by J. J. Murray
“Not selling this land didn’t make me any friends, though, did it?” Mr. Simmons asks.
I can’t argue with him there. My grandfather told me about the plans for the lake, and they were extensive and expensive. Gray Lake—to complement Blue Lake, Gray County’s other lake—was going to have a hotel, several restaurants, a full-service marina, a beach, and an amusement park with rides, miniature golf, a midway, and a go-kart track.
I stare at the tractor. “You know, that tractor could be the loudest vehicle in the parade. I’m sure it would discharge lots of blue and black smoke, too. Folks couldn’t sit that close to Front Street because of the sound, smoke, and fumes. That tractor might even end the parade and jeopardize the fireworks show.”
Mr. Simmons’ bushy white eyebrows disappear into his hat. “And what would you charge me?”
I think I have pushed the right button. Why didn’t Nonno think of this? Revenge motivates Mr. Simmons, and every Sicilian worth his antipasti knows what a vendetta is. “I would charge you the same as what my grandfather was going to charge you—nothing.”
“You Tallies have always been crazy.”
“But it’s good business, Mr. Simmons.” I smile. “We fix the unfixable.” That’s our motto. I know, not exactly Madison-Avenue stuff, but it seems to work around here.
“You want to get that heap of rust and dry-rot running for free advertising,” he says.
“Yes sir. I also like the challenge.” And the work. I fix things too well. Fewer things are breaking down in Gray County these days. Fortunately, we’re going to have a scorcher of a summer, and that means radiators spewing, AC units blowing hot air, and fridges and freezers frying instead of cooling food. I am looking forward to our most lucrative summer ever.
“Say I let you fix that tractor,” he says.
“Please do,” I say.
“You’d have to work on it out here in the field.”
Where I would wilt and biodegrade into compost within a few hours. “I could also trailer it out to our shop where I—”
“It stays in the field,” he interrupts.
“Okay. No problem.”
Problem. I am already melting out here because there’s no shade! I have lost a pound of sweat and some of my eyeliner since I got out of the Jeep. If I could invent completely sweat-proof makeup, I’d be a millionaire.
“And you can’t upset the cows. Those fireworks scatter them every year, and them Air Force flyovers keep my heifer from giving milk for days.”
Jets out of Norfolk sometimes scream between the Blue Ridge and Appalachian Mountains on maneuvers, skimming over the top of Gray Creek, hopping over Motts Mountain, and generally scaring deer to death.
“I won’t upset your cows.” All … twelve of them. Where are the others? They’re probably swimming in the creek, maybe even flying through the air on the rope swing.
Mr. Simmons’ white, fluffy Great Pyrenees bounds up to me, and I have to step back because he’s so friendly and huge. This dog has to weigh two hundred pounds! “What’s your dog’s name?”
“That’s Jack. And he was the runt of the litter.”
Jack could hunt black bears in his spare time. “Beautiful animal.”
“Dumb animal. My donkeys want to stomp him six feet into the ground.”
“Why?”
“Because they can,” Mr. Simmons says. “Jack is by far the most rascally dog I’ve ever owned, but he’s good company. Wish he weren’t so afraid of his own shadow.”
I will have Jack near me while I work on the tractor to provide me with some shade. “Once I get the tractor running—”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself,” he interrupts.
“I am.”
Mr. Simmons smiles. He seems to have most of his teeth. “I’ll give you a day.”
New problem. “It might take longer than a day if I have to get parts, a few days longer if they have to special-order them. Parts for such an old tractor—”
“One day.”
“But what if—”
“One day.”
Removing all the rust could take the better part of one day. “You sure?”
“I thought you were sure of yourself.”
“I am, but …”
“Go on then. Fix the unfixable. Prove to me that a Tallie woman can do it.”
This Tallie woman can fix that tractor in her sleep. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning bright and early.”
“I’m giving you this day.”
Another problem. “But it’s not a full day, Mr. Simmons.”
“Take the day or leave, and don’t come back. Ever. You or your grandpa.”
I can’t go back to Nonno and tell him I broke a fifty-year tradition. “I’ll take it.”
Mr. Simmons laughs as he strides away. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”
I don’t thank him for wishing me “good luck” or “buona fortuna.” In my family, it’s more correct to say “In bocca al lupo!” or “Into the mouth of the wolf!” It’s kind of like saying, “Break a leg,” and folks don’t thank someone for telling them to break their legs. The proper response is “Crepi lupo!” or “May the wolf die!”
I look at the rusted orange mass of metal in front of me.
Into the mouth of the wolf I go.
Chapter 2
The back of my Jeep houses a miniature hardware store full of sprays, lubricants, specialized tools, and a wide assortment of screws, nuts, and bolts in both standard and metric sizes. But two items give me a livelihood and keep me alive: a Pittsburgh professional 301-piece mechanic’s toolkit made of chrome vanadium steel and a lever-action Marlin 30-30 Model 336.
I am deadly with the tools.
I’m deadlier with the rifle.
Before you think I’m some crazy NRA nut who believes Charlton Heston and Ted Nugent are gods, I’ll let you in on a little secret: I have never shot to kill any living thing in my life. I only fire the Marlin over the heads of the occasional black bear, wolf, fox, or bobcat that wanders down to the cabin from Motts Mountain. Hunters claim there are cougars on Motts Mountain, but no one has seen one in over twenty years.
But you can never be too careful.
I first put on a pair of black and yellow DeWalt mechanics gloves. I will still add to my calluses, but at least I’ll keep my nails grease free. I drain the tractor’s radiator, and nothing comes out. This is a good thing. That means rain hasn’t leaked into the radiator to rust it out from within. Old-timers used rainwater in their radiators. Distilled water works, too, but I’m sure half a case of Aquafina will do in a pinch.
Since I need an empty bottle to drain the oil, I drink a two-liter of water I carry around with me in case the Jeep overheats.
And I’m still thirsty.
I line up the top of the two-liter with the oil drain plug and watch as the old oil burps out like molasses. That’s some seriously soupy oil. When no more oozes out, I replace the oil plug. Never forget this step if you value your shoes. I then remove the battery leads and wires to the front headlights. I doubt the bulbs will work anyway. The six-volt battery, an eight-inch cube, is ten pounds heavier than the six-volt batteries used to power children’s toy go-karts now. I detach and drop the battery to the ground with a thump.
I pop off the muffler, the dingy silver smokestack on the front of the tractor, peer inside, and shake out a tiny bird’s nest. Sorry. You’ll have to find somewhere else to have your babies next year. I check the radiator cap (tight seal), breather cap (clear of dirt), and front radiator screen. Ew. It could be my front screen door because it has years of bugs baked into it.
I return to the back of the Jeep and find one of history’s greatest inventions: Falcon Compressed Gas Jumbo Disposable Cleaning Duster. I rarely use it for cleaning computer keyboards and electronics because it is fantastic for cleaning radiator fins and screen doors. After removing the radiator screen, I fire the duster up and down the radiator fins blowing dirt, dust, and dead grass into the air. Th
en I attack the radiator screen, freeing generations of bug carcasses to become part of the soil.
Okay, it’s not as fun as it sounds.
I remove the breather tube because its breathing days are over. The carburetor needs a good cleaning, but I’ll leave it be. I promised Mr. Simmons some smoke. Another bird’s nest inhabits the air cleaner. I am destroying an ecosystem here. I remove the choke control and starter control rods. Imagine oil dipsticks only sturdier and longer. Once I remove four screws at the back of the gas tank and disconnect the fuel supply, the gas tank and hood are ready to come off in one piece. It’s not that heavy, but it’s an awkward lift.
I wish I had a helper who was, six-two, 220 pounds, big hands, nice eyes, can cook, loves animals.
But he’s married to Kimiko.
I set the hood/gas tank to the side and peer into a strangely intact engine. I expected to open Pandora’s Box, and instead I’m looking at a pristine though grimy engine.
This might not be so bad after all.
After disconnecting the electrical leads to the generator, I remove the radiator hose and sparkplug wires and gently work the sparkplugs free. Good old Champion sparkplugs. I check their gaps and find them within the acceptable .023-.027 inch range. Because the ceramic looks fine, I screw them back in. If they’re not broken, why fix them?
The generator and generator adjuster arm, intake and exhaust manifold, fan shroud and fan assembly, and distributor and starter look decent. The breaker chamber is clean and dry as a bone.
You didn’t know there were so many parts to a tractor, did you? By comparison, the average automobile has 30,000 parts. But if only one is malfunctioning on this tractor, either it won’t start or it will sound like a stuttering chainsaw with the hiccups.
I wince as I depress the fan and generator belts, expecting them to stretch like rubber bands. They don’t. They move three-quarters of an inch and return. I smile because most of this tractor is in good condition, a testament to a time when people built things right the first time.
I pull out my cell phone to call my grandfather with the good news.
No signal.
I walk down toward the creek.
No signal.
I hold the phone high above my head and twist it east and west.
No signal.
“Come on, Verizon, really?”
I squat near the tractor.
No signal.
“Won’t do you no good,” Mr. Simmons says behind me.
I stand and pocket my phone. “It’s just as well.”
“You giving up?”
“Nope,” I say. “Going to get some parts from the shop.”
“You got the housing off all by your little self,” he says. “Doesn’t look too bad inside. Sparks gapped correctly?”
“Yes sir,” I say, collecting my tools. I don’t want Jack to run off with a wrench or one of the cows to bite into a flex handle ratchet. “I’ll be right back. Can I bring you anything from town?” Like deodorant? Toothpaste? A nose hair trimmer? A soul?
“I got everything I need right here.”
I look out at the rolling hills and meadows. “You sure do, Mr. Simmons.”
Once inside the Jeep, I turn the AC on full. I don’t need to go on diets. All I need to do is go outside for an hour in June.
I drive through Gray Creek and under a canopy of shortleaf and Virginia pine interspersed with red oak, pignut hickory, and red maple trees already turning yellow because of the drought. I cross over Motts Creek on Barrens Bridge and don’t see Delmer Farley fishing underneath. The space under that bridge is Delmer’s “home,” and he’s always fishing.
It’s that hot today.
Legend has it that Motts Creek begins high on Motts Mountain from a spring under a single oak tree and doesn’t make a sound until it gets to Kingstown near Peace Goods, a co-op food store operated by hippies. Motts Creek is one sneaky creek, meandering around and through Kingstown’s “suburbs” before straightening out under a bridge on Route 113 and passing by my cabin, a place I hope to see before midnight.
I turn left on Front Street and pass the police station, which is only slightly more refined than the one in Mayberry, and the courthouse, each of the clocks in the clock tower proclaiming a different time. Time goes in all directions in Kingstown, and so do its inhabitants every morning. Most folks commute over the mountains to Calhoun, a city of about 100,000 people, where they work for Norfolk-Southern, Caterpillar, Walmart, Sam’s Club, Calhoun Memorial Hospital, Wells Fargo, Yokohama Tire, Allstate, or for one of every restaurant and fast food joint America offers.
I creep past Boyd’s Barbershop and Hair Salon to Ferrari Repair, Mulch ‘n’ More next door, Pop’s Gas and Full-Service Garage across the street. Pop’s isn’t full-service anymore. Owner Millie Cantwell uses the garage for bridge and poker tournaments among stacks of used tires now. Fumes and smoke from hairspray, steaming mulch, our garage, and the gas station make fog daily on Front Street.
I turn left down some lumpy blacktop between our shop and Mulch ‘n’ More, parking behind the shop near our garage door. When I get out, I wave at Hank Morse, one of the many local Morses, who uses a leaf blower to corral as much of his drying mulch as he can.
“Hot enough for ya, Gio?” he yells.
“Yup.”
This passes for a full conversation on a hot day in Kingstown.
And the Current will print it word for word as news.
On the front page.
I don’t mind our location next to Mulch ‘n’ More since it draws so many customers. Hank fills propane tanks and sells wooden and metal outbuildings, freestanding metal carports, bulk tobacco, hummingbird feeders, birdhouses, firewood, bricks, rocks, and boulders. Today he’s selling a long table full of marigolds.
Tomorrow he will run a special on dried marigolds.
I smile at our signs hanging in the big picture windows of the shop: “WE FIX THE UNFIXABLE,” “$50/HR + PARTS,” and “IF WE CAN’T FIX IT, YOU DON’T PAY.” A burst of icy air greets me and dries my forehead as I pass the “Wall of Fame” which features pictures of the tractors, vehicles, and appliances we have repaired and restored over the years. My favorite is still the Bally Evel Knievel pinball machine that sits in the back of Deed’s General Store, Kingstown’s only “department store.” Deed’s reminds folks of Woolworth’s with a lunch counter, spinning red stools, and a soda fountain.
“Ciao, Nonno!” I bypass the waiting area (two old wooden chairs and a wooden bench) and the front counter and enter the workshop where my grandfather sits on a stool wearing a lighted magnifying visor and uses a tiny brush to clean the guts of a grandfather clock spread out on a thick oak worktable.
He pushes up his visor and smiles. “You were successful.”
I sigh and sit on the stool next to him. “You didn’t give me a chance to ask, ‘Guess what’?”
He touches his nose. “I already knew.”
I look nothing like my grandfather. He’s tall, wide, pale, and hairy, and I’m short, not nearly as wide, dark, and—okay, I’m hairy. We share hazel eyes and eyebrows that like to touch each other when we’re concentrating.
We also share a love of gadgets and tools, and our workshop has plenty. Spools of electrical wires of all gauges roll out from under blue plastic bins containing almost every screw, bolt, nut, and washer ever made. Pegboards hold every tool ever made—for the most part. Magnified lights sit on three workbenches teeming with clamps, vises, T-squares, tape measures, calipers, micrometers, steel rules, and soldering irons. We have grinders, sanders, tape, glue, hacksaws, drills, a lathe, a band saw, a drill press, and even a 1950s Blue Morse 200 DeLuxe sewing machine that weighs nearly as much as a 1950 Chevy.
“I tried to call you, Nonno, but there’s no cell service out there.”
“It is okay.” He nods toward the garage. “I think I have collected all you will need.” He laughs, throaty, full, and deep like laughter should be. “I have marked this day on the calend
ar, and we will celebrate this holiday next year.” He nods toward a mini refrigerator. “You must eat. I made you ’nzalata all’antica.”
Nonno speaks more Sicilian than Italian, especially when it comes to naming food. In Italian, summer salad is “insalata estiva.” I used to be confused as a child when my family mixed Sicilian and Italian.
I suppose it’s similar to mixing English with Southern.
“But summer doesn’t begin for fifteen days, Nonno.”
“If it is ninety-six degrees at eleven o’clock, it is summer,” he says. “The calendar is wrong. Eat.”
I collect my salad and devour it greedily. Nonno boils string beans and potatoes and bakes red onions. Then he dresses the beans, potatoes, and onions with olive oil, vinegar, oregano, salt, and pepper before adding tomatoes, black olives, and tuna fish.
He sprays some cleaning solution on the suspension spring at the top of the pendulum rod. “Which tractor?”
“The 1950 Farmall Cub.”
“Oh, that is a fun one. Tell me your list, and I will tell you what I have already collected for you.”
“A six-volt battery, gasoline, a three-inch breather tube about a foot long, plenty of fuel hose, spark plug wires, eighteen inches of three-inch radiator hose, SAE thirty and ninety oil, and an oil filter.”
“No spark plugs?”
“They were good,” I say. “Mr. Simmons says the clutch froze, so I may have to rebuild it.”
“Also easy,” he says. “You will need no diagrams. Very standard.” He pushes the visor down, and his eyes grow large. “And what have you forgotten, Giovanna?”
“Oh, water, distilled if you have it.”
“Bottled water will do,” he says. “Anything else?”
I have forgotten something important. “A weed-eater?”
“It is going to be a very squeaky ride,” he says.
Squeaky means … grease. “And a grease gun.”
“The gun is full,” he says. “Do not hesitate to use all of it.”
I stand and look at all the wheels, pallets, spindles, and pinions that make a grandfather clock work. “How much longer will you take to clean these parts?”