Looking Back
Whoa! Whoa! Dadgum It!

By William Larmore

I was seven years old back in 1924 when I first saw neighbor Mr. Jim Engle’s new Fordson tractor. It was rumbling down the graveled Dahlonega road towards our farmhouse, bellowing like a mad Irish bull and sounding like it was in the mood to dig up the world.

Me? I was out in our barnyard slopping the hogs for the Larmores that warm summer’s evening in Iowa when I hear the wonderful monster coming. This approaching roaring was so loud it could only be a tractor, and I had to go wherever to see it.

The only one I knew anything about in our area was Mr. Lowenberg’s old McCormick Deering, and it sounded out in the field like it could just barely pull its own weight. This one sounded like it could pull anything and was headed to get mine.

I sloshed the last bit of hog-sooeyslop into the trough and lit out for the road. Sure enough, a gleaming gray monster with two great red-cleted iron rear wheels and two smaller steer wheels was just thundering across the railroad track. Mr. Jim Engle, owner of the biggest farm up the road and father of my current heartthrob, Clara, was at the steering wheel of the wonderful machine.

To my eyes, having this tractor and Clara both made him the hero of the universe! He was obviously a very lucky stiff, out for a new tractor ride in the cool of the evening, exercising his natural nobility, and I hoped I might someday become like him.

According to Mama, who had come to stand by me and watch, the scene wasn’t really all that wonderful.

“Jim Engle,” said she, “is just out boogering around on that thing to show all we poor folks around here how rich he is, the old coot!”

Dad, who had finished the milking and fed the cows, had also come to be with us and enjoy the sight. He agreed with Mama, and if I remember correctly, said something like this: “Yep! He’s rich as underneath a fourholed crapper! Heh, heh! More like a three-holer now after buying this rust bucket.”

I could have cared less. Mr. Engle had the tractor. He had Clara. He was king! He was the greatest!

Right in front of our yard was an entry into our west 40 hayfield, the lane secured by a heavy wooden gate, latched tight with baling wire. That was where Clara’s Pa decided to turn around for his trip back home. I reckon anyway most of what he did want to do was show off to Dad when he saw us watching. So he turned the grand, roaring monster into our field entry to turn around for home. But he was faced with the gate. All of his recent tractor training deserted him, and what he remembered were his many years’ experience with his great Belgian workhorses. H e started yanking on the steering wheel and yelling, “Whoa! Dadgum it, I said whoa!”

But of course, the tractor paid him no mind. It thundered through our gate with pieces of board and baling wire flying everywhere and was way out in our field before Mr. Engle got control. The gate? It was smashed to flinders.

Our proud, unhumbled neighbor never ever replaced the gate or even mentioned it again. But he did take Clara and me on a lot of rides together on the Fordson, and neither of us could have wound up happier.

Mama spat every time she saw a tractor, but Dad came out pretty good. He always swore that seeing a smart-alec get his comeuppance was well worth the price of a new gate.

Bill Larmore lives in Marietta and reminisces for Modern Senior Living from time to time.