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My father, Who never marched a drill, Nor fired an angry shot, Recounts fond memories I've heard so many times: How long ago, when I was very young, He and our neighbor, Up before the sun, Engaged in tractor battles (He's very sure he won). My father woke those mornings, Early 1960s, With the popping cough of Diesel International tractor cylinders Clattering out white smoke... Then blue and black, As engine heat and friction Tightened gaps and sealed compression, And the motor steadied into an even roar. Across the county road Our only neighbor led or followed suit, Sending smoke and sound To drown the morning songs of robins and meadowlarks. Fifty years later, Dad laughs in recollection, "We started rising just a little Earlier each day. Starting up our tractors In a sort of game Called, 'Who's out earliest?'" Six became a quarter of, Then five-thirty backed to four. One tractor or the other roared, Early and then earlier to pull Into the waiting fields. When three-thirty came around My mother shook her head, But if she said a word, I haven't heard. They even started engines up Before they ran, Milking buckets swinging, to their barns to chore. As early became earlier In the little farmers' war. One day in town, Entirely by happenstance, A meeting came between the two. My father, being younger, Had energy for more, But the neighbor shook his head, Grabbed his hand and said, "Let's stop this foolishness. I don't know about you, But I need my sleep." The farmer battle ended then. A hand shake and a smile Between two farmer friends, Created country lore, Remembered here a while, As "The Early, Earlier War."
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Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
The Early, Earlier War
My father, Who never marched a drill, Nor fired an angry shot, Recounts fond memories I've heard so many times: How long ago, when I was very young, He and our neighbor, Up before the sun, Engaged in tractor battles (He's very sure he won). My father woke those mornings, Early 1960s, With the popping cough of Diesel International tractor cylinders Clattering out white smoke... Then blue and black, As engine heat and friction Tightened gaps and sealed compression, And the motor steadied into an even roar. Across the county road Our only neighbor led or followed suit, Sending smoke and sound To drown the morning songs of robins and meadowlarks. Fifty years later, Dad laughs in recollection, "We started rising just a little Earlier each day. Starting up our tractors In a sort of game Called, 'Who's out earliest?'" Six became a quarter of, Then five-thirty backed to four. One tractor or the other roared, Early and then earlier to pull Into the waiting fields. When three-thirty came around My mother shook her head, But if she said a word, I haven't heard. They even started engines up Before they ran, Milking buckets swinging, to their barns to chore. As early became earlier In the little farmers' war. One day in town, Entirely by happenstance, A meeting came between the two. My father, being younger, Had energy for more, But the neighbor shook his head, Grabbed his hand and said, "Let's stop this foolishness. I don't know about you, But I need my sleep." The farmer battle ended then. A hand shake and a smile Between two farmer friends, Created country lore, Remembered here a while, As "The Early, Earlier War."
don-bouchard
Written by
don-bouchard
66/M/American
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
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