I Won't Grow Up!

Sometimes life must be attacked as a child.  I have been known to do this many times according to my children.  I keep telling them it would be boring to have a normal mother.  This fall, once again, I enjoyed life as a child.

Have you ever had one of those ho-hum days where you wore sloppy clothes and not a trace of make-up?  You know, the day that maybe you cleaned the oven and are grimy from the roots of your hair to the socks on your feet.  Then a knock comes at the door.

The knock on my door that crisp autumn day was a ghost from childhood past.  Forty-four years to be exact!  Curt was the boy who lived two houses north of us.  At the ripe old age of five, I donned my mother's high heels, secretly borrowed my sister's prom dress,  and married Curt in my living room.  He wasn't exactly there, or knew about the arrangement.  Nonetheless, it happened.

We caught up on  lost years for over an hour.  We bragged about our wonderful spouses, the best ever children, and lively grandchildren.  (O.K.  I boasted about my grandcats.)  It was during the conversation we realized we would each be at a hay ride at his brother's house the following weekend.  Granted I was far more excited about this than he.

The evening of the hay ride was Iowa cool.  Meaning anyone from south of Interstate 10 would freeze their fanny off.  A giant John Deere tractor (I was told it wasn't a large tractor.  But by city-girl standards it was King Kong size.)  pulled a wagon piled in the middle with bales of hay.  I coerced Curt into riding along too.   He shouldn't miss the fun of bumping though a freshly cut corn field with the stars twinkling and the moon grinning at us. 

The ride was exhilarating.  All the fresh air had made us hungry.  Luckily there was a pot-luck supper in the house.  The warm house.  The men were discussing the combining happening on Monday.  It was then Curt realized they would be working by our house. 

"Hey!  Do you and Doug want to come ride along?"

Do girls from the south stick foot warmers in their boots when it's 50 outside?  Absolutely!

Monday morning I awoke to visions of five year old  me going out on the tractor with my dad.  I would beg him to let me ride along.  There was no cab, no air conditioning or heat, no jump seat.  Just him with me gripping his waist as to not fall off.  Those are memories I cherish. 

Surveying the combining operation from the road was like watching "Dancing with the Stars."  Everything was choreographed perfectly.  The hungry combine ate the corn at an alarming pace.  The grain cart appeared just as the combine was full.  Grain was transferred.  The cart lumbered away to the idling semi-trucks.  Once again there was corn flying from the back of one vehicle to another.  Then the semi roared down the road to stash the corn in the grain bins. 

I was not a child by myself.  Doug was as excited as I was.  I climbed up the five steps to the combine cab while Doug hopped in the semi.  Curt slammed the door behind me and we were off.  I didn't have to hang on to his waist for dear life, there was a jump seat.  I didn't freeze my nose off, there was heat.  But, my goodness, I had only seen so many buttons and levers and screens in an airplane.  Curt managed to cut corn, watch the screens, push buttons, move grain from the back of the combine to the grain cart, and talk to me simultaneously.  I, on the other hand, could hardly watch him do these things and chew gum.

Several passes later, we stopped momentarily.  Curt and I jumped out and Curt's dad, Stan, and Doug jumped in.  I thanked Curt for an educational experience. 

 "Don't you want to ride in the semi and see how the corn goes into the grain bin?"

He didn't need to ask twice.  Doug had already done this with Stan.  I didn't want to be left behind.  Besides I had never seen the inside of a semi truck.  The only thing I knew about them was they roar pass my house with road dust billowing behind them.

I hauled myself into the cab and we zoomed past our house.  Yes, road dust was following in our wake.  Once at the grain bins, the corn poured out the bottom of the rig moving along into the proper bin.  It all happened very quickly and electronically. 

All too quickly our afternoon of farming was over.  Doug and I went back to our little 4.5 acres.  We felt like Cinderella.  The corn-hungry combine turned back into a pumpkin.  The tractor and grain cart tuned back into white mice.  And Doug and I were  just common folks again.  But I know I do not want to grow up and will continue to strive to live life as a child.  Sorry to my children-You're stuck with me!