Free Where the Kissing Never Stops by Ron Koertge Page B

a sea captain. The sun was barely over the edge of the world; the air was cool, silky as a parachute, and it smelled wonderful.
    Then we got to Paltry Acres. I sat, leaning on the dark, scarred wheel. Toward the edges — the road at my right, a fence and barrow ditch to the left — a few weeds had taken hold in a scaled-down version of plenty.
    Mr. Kramer came up beside me, laying his hand on the smooth fender as if it were the solid rump of some animal. He held out his other hand palm-down, blessing-style, and sighted along it.
    “It lays well enough,” he said, “but it does look peaked.”
    “I’ll bet even pigs wouldn’t live here.”
    “Pigs,” he said scornfully. “You even see a pig, kick it. It’s either out, been out, or thinking about getting out.”
    “Well, what’s the plan?”
    “First tractor I had,” he said softly, “came with high steel tires with lugs. I wasn’t allowed to take it on the county roads.”
    I turned to look down at him. He was more at home then than now.
    “Mattie and I had the sweetest little driving mare. She carried us all over the country.” He slapped the fender rhythmically. Maybe he was listening to that mare’s hooves or clucking to her. Maybe he was patting the slim thigh that lay beside his as he drove with one hand.
    “Well, now,” he said abruptly. “Tell you what. Let’s start with a good-size piece but nothing too ambitious. Drive on up there to the line fence yonder, then come all the way back past me in a big circle. Go ahead and put the near side of the blade right up against where you’ve been. Then follow yourself around and around till you end up right in the center.”
    “Just like a big bull’s-eye? I guess I imagined I’d just go back and forth.”
    “If it ever rains good, straight plowing’s not the thing for this place, at least not right now. If you want, you could contour like so.” He snaked his hand through the air, which was warming up in a hurry.
    “No, the circle appeals to me.”
    “Then run on out there a ways and I’ll show you how to set this little plow.”
    There was a long handle — the kind that I’d seen on cartoon steam shovels — that raised or lowered the staggered blades.
     
    “Once you get the hang of it, set this about as low as she’ll go.”
    “I guess I can’t do it wrong, huh?” The handle was already damp with anxiety.
    “Not with this place, son. Not now, anyways. Remember, when you get a good bite, give her some throttle.”
    “Okay.” I wiped both palms on my silly flowered shirt.
    “Oh, and one more thing.” He stepped up beside me and took off his hat. “Get yourself one of these.”
    “It’s still dark.”
    “Not for long.”
    I eased away, tugged on the handle, felt the blades go in, killed the engine. Mr. Kramer didn’t even bother to turn around.
    It was sure different pulling something, and my first hundred yards ranged from a few inches deep to a few feet. Sweat ran in my eyes and stung as I half sat in the springy seat, turning this way and that to see where I was going, where I’d been, and what kind of trajectory I’d left behind.
    But I got the hang of it, and I could tell as the morning wore on how the soil changed. The farther I got from the line fences and the more I closed in on the bull’s-eye, the easier it seemed, and I dismounted more and more often to let the blades down as far as they would go.
    It was hot out there, even at eight A.M. , and it was dirty. The wind just picked up the soil and plastered it to me, but I loved it, lost on an island of noise.
    I could see Mr. Kramer leaning against a tree, and every third or fourth time around he’d lift a finger in acknowledgment. Then I’d pass him, swing up over a tiny rise, and I’d be alone with the baked earth in front of me, and behind me the huge doodles I’d drawn.

H igh school is just amazing. The government should copy its communications system, completely wireless and completely foolproof. What I