by Ingrid Braley
His old tractor growled and gurgled as he turned the key. The setting sun beat down on his back as the old man climbed down from his tarnished green and yellow tractor. He wiped the salty brow of his sunburned face as it turned toward the sound of geese crying in the distance.
The man pulled off his gloves, stained with weeks of grease and dirt. He leaned his old, but strong frame against his tractor, who had been so loyal to him for all these years. As the farmer looked across his field, the long straight rows of potatoes smiled proudly back at him. Harvest was riding on the back of the wind, and this year’s crop promised good results.
As the farmer scanned his field, he spotted two deer in the distance, skipping and frolicking together in the meadow. A bird in the pine tree standing high above, laughed at the deer’s childish game. The aging man wished he could be as careless as the deer playing along the horizon.
Before he climbed into his rusty grey pick-up truck to head home for supper, the farmer decided to make sure all was safe and sound for the night. As he slowly walked down the dusty field road, the farmer looked up and down the rows and rows of potatoes, carefully inspecting his troops. The potato plants straightened themselves and tried to stand tall for their commanding officer. The steady tapping of the farmer’s gloves against his dirty, torn jeans kept all the rows in suspense.
Slowly, he continued his inspection. Down the field road, sprinkled with rocks and patches of grass, the old man walked. A field mouse scurried nervously across his path. A slight breeze blew through the border of trees surrounding the field, making their leaves dance. As the farmer came to the end of the field, he approached a path leading to a small clearing in the woods. A pond, surrounded by overgrown cattails and tall grasses, lay peacefully in the clearing.
The old man paused for a moment to enjoy the serenity of the quiet pond. The setting sun caused the still water to glimmer and shine as if it were a mirror made of glass. The man stepped closer toward the edge of the water. He leaned over slightly and caught a glimpse of himself in the gigantic mirror. He removed his tattered and faded hat, only to reveal the once brown hair that now lay as a heap of silver strands frazzled atop his head. His foggy hazel eyes stared back at him from the water. He ran a rough calloused hand slowly across his thin, dark, weathered cheek. It seemed he was looking at a stranger, for the man did not remember his reflection looking so old and worn.
The sudden slap of a beaver’s tail on the water shattered his reflection and his thoughts. The farmer placed his hat back where it belonged and turned to his field.
As he walked back up the dirt road, the tall grass and cattails waved a silent goodnight. His step was quicker now, as the blanket of night was descending. The playful deer had long since gone home. All other creatures were in for the night as well, except for the faint voice of an owl somewhere in the distance.
The potato plants were bent over sleepily, forgetting their inspection. The rich dirt felt cooler now, as the man brushed it from the seat of his pickup. He climbed in, the rusty door squeaked then was shut with a bang. As the farmer pulled out of the field he nodded his head, yes, this year’s crop was going to be a good one.
Ingrid Braley, of Mapleton, is a 2006 Presque Isle High School graduate. In each column of Rural Reflections, she hopes to bring readers back to the simple pleasures of the County and the country way of life.
