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A Day in the Life of...

The Ride of a Lifetime

June 2009
by Deborah Lipsky

People always seem to inevitably forget I am autistic and then expect me to understand what at best is a foreign language. My friends now all of whom have a child on the spectrum understand my need for literalism as does my family but still it happens.

So much in language is "assumed". A perfect example of this happened just today. Yesterday I bought a 1949 Massey Harris tractor with a huge front end loader. For those of you unfamiliar with farm tractors when I stand next to it the steering wheel towers over my head it is that "Gi-normous". It was supposed to be in perfect working order with just a little "TLC" needed and when we started her up she purred like a kitten so in an impulsive moment I said I would drive the tractor home, a mere 16 miles away at 5:30pm on a Sunday afternoon. Not known for my executive functioning skills I didn't take into account the bald front tires, none of the gauges working, too small and well cracked rear tires with only one having a winter chain on it, no tools in my husband's truck [he would follow behind me] or the thought anything could go wrong with this antique wonder. I asked my husband how I would communicate once we got going if something did go wrong and he said, "Nothing will go wrong but if it does you'll figure it out". I don't know who was more stupid....him for saying that or me for believing him.

The owner was out of state so we were all alone 3 miles in on a woods road out in the boonies. I started up the tractor on my husband's command and immediately the hydraulic line exploded completely covering both my legs from the knees down in hydraulic fluid. In what can only be described as a "mis-communication" my husband hollers at me "WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR!!" [as if it was my intent to ruin my new pants and favorite shirt all along]. Regrettably I mis-communicated too by quipping back, "BECAUSE I HAD DRY SKIN AND NO LOTION ON HAND THAT'S WHY!!!".

After he Mickey Moused the problem with some Yankee ingenuity and very "colorful" language he told me that I have no hydraulics so drive fast before the bucket drops and acts like an anchor. I started her up a second time and his fix held but I couldn't get it in gear despite having a new clutch just put in. My husband manhandles the shift from the side and gets it into the only gear it would go...4th gear. He says, "rely on the throttle, the clutch, and brakes to slow you down". Mind you I have only driven a tractor maybe 3 times in 3 years and then just put-zing around the dooryard. He offered no warning about not letting the clutch out too fast in that gear so I just let her out quickly full throttle because of a faulty throttle lever. I experienced first hand the feelings of a near heart attack when this mechanical mustang popped a wheelie and in record time I had a religious awakening. Only by a miracle did I manage not only not to flip her on her back but somehow make the sharp 90 degree turn to get out of the driveway and onto the narrow woods road without de-limbing any trees in the process [or beheading myself]. The entire woods road back was all a steep downhill drive and after about a 1/2 mile I realized I had no brakes, a gear shifter stuck in 4th gear, a frozen clutch, broken throttle lever spring, front tires both leaking air, and steering was difficult [the U joints let go shortly after I started the trek]. It wouldn't be til I got home that we found out the radiator was leaking, the motor mounts were loose with one broken one [holds the engine on], major cracks in the loader assembly, and the nut and bolt holding the entire front end had come so loose it could of let go any time. Between the tractor's roaring engine and my husband's truck radio I had to rely on sign language to communicate I was in deep trouble. I frantically gave him the international hand gesture for distress as I had learned in my sea kayaking course. My husband who didn't take the course thought I was furiously swatting at moose flies so he just smiled and waved. Irate I signed back the universal gesture of extreme displeasure [1/2 a peace sign....... that he understood]. At that moment Ole Massey was scaring the "TLC" [the living crap] out of me.

My thoughts then turned to looking at the bright side. I was praying that a moose or deer wouldn't jump out in front of me but took comfort in the fact that if it did happen I would have an awesome tractor hood ornament and what to have for supper would be one less worry.

I was so glad to see the stop sign in the distance. That meant I had made it out of the woods without killing Bambi or me in the process. It was at that point that I noticed the steering was failing and I could not negotiate turns. I was approaching and had to cross Route 2 usually busy with church goers this time of night [ by now it was almost 7pm]. I used to argue with the fundamentalist Christians that I didn't need to be "born again" because God got it right the first time but at that moment I was ready to be "born again" as many times as needed. In what I thought would be my last act of contrition I prayed, "Dear Lord, I know I said I always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory as opposed to slipping on a banana peel but right now the banana peel looks awfully good. I don't want to be a jig saw puzzle for the coroner so I'll do anything. I'll spend an entire day going shopping for clothes with my friend Cathy in a busy mall and never complain once. I'll eat another less flavorful ice cream instead of my usual vanilla, and I'll even read a Daniel Steele novel [I hate fiction]!!" God heard me because when I started going diagonal to the highway cutting onto a farmer's potato field He gave Jon the wisdom to notice I was compensating and unable to make the intersection so Jon drove ahead of me to slow approaching vehicles. My only other option which I was preparing for was to drive thru the field [ "drive" .....just doesn't fit when you are on a run away tractor] and into a pond where I had hoped that once I hit bottom the tractor would stop and thereby no one on Route 2 would get hurt. I think another "problem" was that I had no instructions on what to do in case of catastrophic malfunctions as it was "assumed" I should know the obvious and without a back up plan I was committed to the original plan of driving her home.

Well I crossed without incident and even tho I was blessed at birth with over sized "cushions" on my derriere the bouncing iron seat was taking its toll. By now what was left of the weathered black steering wheel wore off all over my hands. Unaware of the transfer effect of 60 year old disintegrating rubber I had swatted the moose flies, deer flies, black flies, and mosquitoes on my face, arms, and white shirt back in the woods. Now when I stood up I looked like a Holstein dairy cow behind the wheel. Naturally I was standing in a puddle of hydraulic fluid so it only took .0001 seconds before I slipped. Determined not to give up I still hung onto the steering wheel despite having just straddled the steering column. What a sight to passerby vehicles......a woman who looked like a Dalmatian doing tractor aerobatics as she careened past them.

As we got close to home Jon went ahead and parked and then walked out in the middle of the road in my path expecting me to stop which of course I couldn't. I yelled out "IF YOU WANT TO BECOME AN ANGEL THEN JUST DON'T MOVE!!". As I blew past him he shouted back, "WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" That was the dumbest question I ever heard. " WHERE ELSE BUT TO MY DEATH !!!!" I cried out. He then belted back, "SHUT THE ENGINE SWITCH OFF!!". which I did and of course the tractor then crawled to a stop. The motionless and now docile tractor oblivious to the "distress" it had just caused it's operator sat there serenely against the tranquil background of our farm. I had been shown the sequence on how to start up the tractor but not shut it down because as my husband phrased it, "It should of been obvious because all you had to do was just reverse the starting procedure ". That never occured to me.

I was just happy to dismount off the tractor not aware of the oily fluid that had drenched my boots. As I stepped onto the pavement in what appeared as one final act of mischieve by the tractor I promptly did a split because the oil acted like a pair skates on my soles and I lost my footing.

So if you should see me at the Portland Mall on the day after Thanksgiving eating a chocolate ice cream cone and reading Danielle Steele's latest fiction while waiting for Cathy to come out of Aeropostale, know I kept my end of the bargain with God.

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