Hand on the Plow

 

Hand on the Plow                           

By John W. Vander Velden

 

Beneath the bright hot sun, reins looped over his shoulders he labored.  Behind two stout well trained animals with strength and skill he guided the tool.  With hands on the plow as hour by hour he marched the furrow.  A small strip…four inches depth of soil turned and moved to his right filling the furrow left by the crossing before.  Hours pass. Sweat pours. Slowly the sun crosses the sky.  Time and soil tilled the only measure of achievement.

 

Seated upon a roaring machine of red, he feels the thunderous vibrations through his feet, the backside seated upon the hard steel pan but most through gloved hands firmly gripped upon the wheel.  Each pass across the field, a tug upon the rope sets the plow to its work.  Several minutes later another yank convinces the machine to rise.  He can hear nothing above the constant roar of four cylinders driving clawing wheels dragging the two moldboards burying cornstalks and leaving behind clean fresh earth.  His face reddened by the heat flowing from engine and muffler as sitting hour after hour on the tilted beast, wrestling with wheel, brake and rope.  Many days needed to complete this springs task. Many long hard days.

 

Within a box of glass and steel surrounded by levers switches and instruments he finds himself.  Isolated from the extreme roar of the diesel with most of the dust locked outside, he labors.  He must remain watchful as dragging spikes shattering and blending earth as with each hour acres fall. Though his days are long. Though his mind must be fully engaged. He understands the physical demands diminished.  As time passes he wonders.  “What would his grandfather think?”  Smiling he is certain the man would understand, for after all his grandfather was a man with a hand on the plow.  

 

(302 Words) 5-28-2012