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catch up on his schedule. He jumped down from the high cab, shook hands and said his name was George Washington. . .1 didn’t quite catch what his last name was.
“Jump in!” he shouted, as though I was part of the crew of this tenwheel, three-axle, orange-colored vehicle. It had a large V-shaped hopper loaded high, and there was a bright spinning blade at the rear which was designed to throw out fertilizer in wide arcs like the arms of a spriral galaxy. George W. drove down the hill of the driveway (too fast for my liking), and crossed over the narrow bridge to get to the farmhouse so that I could pick up a map of the various fords and safe tracks.
He told me to point out where I wanted the fertilizer to be spread, while he steered looking forward over the engine, and backward through the rear-view mirror. It was his job as the contractor’s driver to keep the swaths of gray pellets lined up neatly as they spewed out from the rear. Now and again he would stop the truck, and stand on the running board to see how much fertilizer was left in the hopper.
Unfortunately I wasri’t much use to him. The cab was noisy and he had difficulty understanding me, even
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