John headed the red Farmall M tractor up Highway 82 toward home. Boss told him not to snag the cultivator behind the tractor on anything, but with the gentle breeze in his face, John dozed off when the M had almost finished crossing a bridge.
The old workhorse began easing off the pavement. When an outside plow snagged the bridge’s guardrail, cultivator, tractor, and John parted ways. The M plunged off the highway and alit upright, muffler-less, throttle wide open, shift lever gone, one steering wheel spoke left, engine silent.
Boss and three cronies were going fishing. Eager to be on the lake, they coaxed another driver onto the M and joined pickup and tractor with a log chain.
“Steer as best you can till we reach the shop,” Boss said, but don’t let off the clutch.” M and truck meandered homeward. When they turned off the highway, the chain slackened. Not wanting to bump Boss, the driver eased out on the clutch. Instantly, the M exploded into life. Belching smoke rings, the un-muffled engine roared, wide open, in gear. The driver catapulted from the seat and disappeared.
Someone once noted that mules will work for you ten years for an opportunity to kick you once. So will an M. Here was M and opportunity. Four frantic faces peered through the pickup’s rear window as a red blur shot by an instant before the chain tightened. The pickup jerked obediently behind the M.
As its long-eared counterparts are wont to do, the iron mule headed straight for the barn, the pickup rolling and bouncing behind, scattering fishing poles, tackle, minnows, and tools in its wake. Inside the cab, chicken bones, snuff cans, rifles, cartridges, and men swirled kaleidoscopically.
On the M went, roaring louder, galloping faster. Like a giant tomcat fleeing a tin can tied to its tail, it charged straight through a cloud of white chickens, straight across Miss Lena’s garden, straight through her loaded clothesline, straight toward the barn.
Fortunately, no animals were in residence at the time, save one rheumy-eyed old mule. Sensing his metallic brother’s rapid approach and deducing his long-dreaded trip to the rendering company was nigh, he set up a death bray.
The M plunged its nose into the barn’s feed trough, shearing off front axle and oil pan. But still the rear tires churned, digging deeper until the battered brute’s screaming motor gave one last valiant howl, shuddered and died. Only the mule’s mournful brays broke the silence.
Providence alone knows how the men survived. When those witnessing the catastrophe crept closer, through dust, debris and cracked glass, they saw four ghost-white, disheveled men clinging to each other. Fishing was the last thing on their minds.
A pickup reduced to trotline weights, a cultivator destroyed, fishing tackle strewn all over, and Miss Lena to face, all on account of a worn-out tractor.
But Boss and his buddies weren’t thinking about these things. They were taking conscious pleasure in having survived the M’s revenge.
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)).
