The grass on our knoll begins to ripple - time to crank up the old '47 H
tractor. It's the only artifact that remains of the days when my husband,
Larry, worked on the farm with his dad. For a day or two, Larry tinkers with
the belly of this megabeast. Finally, a puff of oil spews from the top of
its head, and with a shudder and a crackly growl, it wakes up from its
winter's sleep. Larry mounts the beast and slowly, ever so slowly, it
lumbers its way to the front yard where it begins its methodical trek of
denuding the yard of anything remotely green. A white, thunderous noise
fills the house as it shakes in the wake of the megabeast. Then, with a
snort, silence. Larry descends his mount and begins his creative tirade
against god and nature. Kicks the obstinate beast in its rubber foot and
reboots. After this scenario repeats itself several times, and the yard is
scalped of its luscious mane, Larry returns the H to its shadowy lair where
it's allowed to sleep once more...until the rain. I remain...
