Sunday, 2 p.m.
Just back from the field just down the road, where Scott is cultivating. The air is scorchingly dry.
I warmed up a couple cans of mushroom soup and made two bunwiches with last night’s leftover steak, thinking he’d come in for lunch since he was close by. By 1:30 I knew he’d be starving and thought I might as well take the sandwiches out, and a cold beer. I considered biking as it’s so close, but decided it’s too hot.
When I parked on the approach the tractor was a quarter-mile away, halfway across the field, but he spotted the car and came rumbling toward me right away. Hungry, I knew.
The car doors were open so a breeze could blow through, but he didn’t sit. He stood and gobbled down the food, then poured the beer down his throat.
“Thanks, that was nice,” he said, turning to go.
“Glad I could help,” I replied, watching his shirt flap in the wind as he struck out across the freshly turned chunks of black dirt.