* Small bags of pretzels or chips

* Mini-bags of microwave popcorn

* Fruit-Roll Ups

Chapter 3: Spring Cleaning

When I reached top of driveway after getting off school bus one April afternoon, I couldn't help but wonder why Dad was standing on stepladder next to tractor.

I had never seen my father use a stepladder to fix a tractor. He didn't have to climb on anything to reach engine. I also knew he wasn't filling tractor with gasoline. The 460 Farmall was too far away from gas barrel underneath silver maple tree by garage, so hose wouldn't reach that far.

"What's Dad doing Needles?" I asked.

Our dog, Needles, had come to meet me, his tail going in circles. Needles was a Cocker-Spaniel mix we had gotten when he was a tiny cream-colored puppy with wavy hair on his ears. Within first week, he had nipped my sister's ankles while she was hanging clothes outside to dry. She had exclaimed, "Get those needles out of here!" And name had stuck. As Needles grew older, his color had darkened to light caramel.

At sound of word, 'Dad,' Needles' ears perked up, and his round, dark-brown eyes stared at me with sharpened intensity. Needles was Dad's 'hired man.' That's what Dad said, anyway. When my father worked in field, dog would either trot behind tractor or, on warmer days, would find some shade at end of field where he could keep an eye on things. When we milked cows, he stayed in barn, sometimes nudging aside cats so he could drink some milk from their dish. And when Dad went on an errand with pickup truck, Needles often rode with him.

"What's Dad doing?" I repeated. "Go find Dad, Needles."

The dog, his feathery tail still wagging, spun around and took off toward machine shed.

I stood for a minute, listening to redwing blackbirds singing in marsh below our driveway—on-ka-leeee-eeeeee, on-ka-leeeee-eeeeee. From pasture next to barn, meadowlarks joined in—tweedle-ee-tweedle-eedle-um, tweedle-ee-tweedle-eedle-um.

As I turned toward house, my books tucked in crook of one arm and my jacket draped over other, I still couldn't quite believe that sun was shining. For past two weeks, weather had been cold and rainy, but today dark clouds had gone away and sun had appeared. During afternoon recess at school, it was so warm that we had all taken off our jackets.

Last night at supper, Dad said he wished it would stop raining, and I knew this was kind of weather he had been waiting for so he could plant oats and corn, although he wouldn't start for a few days, not until he was sure fields were dried out and that he wouldn't get stuck in mud with tractor.

Although I usually went into house right away when I arrived home from school, today I set my books on porch steps. The house seemed bigger, somehow, now that snow had melted and grass was beginning to turn green. My mother said our house was nothing more than a glorified log cabin—and in fact, underneath siding it was a log cabin that had been built by my Norwegian great-grandfather.

The rumbling in my stomach reminded me it had been a very long time since lunch. I liked to eat a snack right away when I got home from school, but with Dad working outside by machine shed, curiosity got better of me and I figured I could always eat a snack later.

When I drew closer to machine shed, I saw a green bottle standing on engine cowling next to Dad's elbow and a wad of rags hanging out of his back pocket. Dad was wearing faded blue work overalls, a blue short-sleeved chambray work shirt and brown leather work boots. During winter, he wore long-sleeved plaid flannel shirts, but during summer, he wore short-sleeved shirts.

“What’re you doing?” I asked.

My father looked up quickly, as if he were surprised that someone had spoken to him. Needles sat beside tractor, keeping a watchful eye on Dad.

“Home from school so soon?” Dad asked, reaching for his pocket watch. “Well, yes, I guess it is that time already, isn’t it.”

I had asked him once why he carried a pocket watch. He said a wrist watch would get too dirty from dust and oil and grease and would probably stop working.

“Why are you standing on stepladder Daddy?"

The four-sixty had been around for almost as long as I could remember. It had been brand new when Dad bought it. He called four-sixty “the big tractor," and he called Super C Farmall “the little tractor.” He used four-sixty for all of heavy field work. Plowing and planting in spring, cutting and baling hay during summer, harvesting oats in August—right around time of my birthday or maybe a little later—and for picking corn in fall.

The four-sixty was prettiest tractor I had ever seen, with its bright red fenders and alternating red and white sections above engine. The rear tires, as black and shiny as licorice, were much taller than me.

Sometimes when Dad went to our other place (a second farm that my parents owned about a mile away), he would let me ride on four-sixty with him. It was tremendous fun to sit on red fender, right next to Dad, while wind blew through my hair and Needles trotted beside us.

Instead of answering my question about why he was on stepladder, Dad grabbed green bottle and tossed it in my direction.

I reached out with both hands and caught it up-side-down. When I turned it upright, I saw that label had letters T-u-r-t-l-e-W-a-x printed on it.

Turtle Wax?

“You’re waxing four-sixty?” I said.

Dad pulled another rag out of his back pocket. “Yup."

Now that I was close to tractor, I could smell wax, a bitter odor that reminded me of way peach pits smelled. Every summer, Mom would buy a couple boxes of peaches to can. Homemade canned peaches tasted much better than canned peaches from store.