Graf # 1

Hands.  Skin darkened by scarring, dirt, and sun.  Hours spent daydreaming atop cab-less tractors working and nourishing the soil.  Knuckles, peppered with scars from hours of tireless try and try again.  Have to finish the repair, that rain isn't going to wait just because you need a band-aid.  Pull up to the shop.  Who am I kidding, I'm as shade-tree as they come.  I call my sister Sarah to help prime the lines.  She hauls up on tractor seat and I tell her to wait for my go.  Filter switched, lines pumped full and just about ready.  She hits the ignition and I tighten the last fuel lines, one by one.  Watch it, that fan wouldn't feel too good brushing up against your pinky.  I'm getting closer, but its not good enough, so we cheat. I reach up and give it a squirt of Ether.  She turns the key.  Quickly, I tighten up that last injector and.... we're off.  A plume of white bursts into the air.   Back out I go.  She hops down, I rinse the oil off my hands with a little dirt off the ground, and I'm well on my way.  Back out.  Lets just hope this time no more dust gets in the fuel lines, or else I may be back with more to say.