As my college friend Bob told his stories about
Uncle Jim and his farm in rural New Jersey, it was clear that Jim’s operation
was not some hobby farm, but one that grew a respectable amount of crops. Dot
had her own vegetable patch and Bob said her meals were some of the best he had
ever had. It was a change from the
Italian restaurant food he ate at home. Jim primarily raised corn, and so when
the harvest came in, he employed several high school and college students to
help gather the crops. Jim had a small John Deere combine, a big Ford tractor
and a small one, and a Ford stake truck. The tractor towed a high-sided trailer
into which the harvested ears fell. Once it was full, they loaded the crop onto
the stake truck to take it to the co-op. Like most farmers, large and small,
Jim depended on his equipment.
Of course, machines broke down and needed repair.
Jim was a fair mechanic, like most farmers, and he could weld and fix most
things. But when something big went
wrong, like when an engine blew or a transmission went bad, he called on his
mechanic, a fellow named Sweeney. Sweeney was a big rough-looking fellow who
seemed to wear the same brown overalls day after day. No one knew if Sweeney
was his first name or his last: Jim called
him Mr. Sweeney, and he never said anything about it. Sweeney never said much anyhow, but he was a
genius of a mechanic who could fix anything.
His helper was a young man of indeterminate age who said even less than
Sweeney did. No one was quite sure he knew how to speak.
Jim had heard about Sweeney from some other farmers
in the area. “He’s good,” they told him,
“But he doesn’t like to replace anything unless it’s good and broken.” Bob said
he went with Jim one time to pick up a part Sweeney had ordered for him that he
couldn’t get otherwise. The old farm he
lived on had a small barn that he had converted into a garage and the wrecks of
about a hundred cars covering the hillside. Bob told Jim if a Saint Bernard
showed up he was leaving.
Dot had another name for Sweeney. She called him Mr. Aintbroke or just
Aintbroke because the first time Jim called him out to work on a tractor and
the truck when the engines were making odd noises, Aintbroke listened to the
engines and said, “Naw, that engine’s still good. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Dot handled
the financial end of the farm, and she asked Jim if it wouldn’t be better to do
preventative maintenance on the equipment. Jim did what he could, oil changes
and lubes and so forth, but he just thought and said, “No, I’ll stay with
Aintbroke. He’s good and he’s fast and charges a reasonable price.” They both
took to calling him Aintbroke when he wasn’t around.
Well, the corn harvest was proceeding well with
every piece of equipment going full bore. The corn picker was making an odd
grinding sound, the tractor’s valves were clattering and the stake truck was
belching black smoke. They were still
running, but just barely. Then it happened.
Every piece of equipment stopped, one after the other, in the space of a
few minutes. Jim and his helpers stood there.
Then he went into the house to call Aintbroke. Dot heard the machines stop suddenly and
greeted him at the door. “So, are they
broken now?” she asked. Jim didn’t answer.
Aintbroke had
to replace the engines on all three machines, and it took a few days until they
could be shipped to the farm. Aintbroke showed up and worked straight through,
as was his custom. He never seemed to
stop, even to eat.
In the meantime, Jim was able to make do with the
small tractor and the pickup truck. A neighbor loaned him a combine, and while
Bob said the work was twice as hard, they got it done. Aintbroke finished installing the new engines
about the time the harvest was done. Jim and Bob and the helpers fired them up
and they all roared with new power.
Aintbroke and his assistant climbed into their ancient rust-covered
wrecker and drove off.
As the crew came into the house to eat, Dot greeted
them. “So I guess the equipment ain’t broke any more,” she said.
Bob said Aintbroke was Jim’s mechanic through the
four years of college that I knew Bob. I don’t know what happened to him after
that.
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