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Show the silver pontoons. Pat, my grandparents' flea-bitten dog sometimes swam halfway out to meet us but usually tired quickly and returned to the shore, leaving ripples in his wake. On this morning, though, the lake was quiet, a perfect sheet of glass. Careful not to get too close to the reedy edge, we circled the first lake. I sat in front of him, perched between his legs, watching where we were going, while he leaned over the side and monitored the position of the wheels. Twice before, on different occasions, the tractor had been driven into the lake and as many times been towed out. The tall grasses and the uneven shoreline made it difficult to know where land ended and water began. The possibility of slipping was great, even for the man who dug the sand with a backhoe and watched the water table rise and fill. My grandpa said little as we rode. The engine noise and my place in front of him made conversation difficult though not impossible. When he wanted to say something to me, ask me to shift my weight or hold on tight, he leaned close and spoke directly into my ear. His words were moist and heavy, thick like the haze on the plains. My place on the tractor, in between his knees, pulled tight against his body, was a place of privilege, second only to being able to drive the tractor alone. The privilege was not in being singled out by my grandpa or even the tractor ride itself-though for a suburban child the lure of riding a vehicle larger than a Big Wheel was strong~but in the possibility of cash that being with my grandpa represented. He handed money to his grandchildren freely, more than freely, obscenely, pulling ten dollar bills from his wallet like we pulled fish from the lake, one after another, sometimes on a baitless hook, growing bored by the overabundance of crappie. Even as a child I recognized that he 94 |