A Story from the Farm

I have a lot of stories about my little brother Courtney. Here is one of my favorites.

My dad worked for a few years for a sunflower research company. The sunflower fields were close to our home, and my siblings and I spent many summer days out in those fields. The company owned an old 1970-something Plymouth van, full sized, white with a dark green stripe through the middle. It was very good for hauling crews of grubby teens out to work.

One afternoon, Courtney and I were riding with Dad through the fields in that van. Court, who was maybe 7 years old, was in the front seat and looking at himself in the rear-view mirror. Something must have made him want a closer look, because he leaned out of his open window toward the mirror, hooked his arms over the door and got almost nose-to-nose with his reflection. Just then Dad slowed the van down and turned a corner. The inertia of the turn and the weight of Court’s body made his door swing open. He kept those arms hooked to the door and held on, his body dangling, for the full swing, and then he dropped into the dirt.

Dad shouted, “Well!” Dad always shouted “well” when something surprised and disgusted him beyond words.

He stopped the van. Courtney got up, brushed off the dirt, got back in the van, and we were on our way. He wasn’t hurt, or all that phased by it really. That was just one of the many things he fell out of, or off of. I’ll save those stories for another time.