Sagebrush was starting to encroach on a field my father-in-law had painstakingly cleared over the years. So this week, I climbed onto his old tractor and did some mowing, unsupervised. In rural Montana, that hardly qualifies as news, but I’m putting it on my résumé.
First, it’s bigger than a riding mower, which makes it a large tractor in my estimation. Second, it’s old. I believe it was originally built to pull a chariot.
When you have spent years being the person others depend on, admitting you need help can catch in your throat.
I remember my father-in-law stopping at our Nashville home while hauling it west on a trailer. Ronald Reagan was president, and the tractor wasn’t new then.
For most of my adult life, we lived five miles from downtown Nashville. We didn’t have much tractor time, and I have always been intimidated by large machinery. That sounds pitiful coming from a guy who has visited Montana for decades and now lives here, but hear me out.
Public speaking frightens plenty of people. From the set of “The Today Show” to keynote speeches at conferences, it has never bothered me. Give me a microphone and a room full of strangers, and I’m comfortable.
But a tractor pulling a mower across ground so slanted that the cows need shorter legs on one side to keep from tipping over? I have questions.
Oh, did I mention rocks? Even with scarce rainfall, our rocks keep thriving and growing.
Fortunately, I have several neighbors I regularly call for help. Full disclosure: I rotate the calls, hoping none gets too accustomed to seeing my name and letting it go to voicemail. Sometimes I disguise my voice, but my Southern accent gives it away.
I’d love to swagger and say, “No problem.” But swagger won’t tell me which lever to pull, so I call someone who knows.
My father-in-law is in assisted living now. His competence with that tractor is legendary, but translating his instructions into something useful between my ears takes some doing. Sitting in that worn seat, I quickly discovered my confidence behind a microphone contributes remarkably little to my understanding of a tractor’s controls.
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So I FaceTime patient neighbors and ask a lot of questions.
Over the years, I have told countless medical professionals, plumbers, carpenters, and even tractor operators, “I’m a talker, an exceptional pianist, and a pretty good writer. That’s where my skill set stops. So explain it to me simply. Use crayons if necessary.”
One morning, after chasing a moose out of our hay barn, I called my college piano professor, who is thankfully still alive. I told him he hadn’t covered moose extraction in class.
He laughed. “You must have missed that day.”
Apparently, I missed several. And despite 40 years of caring for my wife, I’m still discovering gaps in my education that have nothing to do with tractors or moose. I know medications, insurance forms, hospital routines, and the particular sound that means something is wrong. Yet there are still calls to make and questions to ask, sometimes about things I think I should already understand.
Those calls can be harder to make than you would expect. When you have spent years being the person others depend on, admitting you need help can catch in your throat. You tell yourself you ought to know, manage, and figure it out. Meanwhile, the problem waits patiently for you to finish arguing with yourself.
In Montana, limits tend to announce themselves plainly. The ground is steep, the equipment is heavy, and the weather has no interest in your credentials. “I’m fine” can sound great right up until the tractor plows through a fence.
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The same reluctance follows us into hospital rooms and home to unpaid bills. We offer a cheerful “We’re doing fine” when what we need is someone to sit with a loved one for an afternoon or help make sense of the paperwork. You should see the emails I write to my CPA friend. Apparently, piano proficiency also has limited application to the tax code.
Earlier this year, I framed in a doorway. Last week, I spent some time with a chainsaw, a nerve-racking undertaking for a pianist and writer. This week, a tractor. I’m pleased to be learning new things, but I’m also learning to reach for the phone before determination and pride become an expensive lesson.
If you are the person everyone calls, consider whose number you need on speed dial. Tell them where you’re stuck. In my experience, plenty of people are willing to share what they know once I stop pretending I already know it.
Fortunately, I still have all my fingers as I reach for the phone again … and my neighbors are still answering.
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[H/T Blaze Media]
