WINTER 2006Bob Scott
Woodbury MM
aving grown up on a farm, we knew that spring was just around the corner when we would drop a plow in the ground for the first time each year. When I was very young, Pop still plowed some of the fields using a team of horses. Eventually, those horses became victims of what we now refer to as down-sizing. Once the horses were gone, the plowing was done with a McCormick-Deering 10-20 and a two-bottom, trip-lever plow. Several years later we got a more modern John Deere with a hydraulic lift and a three-point hitch, which at that time was considered state-of-the art technology. Although this had little effect on the amount of time it took to plow a field, it did make it a whole lot easier. In fact, it was such an improvement that either my brother, Albert, or I—we were only about 10 and 12 years old at the time—could go out and plow the fields by ourselves.
In order to do a good job of plowing, one needs to maintain a speed that is just fast enough to turn the furrow completely over to the very end of the row and then turn the tractor and raise the plow at the same time while slowing down as little as possible. As you do this, using the three-point hitch plow, the weight of the plow shifts to the outside of the turning radius.
One fine spring day, Albert, who was then about 14 and could handle a tractor quite well, was plowing one of our fields. As he came to the end of a row and pulled the plow out of the ground to turn, he was a bit too close to the edge of the field. The plow swung out and pulled the tractor over the embankment. It rolled over and landed upside down on the road with Albert underneath, the motor still running and the wheels still turning. His leg was caught between the tractor seat and the road. There he was, stuck. The rear wheel of the tractor was rubbing on his back. It tore his shirt off and continued to scrape the bare skin. Gasoline was dripping from the upside down gas tank.
There was very little traffic on that road back then, but a man in a dump truck happened along at that moment and saw the tractor roll over the embankment. He stopped his truck, ran over, and shut off the tractor's engine. He then put his shoulder under the axle of the tractor. Using all his strength, he was able to lift it just enough for Albert to wiggle out.
op had just decided to check on Al, just to see how he was doing. As he arrived on the scene, the man had just climbed back into his truck and began to pull away.
Leaping from the pickup, Pop ran over to Albert to make sure he was all right and asked what had happened. Al assured Pop that he was okay, but very sore and a bit shaken up. He then proceeded to explain just what had happened. When Pop asked how he managed to get out from under the tractor, Al told him what the big black guy in the dump truck had done.
For a long time after that we watched the dump trucks travelling that road, hoping to see the person again so that we could properly thank him. But we never did see him. We had to chalk this up as another one of those mysteries in life. We labeled whoever it was our "Black Angel." It was an incident that, like so many things in life, happen and after a period of time, get pushed far to the back of our minds but never completely forgotten.
About 15 years after this incident, I left the farm and went to work at a local refinery. I worked there for over 31 years, before I retired. On the day of my retirement they had a party for me. Many of the people I had worked with during those years stopped in to wish me well. One of those people was a man named Bill Devine, a large black man who had come to work at the plant around the same time as I. He asked me that day if we had ever had a John Deere tractor on our farm. Things were bit hectic at that moment and I really didn't get a chance to answer his question.
ater I gave the question a great deal of thought. I didn't hear from Bill again until several years later, at a retiree's Christmas party. We sat at the same table with Bill and his wife, and he asked the same question. This time I was able to pursue it. Somewhat reluctantly, he admitted that it was indeed he who was driving that dump truck and had helped my brother. In reality, he probably saved my brother's life.
When I asked why he didn't stick around so that we could properly thank him, he replied that once he knew that my brother was okay and saw that my father was there, he felt there was no further need for him, so he just left. I told him we had been wondering for years who that person had been. We were extremely grateful and regretted never having the opportunity to thank him. I added that since we never did find out who it was, we had just labeled him the "Black Angel."
Bill is a humble and very religious man and seemed to be quite flattered. Anyway, I did finally get the chance to thank him on behalf of our whole family. What a small world!
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Monday, November 20, 2006 at 06:08 PM
