Donuts and hayfields

And the practice of ear-gatin'

Photo by Esteban Trivelli

I've taken pains to convince you all that I'm not a knucklehead. But with some stories, it just can't be avoided — we all have our moments.

My father is a strawberry and tomato farmer. Every spring in Tennessee, when the strawberries appear on the vines, the winter often hasn't given up the ghost. To protect the fledgling berries (or, as my father insists, "buries," Yes, he will correct you. Loudly), farmers turn on the irrigation sprinklers, causing ice to form over the plants. When water freezes, it releases heat, keeping the fruit safe from the frost.

But you have to continuously apply the water as long as the temperature is below 32 degrees. That means long nights in the fields, walking lines, and checking sprinklers.

Dad called it ear-gatin’.

Some nights, I'd tag along. I wasn't much use; my skill set is the opposite of my father's. He knew how the earth works, how to drive a tractor, and the ways of the internal combustion engine. I liked video games and air conditioning and couldn't drive a stick shift.

But I liked the adventure of being out in the country on a cold night, sitting by a campfire, and I liked being with Dad.

One night, when I was 15, we were ear-gatin’ at a strawberry field down on the Nolichucky. It was February, and the temperatures got down into the 20's. I couldn't sleep in the second row of an F-350, so Dad and I rode around, trying to stay warm.

A dirt trail ran up the back side of the plot, bordering with an open field that belonged to another farmer. We'd ride down that trail every now and then to check on the workers and the sprinklers down that end.

Around 5:30 am, Dad and his buddy Gustavo were tinkering with a broken sprinkler head. So I asked Dad if I could drive the truck out and about the field. I had a permit and wanted to drive any chance I could.

"Sure," he said. "Just don't wreck it," he and Gustavo laughed.

"By myself?"

"Just don't wreck it!" he said again, and they laughed louder.

A breath of divine freedom eased out of my lungs with the anxiety that such responsibility brings. As I started the engine, Bruce Springsteen was singing "Oh, oh, oh, I'm on Fire" on the XM radio.

It took me a second to find the headlights. I pulled the shifter down to "D" and cautiously pressed the gas. The truck revved but didn't move. F-350s don't idle forward; you gotta mean it.

Dad and Gustavo didn't look up from the sprinkler as I ambled up the dirt road.

The fear rolled off as I rounded the barn and turned onto the dirt trail. My nerves held even when the truck dipped into a rut, and I bounced off my seat.

But Dirt trails don't have cul-de-sacs. They just sorta stop before you drive off into the river.

Crap. How am I supposed to turn around? They didn't cover dirt trails next to strawberry fields in Driver's Ed.

I arced a wide turn into the field next to the trail. The morning dew had settled on the long grass, and the tires lost traction and spun, swinging the truck's back end around.

I don't understand this next moment. I am terrified of most things. But only one thought entered my mind: it'll slide more if I drive faster, press the brakes, and whip the wheel. I'd never done this, but for people born within 30 miles of Bristol Motor Speedway, the physics of a donut is embedded in our DNA.

I spent the next 10 minutes hairpinning it around the field, tearing up grass. Skynyrd might have been on the radio, I don't remember. I was too alive.

I got back to the campsite; the sun was warming up the sky behind the mountains.

"How was it?" Dad asked.

"Fine," I said. And sat down by the campfire feeling like I’d been drag racing or kissing a pretty girl.

Headlights had followed me down the hill. I thought it was my Uncle Steve coming to check on the crew. But Steve didn't drive a little green Ford Ranger. Steve wasn't a squat old man in a Co-Op cap with a gray beard and spit flying from his mouth as he stepped out of the truck and yelled, "What dumb SOB was tearing up my hayfield?" That would be Mr. Johnson.

My dad spent the next 10 minutes explaining to Mr. Johnson that his son was a 15-year-old with a brain that functioned as well as a Comcast call center while I stood a few feet away leaning on the truck. Gustavo talked me out of feeling too bad about it: "That man, he's always angry about something."

When he left, Dad came over and laughed.

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I wanted to tell this story so you'd think I was a rebellious country boy who did donuts and got chased by angry farmers while I burned rubber and "Gimme Three Steps" belted out of my stereo.

But I was a suburb kid who played a lot of video games, never worked on a farm a day of my life and couldn't tell you much about the internal combustion engine without Googling something. I think I did those donuts that night to prove I wasn't a city-dwelling wimp.

Maybe I am, and maybe I’m not. But I know I'm the son of a strawberry and tomato farmer … and a knucklehead.