The Day the Soviet Union Fell...on my father.

On more than one occasion, Dad almost caused himself serious harm, especially as he got older and moved more slowly. His accidents usually involved the tractor he named “The Russian.”  Getting into the "Russian" tractor, a Belarus model with a small metal ladder, was tricky. Once at the top of the ladder, Dad had to navigate around the two gear shifts, steering column, clutch, and dual brakes to sit down on the metal seat. Dad often complained that the Russians sent the tractors to win the Cold War.  

Frequently he said, “They could take over the whole damn country before we could get off the tractor. Then when we got off, our kidneys would be shot to hell from bouncing around on that damn hard seat all day. Every rut you hit goes right through a person.”

Dad had a hatred of Russians based on the Cold War but still bought a Belarus tractor; after all, it had four-wheel drive and was affordable. Mom and Dad had reached a point where Dad could finally afford a new, cheap tractor. Mom had worked off the farm for a few years to pay off debt; all three children were grown and gone.

Produced in the former communist country, it was best described as imitating a tractor. It was so cheap that it came with its’ own box of wrenches for frequent repairs.  The double batteries to start the tractor were directly under the metal driver’s seat.  When weight was put on the seat, your buttocks were suspended about two inches above a battery and covered with a paper-thin metal seat. 

Dad, of course, had the floor of the cab covered in wrenches and dried hay mixed with cigarette butts and cans of starting fluid.  It was just another normal day on the farm when he climbed into the Russian and drove to the field to cut hay. He had a complicated relationship with that tractor, hating it but using it for most of the work.   

Dad did one round on the small field as I was walking across the farmyard.  Then I saw the “Russian” suddenly stop.  Dad was pounding on the door of the cab which he held shut by an unyielding bungee cord.  Meanwhile he was swaying frantically back and forth on the tractor, trying to unhook himself from the tangle of shift knobs and brakes on the cab floor.  The door burst open, and Dad jumped over the three metal steps to stand on the ground. Both hands on the backside of his bib overalls, he hopped in a circle, hopping and yelling incoherently.  I ran out to the field to render whatever aid that I could.  Dad couldn’t talk at that point, just yelling “Jesus Christ” and “that dirty bastard” and “that cocksucker” while pointing at the cab.  I peered into the cab and saw that the two batteries were on fire, and the tractor seat above them was surrounded by smoke. 

Neglecting to clean out the cab, Dad had hit just the right rut on the field, causing the seat to go down, smash the built-up hay between the seat and battery, and with one spark, start the batteries on fire.  The fire went unnoticed until Dad suddenly realized that his bottom and most precious family jewels were intensely hot.  Not having a fire extinguisher anywhere on the farm, in retrospect, was a rather stupid approach. We watched the hay burn off the batteries, and the fire finally subsided.  That was only one incident in which “that damn Russian” tractor nearly cost Dad his body parts if not his life. 

Dad fought the Russian daily.  He hated that tractor from hell but couldn’t admit it or get rid of it because he had somehow gotten a pass to buy it from Mom the money handler.  Dad must have wheedled, begged, and promised Mom the world to be able to get this four-wheel drive PTO-equipped Red Communist weapon.  The toolbox that Dad thought was “to boot” and a great bonus was necessary because the tractor had no nuts or bolts that an American wrench or socket could access.  These tools were serpentine open-ended instruments of hell that guaranteed a total loss of knuckle skin before the job was completed.  Lyle Brown purchased his own “Russian” tractor at the same time, and together, the two of them openly bragged about their Russian tractors while privately they limped and bitched.

The Russian was what you might call a “hard starter.” This meant that it didn’t start without special ignition measures. Whether it was amid the bitter cold Minnesota winter or the hot, humid green summers, starting the Russian always required some prep work before any task could begin. An essential piece of equipment for this was a battery charger. Dad would buy rebuilt and reconditioned batteries by the dozen, but his battery charger was always top-of-the-line and kept in relatively good condition. The problem was that Dad was never a patient man. Instead of using a gentle overnight trickle charge, he preferred to set the charger to high-speed Boost. 

Frequently, as he removed the charger clamps, the over-amped battery would explode in his face, throwing battery acid over his jacket and bib overalls.  Decades later, I heard a similar sound on vacation when the fort's cannons were fired in St. Augustine, Florida.  The loud, concussive explosion would shake the windows of the old farmhouse. Shortly after, Dad would slouch into the house, pour himself a cup of coffee, and sit at the kitchen table.  Staring at the floor he would keep shaking his head as he tried to relieve the pressure in his ears. 

I dared not say a word; I would silently join him in a cup of coffee at the table and watch as the battery acid slowly ate holes into his jacket and the chest of his bib overalls.  I can’t understand how his face remained unscathed. I suspect that, due to the frequent use of reconditioned batteries combined with the explosive boost power, Dad had developed the technique of turning his face to the side before handling a battery. 

When the ringing in his ears subsided, and the shock wore off, Dad would say, “Son of a bitch blew up Pooch,” as if I would be surprised to hear the news. After having a cup of coffee and a cigarette or two to calm his nerves, he would look for another battery, either from a different tractor or his stockpile of used but still salvageable batteries.

Another option for starting the Russian tractor, especially successful during the cold winters, was using starting fluid, which Dad called “ether.” When sprayed into the tractor, with a functioning battery, it provided that extra spark needed to get the Russian running. However, starting fluid is a powerful inhalant, and using it in a closed space, such as a tractor cab, could cause the user to feel lightheaded and woozy. Dad would buy starting fluid by the case.  He didn’t bother with warning labels; when the Russian tractor started, he tossed the uncapped can into the cab to use next time.

Walking across the farmyard on a cold winter morning, I spotted my father on his hands and knees in the snow, crawling and coughing while muttering curses. I approached him and waited for him to notice me, fully aware that any interruption while he was angry could easily trigger a full-blown rage. When he finally noticed my boots and sat up in the snow, Dad began to explain himself between gasps for air.

 “Fucking Russian son of a bitch bastard cocksucker almost killed me.” 

I waited, thinking to myself, “Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask.” 

Taking a deep breath and coughing heavily, Dad explained, "I started the engine and tossed the can into the cab, but it got stuck under the seat. When I sat down, the can sprang a leak and filled the cab with ether."

He coughed a few more times. "I could have died, Pooch. That could have killed me. I couldn't even stand up. That stuff is dangerous."

He didn’t stop using starting fluid or blindly throwing the can into the cab. He didn’t stop using it with a can in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. And he never read the can’s label warning of the dangers of inhalation.