Morning Entry

We began our third week of the RRVWP with a picture prompt. One of the writers brought in various pictures from her childhood. Then we were asked to select one and write about it.

The one I chose had a picture of a man and boy on a tractor. That image immediately connected with one from my life (posted at the end of this entry)


And this came to me --

A father, a son, a tractor. A sturdy lap to sit on. The smell of Ivory soap and Old Spice aftershave. Dad placed my hand on the wheel. It was alive - jerky and wild - no power steering - the thump of each rut, gopher hole, and bump ricocheted up from the tires, the axles, the steering column, the wheel to my hand, forearm, elbow, and jolt deep into my shoulder socket. The jolt was softened by Dad's firm chest, his soft cotton shirt, and the crumple of his pack of filterless Pall Malls jammed into his shirt pocket. His left arm cradled me while his right - powered by his his hairy forearm - as thick as my thigh - mastered the wheel.

There is a picture - similar to this one. It was taken by my sister as she stood on the left rear tractor axle while Dad drove, balancing me on his right leg, my head tucked under his solid chin and soft throat.

I found the picture in an old roll-top desk my grandfather made. My sister and I were cleaning out the upstairs of Dad's house three months after he passed away.

I recall having seen the picture as a child, but I had forgotten its existence. Until Barb dug it out and handed it to me, smiling.

What shocked me was not the picture itself and that I had forgotten it nor the image of father and son. What jolted me was how much Dad looked like me. When I look in the mirror - mostly in my eyes - I see a hint of him peering back.

The picture --