On the Moraine XXXV

By Jim Thompson
HCP columnist

As we got into the spring of 1965, things were smoothing out and becoming routine on the farms. I was finishing up my freshman year at Hillsboro High School and had only one more year of Latin to dread. 

The gymnasium was closed due to the renovation, and the expansion of the overall buildings on the campus (I dreaded gym class) continued and thus life was looking up.

I always looked forward to spring, when the last fire in the wood stoves died for the summer. The prelude to this event occurred in mid-winter, when we were gathering maple sap. Mother would have aluminum pans on the stoves, full of sap for several weeks. We were even able to do this when Mother was suffering from the miscarriage. There were two prolific maple trees in the front yard, and if the weather cooperated, she would have those pans going for several weeks. Shortly after that, it would be warm enough to let the fires go out.

That summer, I turned 15. Dad was still working in Troy. We had about 20 acres of soybeans on the McNary Farm that needed cultivating. By this time, we had a John Deere Model 40, 1953 vintage, that had cultivators and was a nice, light tractor for this job. This was before my brother, John, was big enough to cultivate.

One weekend we cooked up the idea of mounting an old seat with its flat spring mount on the hitch of the John Deere. I think the seat and mount came off an old horse-drawn hay rake.

The plan was John and I would take the tractor and our lunch over to the McNary Farm. John could fish in the old pond by the lane, and I would cultivate the soybeans. John was there as an emergency and could go for help if something went wrong. No cell phones then, and at least a mile to the nearest help.

Monday went just fine. The weather was beautiful. We took off about 7:30 in the morning and came home about six. We had planned that this job would take two days, and it did. So, Tuesday was a repeat of Monday. Except, Tuesday evening when we were nearly home, coming up the hill in the lane on the Beaver Farm, John’s seat mount broke off, dumping him in the driveway.

Think about it. That old flat steel spring could have broken off any place on the trip. Out in the road, John would likely have been run over by any vehicle following us. I would have been going a lot faster.  

The good Lord was watching over us.

We only had one accident of any significance in our years on the farm. It was in the fall of 1967 when John broke his arm in gym class playing dodgeball. There were plenty of other opportunities for bad things to happen, but they did not.

Jim Thompson, formerly of Marshall, is a graduate of Hillsboro High School and the University of Cincinnati. He resides in Duluth, Ga. and is a columnist for The Highland County Press.