B-dah, b-dah, b-dah, b-dah.........

(Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

Yesterday (Saturday, September 20, 2008) we decided to attend the infamous tractor-parade in the adjacent rural village of Ionia.
“Second largest tractor-parade in the entire nation,” I heard someone say.
Well, I don’t know about that, but there were at least 60 tractors, some glitzy and well-restored; others oily and rusty, like they were still being used.
Everything was ancient; nothing new.
We ended up going separately, mainly because I took my old friend Art Dana to it.
If you recall, Dana, like me, is a retired bus-driver.
As an old hot-rodder, he has many of the same interests I have.
He also is the guy with fairly severe Parkinson’s. He hardly can walk, but can.
I called Dana Friday night, the night before the parade, and suggested he might want to see it. B-dah, b-dah, b-dah, b-dah overload.
But he deferred.
Said he and his sister (who he lives with in the nearby suburb of Pittsford) planned to go up to Thousand Islands that day to see if Art’s cottage had suffered wind damage from Hurricane Ike.
But yesterday morning, coming back from Boughton (“BOW-tin,” as in “OW”) Park with our dog, my cellphone rang.
It was Art’s sister, who then put Art on.
They hadn’t gone to Thousand Islands; Art’s sister was sick.
So did I still wanna take Art to the tractor-parade?
Linda works at the Post-Office Saturday mornings, and doesn’t get home until 12:30-12:45. The parade started at 1.
To Art’s is about a 35 minute trip; so I had to leave at 11:15, our dog alone in the house.
Back home with Art, in case he had to use the bathroom. Then off to the parade.

Glitz. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

We arrived a half-hour early.
“Shall we look at tractors, Hughsey?”
We ambled into a field where the tractors were parked. B-dah, b-dah, b-dah, b-dah.
It’s like walking with Jack, only worse.
Art moves very slowly. I have to stop so he can catch up.
The edge of the field was lined with macho pickups with trailers the tractors came in on.
The parade was to be led by an ancient gray 1937 Case that wouldn’t crank.
Finally a Johnny Popper arrived, and they hooked up a towing strap.
All of a sudden: b-dah, b-dah, b-dah, b-dah!
“They got that old sucker lit!” I cried to Art.
60-some tractors led by a knight-in-shining-armor on a big mottled-gray red-clothed nag, an old Indian motorcycle that looked more like a powered bicycle, and that ancient Case with its open exhaust.
Here they come; out of the lot, up the hill, around the block, back down the road, and loop at the firehouse. B-dah, b-dah, b-dah, b-dah!
About 20% of the tractors are actually small lawn-tractors, although old lawn-tractors that were never thrown out.
Most memorable was an old yellow Cub-Cadet with a Briggs-&-Stratton up front.
Junior, about five, was see-sawing it all over the road, and Mom and Dad were walking along to hold the motor’s throttle open — I guess the cable had broke.
Every once in a while Dad had to grab the steering-wheel to keep Junior out of the crowd.
Best farm-tractor was an ancient Oliver 77 Row-Crop; so rusty and greasy, it looked still used. (—Probably early ‘50s.)
Oliver sheathed the whole front-end of the tractor in sheet-steel, and it was so rusty the “77 Row-Crop” was nearly obliterated.
“I don’t know about you, Art,” I said; “but to me this is the best one.”
“This looks like the real thing. A rust-bucket; not some jewel.”
(It was driven by a lanky farmer with long silver locks and a graying Santa-Claus beard.)
“What impresses me,” Art said; “is how many of these monsters are driven by kids.”
When Elz and me stayed at the Bastian (“BAHS-jin”) farm in Alberta, their son was only about 12, and drivin’ the tractor (which was an Oliver).

Stories were swapped, as always:
—1) “So me and my father were in our ‘54 Olds; me drivin’ and my Old Man riding shotgun.”
“Identical to that car we saw at the car-show, Hughsey.”
“Could be the same car, Art,” I said.
“No-no-no. I trashed that car,” Art said. “When we gave up on that thing, it was all puked out.”

That’s Art, and his sister’s boyfriend, looking at the car. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

“So here we are, moseying along on some country road just like this, a ‘56 Chevy driven by some punk ridin’ my bumper, jukin’ and jivin’ all over, flashin’ his headlights.”
“‘Let ‘im pass, son,’ my father says.”
“‘He’s not tryin’ to pass, Pop. He’s tryin’ to get me to race.’”
“‘Here; watch this,’ I said.”
“I pulled the Olds over, and the Chevy came up alongside. We both rolled down our windows.”
“‘Okay, what’ll it be?’ I said. ‘Rolling or standing-start?’”
“‘Standing,’ we agreed. ‘When I hit the horn, I’m outta here.’”
“‘PRAAMP!’ —Off we go; tires spinnin’, mucho tire-smoke.”
“I slam into second, pinning my Old Man in the seat. The Olds was three-speed standard, not HydraMatic.
Neck-and-neck; the Chevy ahead by a fender.”
“Race over, ‘what was that all about, son? And not only that, you got beat.’”
“‘Which is why I keep tellin’ ya to get a ‘57 Chevy.’”
“‘We ain’t gettin’ no ‘57 Chevy!’ my father said.”
“‘No wonder this thing is such a wreck. You’re beatin’ the living daylights out of it. —I ain’t lettin’ ya get your hands on no ‘57 Chevy!’”
—2) “One morning they gave me 728; just a Park-and-Ride in from Eastview Mall. So I deadhead out I-490 direct to Eastview and then load from there.
Once through the Can, I put the hammer down. Nobody on, so let’s see what this sucker will do.”
“80 mph, Art; and never-again. That thing was bouncin’ all over the road. Here I am doing 80 in something as big as a living-room — everything inside slammin’ and bangin’.”
“Right, Hughsey,” Art said. “You could do 80 in a 400, but not a seven.”
—3) “So one weekend I went up to the cottage with Meyer Friedman (‘MY-er FREED-man’) and his wife. Remember Meyer Friedman?”
“Yeah, the Russian bus-driver. Heavy accent, and completely wacko.”
“Meyer had never fished before, so I took him out onto Lake Ontario in my boat, and we had about caught our limit.”
“‘One more fish,’ Meyer says; and he gets one 11 inches long, which is an inch short of the 12-inch limit. So I lobbed it back into the lake.”
“Meyer went ballistic. ‘Whaddja do that for?’”
“‘Because it was under the 12-inch limit,’ I said.”
“‘Meyer bought bait, fish eats bait, it’s Meyer’s fish,’ Meyer said.”
“We go back to the cottage, and Meyer accosts my wife. ‘This bum you married just tossed my fish back into the lake.’”
“‘Tell him about the 12-inch rule, honey.’”
“‘Meyer no like silly rules!”
“‘Not my rule,’ I said; ‘the state Department of Environmental Conservation.’”
“We had a good time. But our wives were at each other’s throats.”

After the tractor-parade, we drove back to West Bloomfield. (I knew we were at parade-end when a woody Model-A station-wagon passed.)
Linda was home, but Art didn’t go in.
I think he’d be embarrassed to do so; in the condition he’s in.
We sat in the grass once at the parade, but he could hardly get up.
He did, and without my help. I’m not about to make him feel like an invalid. If he needs help, he’s got a mouth. I’m willing to help, but only if he asks.
“I take eight pills each morning, and five pills in the afternoon,” Art said.
“A dead man walking,” Art said.
“But we both still are; that stroke coulda killed me.”

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down (I also am the oldest). I also am loudly excoriated by all my siblings for preferring a professional camera (like the Nikon D100) instead of a point-and-shoot. This is because I long ago sold photos to nationally published magazines.

“We” is myself and my wife of 40+ years, “Linda.”

RE: “Like me, is a retired bus-driver.......” —I drove transit-bus at Regional Transit Service in Rochester for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

Like me my wife is retired, but she works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office.

“Jack” is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say. He’s only 51, but way overweight, and having broken a few bones in his legs a few times, has pins in his ankles, and is rather unambulatory.

A “Johnny Popper” is the old two-cylinder John Deere tractor, so nicknamed. It makes a popping sound: “b-dah, b-dah, b-dah, b-dah.”

Many small lawnmower engines are made by “Briggs-&-Stratton.”

“Elz” is my sister Betty (Elizabeth). She’s second after me, 62 (I’m the oldest at 64). She lives in Fort Lauderdale, Fla.

For a 1960 family vacation, my sister and I stayed “at the Bastian farm in Alberta.” My father went to school in Chicago in the ‘30s with Mr. Bastian, and he returned to farming in Alberta, Canada. —It was an adventure, of sorts. Extremely rural; no central plumbing or hot water.

“HydraMatic” is the automatic transmission Oldsmobile was using at that time. Standard-transmission was better (faster).

“728” is a bus-number. Our 700-series of buses at Transit were our first General Motors RTS series; we got them in 1979. They had a General Motors V-8 unturbocharged 8-71 (71 cubic inches per cylinder) diesel engine, and a four-speed automatic transmission. They weren’t governed to 55 mph, so could be used as a Park-and-Ride (suburban; as opposed to city) bus.

RE: “Deadhead......” —Is to drive the bus without passengers.

“Eastview Mall” is a large suburban shopping-mall southeast of Rochester.

The “Can” is the so-called “Can-of-Worms,” a junction of Interstate-490 and Interstate-590. It was very messy and accident-prone, since it also threaded a couple main streets, plus two railroads, although separated. It has since been rebuilt, and is much easier. One railroad was abandoned and is gone. —The “Can” is where the old Erie Canal through Rochester turned south. I-490 and then 590 are on the old canal grade. The canal through Rochester was bypassed when the Erie was rebuilt into the State Barge Canal in 1918, south of Rochester.

Our 400-series buses were very fast over-the-road express buses. They had a V8 unturbocharged 8-71 diesel engine, and a three-speed automatic transmission.

“A woody Model-A station-wagon” is a Model-A Ford station-wagon, in this case, 1930-31. Steel station-wagons didn’t arrive until the ‘50s. Before then, all station-wagons were wood body. Anything with a wooden body is called a “woody.”