A few days before the family reunion, after several more unsuccessful fishing trips, Delton and my grandpa were cleaning Delton's tractor shed (AKA the shop). They had removed several hundred pounds of scrap metal and rotting wooden shelves, and decided to use the tractor to bring these things to the junk piles in the back pasture. My grandpa summoned me to do the driving, and he'd sit on the wheel fender just behind me to shout directions, and get on and off to move the junk around. I was having a really good time. I felt useful again, and I enjoy long hours in the tractor. The tractor ran well for about an hour and half, until we had the last claw full of junk, and were nearing the last junk pile at the far end of the pasture.
For some reason, I couldn't get the tractor out of fourth gear into first gear. I couldn't even get it into neutral, and I was using all my strength on the gear stick. I slammed my boots on the clutch and brake, and glanced back at my grandpa for help. My grandpa reached over my shoulder and tried to shake the gear stick into first, but couldn't do it either.
"Switch spots!" my grandpa shouted.
"What?! No!" I shouted back, "If I take my boots off these pedals, we're either going backwards down the hill into the creek, or we're going forward into the junk pile!"
My grandpa pondered this for a second then yelled, "We'll just have to be fast then!"
I thought he was joking, but then I felt him pushing me off my seat. I felt a wave of panic shoot through me, but then I had to react since I was more than halfway off my seat. I grabbed the fender with both arms, and felt the tractor lurch forward when I took my feet off the pedals. At the time, it didn't really register, but my left leg was dangling five inches from the moving back tire when I was nearly bucked off by the sudden lurching movement. Luckily, I held on, and grandpa had the tractor stopped just in time!
My grandpa continued to struggle with the gears, and the tractor lurched forward several more times before grandpa somehow got the thing into neutral (which was a miracle, for reasons you'll soon find out. I didn't know he got it into neutral at the time, but it stopped lurching forward). As soon as he did this, I was in panic mode and jumped off the back fender of the tractor. I landed on my hands and knees in a bush of ragweed and hogweed (two things I'm severely allergic to), and ran away, mostly on all fours. I stopped after dashing 20 feet, and turned around to tell my grandpa not to move an inch. I was getting Delton! Grandpa said he already had Delton on the phone, and he was staying put. As much as I wanted to go home and get out of the wind, which was full of grass, dust, and pollen, I stayed with my grandpa until Delton came up the hill in his golf cart, smiling widely and holding a huge wrench in his free hand. I started sprinting back to the farm through the waist high grass and weeds. I stopped at the final hill before the farm, and got up on a large laying log to see what the men were up to. I watched Delton doing something to the tractor with that wrench as I caught my breath. Delton got off, and my grandpa got back on. Delton took out the junk, and my grandpa had the tractor backing out of the junk pile and turning around, and then he followed Delton back to the farm. Delton drove by pretty fast, and as grandpa passed me, he signaled me to follow, which I did.
I met the guys in the tractor shed, and Delton came up to me with an ornery smile, grabbed me firmly by the shoulder and shouted, "Sie hat die hande eines ochsen!" to my grandpa who laughed at this. (My family has kept our german roots alive and well). I asked what this meant, and Delton says again in english, "She's got hands of an ox!"
I again asked what he meant by this, and apparently I'm too strong to drive the tractor. I accidentally ripped the gear stick out of the gearbox. The only other person that has ever managed to do this was an old farmhand we had who was built like a bear. Delton and grandpa made some more jokes about this, and in the end said it was an easy fix and I ought to be proud of my strength. So, I guess I've since regained the strength I lost while I was sick and then some, and only found that out after nearly killing myself (or at least suffering the same injuries as my uncle Wade) and almost flipping the 7-ton tractor over on the junk pile. After that, when grandpa offered to let me drive the tractor again the next day to move it somewhere, I strictly declined.
But, this story doesn't end there. I followed the guys into the house when Donnell called us in for a late lunch of cold smoked sausage, homemade pickles, and baked potatoes. As I was eating, I noticed my hands were starting to itch and hurt a lot. I looked down at them and they were red, swollen, and full of hives and open sores. I shoved the last bit of sausage into my mouth and told everyone that I was gonna take an immediate shower in the old farmhouse. As soon as I was out of sight, I started sprinting like a cougar was on my tail. I got into the farmhouse, jumped into the shower when it was still freezing, and for the next 20 minutes I was scrubbing my hands furiously with a half bottle of shampoo and the roughest washcloth I could find. They eventually got so hurt and bloody that I had to stop messing with them and held them outside of the water for the rest of my shower. When I got out, and ever so carefully dried off and dressed, I took a roll of toilet paper and wrapped my hands in a few layers of paper, held my toothbrush between my teeth, and poured rubbing alcohol on my hands. I was alone in the house, so I was able to cuss aloud without anyone hearing me. I walked back to the new house with tears in my eyes and told them what happened. Delton proceeded to laugh at me, and grandpa looked over my soaked swollen hands. I got on my laptop and googled every toxic plant and solution to my problems. Turns out, ragweed was what caused the swelling and the hogweed caused the sores. The internet said to keep my hands wrapped up in disinfected cloth or whatever, and only go to the hospital if it got worse and not better. For the rest of the day and all that night, I kept a roll of toilet paper and bottle of rubbing alcohol nearby, and the next morning my hands were still a bit swollen and scabbed, but were useful again.
Around this time, I'm thinking things can't get worse than this. Oh, I was wrong. So very, very wrong.
