Pop the Clutch

The book is out tomorrow, Amazon.com White Trash Rising. The Kindle version will be released at the end of the week. I am a nervous wreck! Will it be any good? Will people get bored? What if they hate the serious stuff? Will they see what the message is about, and how it carries patterns of behavior through generations? Will my brother decide to finish me off with yet another invention? And of course, OMG it is HUGE, is anyone going to read the whole thing? (I used the largest font because I am at the age of squinting.) ah well....it is what it is...

Every farm kid knows how to pop the clutch. Sadly, it is losing its relevance in a world of automatic transmissions. But any farm kid or poor kid who grew up before 2000 can tell you that you can start any vehicle with a good pull/push or steep hill. I have started motorcycles, dirt bikes, cars, pickups, and tractors with a slope and a clutch. But the worst job on the farm was pulling a tractor for Dad until you got enough speed so he could "pop the clutch" to start it.

One of the most dreaded jobs on the farm was helping Dad pull the tractor when it wouldn’t start. He would sit on the dead tractor and wait until the pulling tractor gained enough speed for him to pop the clutch and start the engine.

This process involved a long, heavy logging chain wound around the front axle of the non-starting tractor, with a large iron hook connecting it securely to itself. The other end of the chain was attached to the working tractor, wrapped around the hitch, and held on by an identical iron hook.

I had heard horror stories about chains snapping and seriously injuring those involved in this tractor-pulling endeavor.  If the chain slipped off or broke with enough momentum, it became a lethal object whipping through the air. I always imagined the back of my head being smashed by a flying iron chain on my turn to help.

Worse than the vivid image of my impending doom was the thought of having to work closely with Dad. His temper was legendary when frustrated, and his insults cut to the bone. Helping to pull the tractor would surely earn you titles like “the stupidest bastard on earth” or “the stupid son of a bitch with your head up your ass.”

Dad used a single, solitary hand signal: he raised one hand and waved it up and down. This movement could mean to go ahead, go faster, stop now, or slow down. Interpreting his signal was impossible, and the poor soul assigned to drive had to rely solely on guessing and psychic abilities. The three of us siblings quickly learned that we had little psychic skills.  We did, however, develop an incredible ability to read other people's body language and moods.

I would drive up and down the field, with Dad waving his hand from the other tractor and me guessing at the desired speed or whether to stop. When it was time to stop, and I missed the signal, there would be frantic waving accompanied by “Jesus Christ, stop the fucking tractor!”

Once it was finally stopped, Dad would get off and tinker with the dead tractor to figure out why popping the clutch hadn’t worked. It could be a loose battery cable, an empty fuel tank, or Dad hadn’t even turned the ignition switch to “on.”

The last time I pulled the tractor for Dad, I was in my early thirties. I had come home from college for the summer, having completed my nursing education and begun my Applied Psychology degree.

Despite my nursing and counseling skills, I felt insignificant when I received the dreaded news: I needed to pull-start the new (yet ancient) tractor my dad had recently purchased.

It was summer, and at least I didn’t have to struggle to start the Russian tractor after I secured the log chains. I climbed onto the tractor and pulled Dad on his smaller, older tractor across the field. We went around and around the length of the stubble field, but Dad’s tractor still wouldn't start. After several more laps, Dad waved his hand and started yelling, so I stopped and got out of the Russian.

To get out of the Russian: position your left foot sideways and swing your right foot up and over the two gear knobs. Squeeze forward between the steering wheel, throttle, and seat. As you do this, you will scrape the outside of your right ankle on the clutch.  This occurs while leaning to reach and unstrap the rubber bungee cord holding the cab door in place. There is always a bungee cord holding something in place.

Next, slide your left foot forward to step onto the first rung, then wildly swing your right foot for the next one. The step is not where you expect it to be, the metal ladder having been bent and twisted in numerous driving mishaps. This maneuver is, of course, accompanied by a stream of profanity.

Dad’s dead tractor was stopped in a small ditch as I walked back to assist with the diagnostics. After checking the usual culprits, Dad discovered that the tractor was out of gas. After putting in five gallons, the tractor still refused to start.

“Must be dry all over,” Dad assessed.

This meant that the tractor had no gas in the lines and needed to be primed. This would require another round of pulling. As I returned to the Russian, Dad instructed,

“This time, give it some speed, or we will be here all day.”

I wrangled the Russian shifter into the highest gear I could find, higher than I had probably ever used before this day. With the throttle fully open, the Russian’s engine roared. I looked behind me to see Dad sitting on his immobilized tractor, waving his hand up and down repeatedly from his shoulder to his waist. “Give it hell!” he yelled at me.

I popped the clutch, and the tractor jerked the chain tight as I moved forward. There was a horrible metal ripping sound, and my tractor stopped whining and surged ahead, unfettered. 

I looked back.  Still attached to the Russian, the front half of the second tractor was pulled several feet ahead of its decapitated body. 

Dad sat leaning downward on his tractor, its torn body pointing into the dirt.  Dad sat for hours, it seemed, his head down, his hands clutching the steering wheel like he was on a drive downward into hell itself.  I knew what was coming.  I looked over at the front yard.  Mom had been standing there watching our attempt to start the tractor. 

As I watched, Mom fell to the ground and began rolling on the grass, clutching her abdomen. ,

Ominously there was silence; Dad didn’t seem to be breathing. “Oh fuck! murdered both of my parents,” was my first thought.   Orphaned at barely thirty, by my own fault.  

Then, starting at a low rumble, raising to thunderous, Dad’s voice hit me.

“Stupidest fucking bastard on earth.  What the fuck were you thinking?  You had to jerk the chain, you stupid retarded cocksucker,” he screamed at me.

He drew a deep, ragged breath and began again, throwing cruel profanities in my direction.  From what I was hearing, I was severely mentally disabled, not my father’s child, and the illegitimate offspring of a moron. I had endured my father’s rage for decades, but this time it was a work of art. There was no response inside of me, like always, you had to let Dad keep going until he ran out of steam.  

I sat frozen, watching Mom rolling on the ground, laughing hysterically. Dad continued to scream insults at me for several long minutes.

Finally, I turned off my tractor, climbed down, and walked toward the house. As I passed Mom, I noticed tears in her eyes; she sat upright on the grass, repeating, “Oh my God, oh my God.”

Suddenly, Mom jumped up and sprinted into the house, brushing past me both on the way in and out. She returned with a camera and rushed over to take pictures of the tractor. This was long before smartphones and social media, but she was determined to capture the moment.

Dad finally climbed down from his impossibly angled perch and stomped into the house. He poured his own cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, staring at the linoleum floor.  

Mom came in, still clutching her side and wheezing with laughter. She went straight to the black telephone on the wall and called Tubby.

"Guess what Pooch did!" she exclaimed.

After hanging up, she called Donna:

"Guess what Pooch did!"

I sat in the living room, wondering what fate awaited me. My father drank his coffee in silence in the other room. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock and my mother frantically dialing everyone she knew, skipping any pleasantries to say, "Guess what Pooch just did!"

After he got off work, Tubby came to assess the damage. He pointed out the lines of weld along the torn parts of the tractor, indicating that someone else had torn this tractor apart before me.  

Tubby remarked, “It’s a good thing you didn’t get it started; this thing could have killed you if you tried to use it.” 

If Dad had driven the tractor on the road at a high speed, a single bump could have flung the tractor into two pieces, injuring Dad in the process.

For several days, there was an absolute silence between Dad and me, and Dad refused to look me in the eye.

I attempted to lighten the mood at mealtime by asking Mom, “So which of Dad’s brothers did you hook up with, Mom? I look like a Baumgart, but Dad said I’m illegitimate. It wasn’t Lester. Please tell me it wasn’t Lester.”

Mom wouldn’t take the bait, and Dad wouldn’t make eye contact.

I joked, “It’s a hell of a thing to find out this old that I’m a bastard.”

Eventually, I gave up and finished my meals in silence.

About a week later, I was reading an outdated local newspaper at the table.

“Huh," I said, "they're having an implement and tractor auction in Park Rapids this weekend.”

Dad asked, “Is that where you were headed with your half of the tractor?”

“It was worth a try,” I replied. 

A truce was called in that short exchange. Meanwhile, Mom shared the pictures of the broken tractor with everyone she knew, including the milkman.