Hev, that's one awesome picture. Maybe I'm getting carried away like I do, but seemsto me you can just take a glance at his face and imagine all that's going through his mind, the years of listening to engines thrumming and gears clicking and exhausts popping, thinking about the work done and the rows plowed, the frustrations and disappointments, the satisfactions and triumphs, a life of bugs, chaff, and bubbling radiators, grease and oil, hot iron and clouds of dust, busted knuckles and jacks and wrenches and beer and bullshit out in the garage.
I don't know, bro, maybe I need to reel myself in. Maybe he's just thinking to himself "How the f*ck do I get this b*stard into first gear?", but to me, he looks like he was born on that B, like he's been sitting there all his life, and like those two big-ass pistons have got his blood boiling and his heart throbbing.
And how about it. What? Four weeks ago? He's still out in his garage, trying to tear apart that old Farmall H, spreading pieces all over the floor. Man, him and I would have been brothers-in-arms. There he was, all but at the end of his days, and he's still out there wrenching.
It gets in your blood, that old iron. Not too many doubts where his son got that fever.
Wish I had had a chance to meet the guy. Maybe I would have found him as cussed-stubborn as you are, ya old hobo, maybe as much of a BS-er, but I ain't saying that's a bad thing, no way.
Wish I'd had a chance to meet him and shoot the shit, and listen to the accumulated wisdom. Not the book-smarts. The wisdom.