and the music they make got my pals and me in a ton of teenage trouble.
A drainage canal bordered the farm, and occasionally the county sent a dragline to remove accumulated silt and debris that impeded its flow. Clanking loudly on articulated metal tracks, it crawled clumsily along at a snail-pace, but upon reaching areas that needed dredging, its huge engine swiveled the monstrous machine like a twirling ballerina, while lifting and lowering the bucket with ease, its engine snoring as contentedly as a coon dog asleep under a shade tree after an all-night hunt. We barefoot boys watched in awe as the bucket dumped reeking sludge, eels, turtles, garfish, and snakes.
One day as Mr. Doolittle readied the machine for a day’s work, he let me sit with him in the open-sided cab and watch as he started the engine and pushed levers that swung the bucket, scooped up debris, and dumped it.
When a spell of heavy rains stopped the dredging process, Mr. Doolittle left the dragline beside the canal, setting the stage for much mischief.
“The dragline is a long way from Dad’s shop or any houses,” I said to my pals. “Nobody will see or hear us if we play on it. Shoot, I will even show y’all how to operate it.”
After cranking it, I pushed levers and pedals to make the bucket swing in arcs. We took turns climbing in and out of the cab, riding the bucket over the canal, and flinging ourselves outward, kicking and screaming our way down to the water. Soon we had coated the levers, pedals, seat, and cab with mud.
Our errant adolescent adventure ended abruptly when Mr. Doolittle pulled up behind the dragline. His face was livid, and a face even more livid belonged to the man next to him: Dad.
After shutting down the dragline, the men ordered us to climb in back of the pickup. We muddy, miserable muskrats huddled hopelessly, watching two angry men’s heads in the pickup’s cab, nodding vigorously while discussing our impending punishment.
“Boys, Mr. Doolittle will drive the dragline to my shop,” Dad growled. “Here are brushes, bucket, and a water hose. Y’all will spit shine that machine from stem to stern, and if Mr. Doolittle isn’t satisfied with the cleaning job, I’m going to put a belt to your butts that y’all won’t ever forget. Now, get to work!”
Many hours later, Mr. Doolittle inspected the dragline, nodded his approval, and recommended mercy for us five weary washer boys, or as Dad nicknamed us: dragline daredevils.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
