When I was fourteen my father wanted some help with making hay one day and drafted me to drive the tractor. I had never driven before at all. H put me in the seat, propped himself beside me long enough to point to some (but not all) major controls, and then proclaimed me ready to go. "If you want to slow down," he said, "Push the clutch, here."
The brake, you will note, is normally the slowing-down control. However, pushing in the clutch will slow the damned thing down, because it takes it out of gear. IF YOU ARE ON FLAT GROUND, which we were at that moment. He was lifelong devoted to doing every single thing in the most complicated and backwards way possible.
Off we chugged, slowly, to the hayfield behind Neighbor J's house.
A field that is distinctly sloped.
We went round a few times and then I looked back to check on things. Something had gone wonky with the baler, and my father decided to jump down onto the tongue of the wagon and try to fix the baler without stopping. I could tell it would be a good idea for me to slow down, so I stepped on the clutch.
Moments later the tractor, baler, and wagon were rolling backwards down the hill. My father, teetering on the narrow connection between the wagon and baler, was clinging for his life. "BRAKE!" he bellowed, and I stomped in a panic.
Nobody died, but it was a damned close thing. And he never did actually teach me how to drive. I don't think he was capable of teaching; he could not organize his thoughts well and he had been driving so long he just ran on pure instinct. Shaking my head.
amandla
snowghoul
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
