Installing my daughter behind the wheel
and hooking up the jumper cables, I squirted jets of ether down the
carburetor’s throat as my daughter ground the starter. Occasionally it
would catch and a ball of flame would shoot from the two barrel!
I broke off and went to town for more
ether. My daughter suggested it was outta gas. She switched the gas
gauge from MAIN TANK to AUX, “See,” she said, “it’s empty.”
“No,” I explained, “You’ve just switched it wrong. See, the other tank is full.”
I used another can of ether to no avail. I released my daughter, unhooked the cables and left my pickup for the wolves.
That night I lay in my bed plotting how
to pull it to the mechanic in town when my unconscious mind finally
spoke up, “Dummy, switch yer tanks. Yer outta gas!”
Which I was. I haven’t confessed to my
daughter yet, so if she doesn’t read this column I’ll still retain my
position as “The Perfect Father.” Unfortunately, Bruce’s whole family
was there when Mr. Lanham diagnosed his mechanical problem.
Bruce was a recent arrival to northeast
Missouri. As the new Extension Service man from California, he was
making big waves. Because everyone knows that California produces people
on the cutting edge of agricultural technology!
Bruce’s tractor was on the blink. Either
the transmission or the linkage was fouled. “I’ve checked it
thoroughly,” he told his wife and kids, “I’d better call Mr. Lanham.”
Mr. Lanham is to the age where he doesn’t worry about coddling.
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