Mr. Arnold’s Tractor Blade

My longest earthly friend, Goldie Arnold, had a Dad who reminded me of President Abe Lincoln, tall and gangly, minus the beard or top hat. His name was John Arnold, but I called him “Mr. Arnold” like he was the only one.

He had a slower way of talking–like the words had to hike uphill through molasses to reach his lips and a habit of scratching his head when he was about to tell you something he figured you didn’t already know.

Now, Mr. Arnold owned the only Allis-Chalmers tractor in three counties that still started with a crank and a prayer.

The thing was a wheezing orange beast that smelled like diesel, tobacco spit, and stubbornness. You could hear it from two miles away—three if the wind was right—chugging across the pasture like a mechanical bull with asthma.

One summer, when Goldie and I were eleven, we decided to help Mr. Arnold plow. Help, in our minds, meant we’d take turns joyriding the tractor until we either ran out of daylight or something caught fire. Mr.

Arnold looked at us, scratched his head, and said, “Well, try not to kill the cows or each other.”

We lasted twenty-seven minutes before Goldie hit a stump and bent the plow blade like a paperclip. The tractor gave a mighty ka-thunk, belched out a black cloud, and stopped so suddenly I thought we’d finally killed it.

We sat there, quiet as fenceposts, waiting for Mr. Arnold to come over and hand us our funerals. He walked up slowly, chewing on a toothpick like it owed him money.

He didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at the blade, at his daughter, then me. Then he did that little head-scratch and said, “Well now. That blade’s got a better curve than the Missus’ back when she used to dance in the church pageant.”

Goldie turned redder than a beet in July. I couldn’t help but laugh, and Mr. Arnold just shook his head and walked back toward the barn. We trailed behind him like whipped puppies.

When we got to the barn, he opened a cabinet that looked like it’d survived the Depression, rummaging about, coming out with a crescent wrench, a rubber mallet, and two orange sodas.

“Fix it,” he said, handing us the tools and the drinks in that order. “You broke it, you fix it. That’s the way the world works. Sodas are so you don’t pass out.”

It took us four hours–three pinched fingers and one good whack to my thumb that made me see stars and possibly a few dead relatives. But by sundown, the blade was nearly straight, and the tractor was back to making its unholy racket.

Mr. Arnold never yelled, never scolded. Just nodded once and said, “Kiddos, experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted.”

Then he tossed Goldie the keys and added, “Don’t hit the same stump twice.”

I’ve thought about that day a lot over the years, especially when fixing something I had no business breaking. And I always remember the sound of that tractor, the taste of warm orange soda, and the quiet wisdom of a man who looked like Lincoln and taught like Solomon—one busted blade at a time.