Whenever I hear big and John, lacking separated succession, my mind immediately roves back to Johnny Cash’s early 60s lyrics of Big Bad John’s sad mishap at the bottom of a maritime mine.
But not so this past week.
The Big John that I have become acquainted with and, let’s face it, fallen in love with, is nothing less and nothing more than a giant green mechanical machine known as a 23/55 John Deere tractor sporting a 105-horsepower engine and a closed-in cab, hauling a New Holland haybine with a nine-foot cutting blade.
Having just watched it finish cutting quite a large field of hay, I was easily talked into giving it a try.
With an assisted hand up the three-step ladder, I climbed into the cab and plunked my butt down behind the wheel of a multi-levered contraption that could have, and would have, boggled my unfamiliar mind.
But, as it was, a local receding forehead suntanned farmer who had the patience of Job accompanied me. Within minutes, he showed me again and again which levers to pull back and which were to be moved forward. On slipping the PTO into gear and listening to the reciprocating motion of the lowered cutting blade, I released the clutch slowly and we were circling the circumference of an additional small triangular field of not more than three, perhaps four, acres.
On reversing the direction after the first cut around, it seemed like less than ten minutes and the little triangular field had a haircut pattern all its own.
This brought back memories of my early teens, when the fields were small, bordered by hedgerows and cut by mowers pulled by teams. I can still feel the imaginary pattern of the cast-iron seat that, without fail, blistered my butt.
Ours was a mower with a five-foot cut and was pulled by our anxious, prancing team of dappled Percheron. We would start early in the morning, while shades of darkness lifted, in order to beat the noonday heat. It was funny how the team both knew that when the field was cut, they would be treated to a scoop of oats and released to pasture. No encouragement was needed to keep them moving.
My dad was always good to his animals. When work was long and hard, he would rest them often. If a single horse was used on a scuffler, planter or dump rake, the horses were exchanged each hour of work.
It is funny how clever these animals can be.
When we were working over the knoll out of sight of the buildings, mother would raise the flag on the pole in order to signify that lunch was ready.
We never had to watch for it; the moment it came into sight, the horses would prance in unison all the way to the end of the row.
I don’t think Big John, my new love, could ever do that, but what the heck, that’s only a small fault.
Take care, cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105