Spending 23 of 24 days in the cab of a tractor is hardly a record for me. I once pushed it to 26 days in a row, much like the brave Alaskan crab fisherman of the show Deadliest Catch. Though it involved nothing deadly except for my persistent complaining “Can somebody bring me lunch? I didn’t pack anything.” — the cry that has become my clarion call from the tractor cab of solitude.
If it hasn’t been mentioned in the near past, I’ve recently become lucky enough to park my backside on a real wingdinger of a rig. The new John Deere 9430 series has all the bells and whistles of a luxury car; AC, XM radio, and a cup holder that keeps my Arnold Palmer’s ice cold. So much luxury in fact, it had me bemoaning the fact the Bluetooth wasn’t working correctly. “How am I supposed to listen to the new Pearl Jam album if this dumb thing won’t work?!” I announced to myself, as I could feel the ire of 1,000 years of farmer’s past looking down in disgust. Shame washed over me, and I listened to conservative AM radio as penance for my tractor snobbery.
But this week had a completely new set of challenges, in the form of two cousins that I knew were looking forward to a 3-day run in the cab.
Let’s backtrack a bit. The countryside is abuzz with the smell of fresh cut oats in the air. Silage trucks hustling up and down Airport way, headed to their final destination - the silage pit. What is a silage pit you may ask? Let me explain in city folk terms. On more than one occasion I’ve had a wing-tipped slicky boy ask “How come you guys pile up manure and cover it in plastic and tires?”
That is not manure. That is silage in its various forms; Oats, Corn, Alfalfa. But why is it put up into those large piles Chris? Why do you drive up and down it all day long? In what amounts to playing the worst video game ever played.
Consolidation is part of the game, as I receive upwards of 150 loads of chopped oats on any given day during harvest. We could just leave the truck’s piles laying on the ground, in a graveyard of oats intended to be fed to cows. Sometimes during a long day I remind myself that at its core, I am just a prep cook, creating a mound of culinary delights for our milk giving friends.
However, there is a much more important reason the pit is piled and packed with the weight of a 30 ton beast.
To remove the oxygen that spoils the feed. Think of it this way. Every truck load is a slice of bread. If you set a slice of bread out on a table, after a week it would harden and begin to mold. Oxygen’s dirty trick. Microorganisms and enzymes breaking it down. But take that same slice, and mash and roll it into a golf ball sized hunk. After a week, the outer layer of that golf ball would harden and crust, but the insides would remain soft and edible. Even several months later, that oxygen-less ball of bread, when scraped off, would have a delicious core.
The silage pit is that ball on a grand scale. You have just passed Intro to Farming.
This is what I do all day, as part of a custom harvesting crew. One that chops and packs for the various dairymen up and down the Central Valley. A truckload arrives every 6-8 minutes, and it takes about 5 minutes to adequately push up the load, and pack it down with the weight of the tractor. You do the math.
It leaves me very little wiggle room to check my Facebook or send Tony Coit dirty text messages. The pit is the end result in this game of locusts laying waste to acres of crops each day. A good looking pit with smooth sides and geometric edges is a source of pride. While a lumpy pile with noticeable points of sluff, sitting roadside for a year, is tantamount to a 4-year-old’s macaroni art project. “Nice pit Teicheira — maybe try driving with your hands next time” — Michael Cardoza (The Valley’s third ranked pit packer, behind my No. 2 status)
The key is focus. Something a man of my wandering brain has little to none of. A steady diet of my favorite tunes, and a bag of pumpkin seeds tend to keep me razor sharp…
But this week I had the focus breaker of focus breakers laid at my feet. Literally and figuratively.
We were moving the locust crew to my cousin Frank Teicheira’s dairy. Which meant one thing – his grandsons, my younger cousins, would want...no. “Want” is not a strong enough word. Demand. Insist. Bully their way into riding in the cab with me. I knew we had at least 3 days at the pit there. It would be a test of wills. One that a lesser packer would never take on. One that will both haunt and warm my memories for years to come.
Devin and Anthony are 10 and 8. These are the hardened “Guess what?” and “Look at this” years. I’ve done a 3 day run with them in the past. It is a time honored tradition to ride in the tractor as a kid. My late Great Uncle Albert was never able to enjoy a day of solace during my stolen ride tenure. I bet my brother Richie had a sip of every can of soda my Aunt Evelyn ever packed for him. But I’m not my Uncle Albert.
Were these boys expecting a cab full of sugary treats from their cousin Chris? Surely, they’re aware that a middle aged bachelor, still irrigating the fields of his stand-up comedy dream, is incapable of packing his own lunch. The only morning ritual I have is pushing the sleep button several times. Then a mad rush and gathering at the fridge, as I attempt to beat the first truck load of oats to the pit.
Day 1
Devin and Anthony must’ve done their research, because by 8 a.m. they were walking towards the tractor with a box bigger than them both. It was full of chips, cookies, and water. It was A shrewd business move on their part.
I’d already made up my mind and would stick to the game plan I’d formulated the day before.
I’d out talk them. Talk them into the ground. Give them what for in the world of meaningless psychobabble. This is a game I was built for. Or so I thought.
“How come you’re not wearing socks?” — Devin started the game.
I’d woken up late as usual, and had Ed Machado honking outside my door at 6 a.m. rushing out the door with coveralls and a cold coffee in hand. Why is a grown man being picked up and driven to work? Because my Jeep has been sitting at a dairy in Grayson for the last 12 days! During the locusts’ dairy relocation, it is often that my vehicle is left behind, as I drive the tractor to a new town. I’d been involved in an end of day conversation with Ed for nearly two weeks — “Wanna drive to Grayson to get the Jeep?”
Why? I get home, eat, and go to bed. By days end, the option of a 40 minute drive or my bed is no contest.
“Your feet stink” — Anthony chimes in. He is positioned on the floor, near the AC vent that is wafting my sockless tootsies into his face. “It’s the shoes” I assure him. He is not pleased.
We divvy up the treat box. They refuse to eat the Harvest Sun chips their mother has packed, mentioning that it is substandard in their world. Not in mine. I hide them under the seat like a squirrel preparing for winter.
“Why are we listening to this?” — both in unison. The radio is tuned into sports talk radio, the perfect time filler, and something I’d hoped would drown out their current argument. It had already been 20 minutes, and they were in a knock-down drag-out over who would get the Cool Ranch Doritos.
“I’m also doing classes online. Gonna be a sports broadcaster, and this is homework”, I lied
The boys had been explaining to me their mandatory morning online pandemic schooling. My lie seemed to fall right into place.
“You’re too old to go back to school” and “What kinda stupid thing is that? The guy on the radio already has that job” were giggled in my direction. They sussed me out, and struck a core — turds!
Let me hit them with a little misdirection. “I’m thinking about opening my own pancake diner and am looking for partners. You boys interested?”, I said, attempting to control the room.
“Can it be dinosaur themed?” Anthonyreplied.
It made sense to me. He was on board but had a caveat. “But no girls allowed”
His brother Devin was quick to disagree. Insisting that they are granted entrance on Wednesday for an hour, but without pool access. Devin was definitely seeing the big picture. Knowing that women of the new millennium have expendable income. He proclaimed himself the manager, while Anthony made it clear he’d be driving the train shuttle. Train shuttle?
The diner had instantaneously sprawled into an amusement park. One with real dinosaurs, and the shuttle was gonna be a huge attraction.
“That’s stupid. We can’t have real dinosaurs. They need to animatronic,” noted Manager Devin
He further explained that real dinosaurs would require pigs to be fed, and that was something his PETA heart would not stand for — adding that it’d take us too long to locate dino-DNA to envision real ones.
“What am I gonna do?” I made the mistake of asking.
“Cook the pancakes. That was your idea,” Anthony said being authoritative.
I’d made a huge mistake, by creating a position with a low ceiling for myself in this start-up venture.
“But I can pick you up each morning in the shuttle for work, if your Jeep is still gone.”
We were just an hour into the day, and I’d lost control of the tractor cab. It did allow for some serious daydreaming.
Flipping pancakes at the “Teicheira Dino Diner and Waterslide Park”. Yes, waterslides were soon thrown on the table.
“If girls can only come for an hour on Wednesday, what are we gonna do for pancake waitresses?” I questioned.
“Boys can be waitresses too,” –the manager clarified.
How exciting to be working for such a forward-thinking company. Maybe I belonged in the pancake kitchen with my 1950s way of thinking. Why in my mind did the waitstaff resemble Flo from Mel’s Diner on the TV show Alice? Shouting out “kiss my flap-jacks!” to any customer getting out of line in the Dino Diner.
“Chris you better push those loads up!” would be what manager Devin would holler.
I’d been caught up in the whirlwind of pancake a robotic T. Rex glory and had let 2 trucks dump without a single push.
How long have we been talking about this? Only 2 hours?! I still had 8 hours ahead of me. Why hadn’t I noticed that the radio was no longer on sports talk? Devin had figured out the Bluetooth application the tractor offered and was now playing videos of animals making fart noises.
Man, my feet do stink. Poor Anthony. I opened the Harvest Sun chips to mask the smell for myself.
The next few hours were a blur of “Uh-huh” and “Sounds great” responses on my part. Devin the Manager noticed the malaise wash over me. Like a man looking at the 30th slide in a conference room PowerPoint presentation.
“Are you even listening?” he demanded. How could I not be? We are locked in a 6x6 cab! The diner discussion took a turn, as Anthony decided to take a nap on the floorboard. I took the opportunity to see what my options beyond pancake chef were. Making sure to tout my experience in the field of entertainment, pitching a stand-up comedy night at the park.
“We have dinosaurs. Nobody wants to hear you tell jokes.”
This is why Devin is the Manager of Teicheira’s Dino-Diner.
...well, it is 11:30 on Sunday night as I type and the honk of Ed Machado haunts my near future. So, we’ll continue this column on part 2: The Boys hijack their mom’s FB account and weasel into the tractor at 7:15 on Day 2.
“It’s not Where ya do, It’s What ya do”
