My Million-Dollar Donkey by Ginny; East Read Free Book Online Page B

attachments available. Mark claimed he needed a hole-digger, bucket excavating attachment, fork prong, bush hog mower, and a few other extensions that made the machine a very pricey big boy’s Transformer toy.
    A few days later, Mark’s fully loaded tractor was delivered. We stared at that alien monster of a machine as if someone had dropped a helicopter in our driveway.
    Mark gave me a nervous smile and climbed into the cab. “How hard can driving this thing be?”
    I’ve seen my husband drive many vehicles in our eighteen years together. He had always been a truck man, claiming he needed a pickup for toting supplies to and from our dance school, and for carting stage props to the recitals. We rented U-Hauls on occasion and even owned a used RV one summer. He ran the dang thing into an overpass only once. But for all that my husband was fairly adept at maneuvering big vehicles, nothing prepared me for seeing my boy ballerina behind the wheel of his spanking new orange Kubota, scratching his head as he stared at the variety of levers, knobs, and buttons from his swivel seat.
    Mark fumbled to maneuver the huge claw-like bucket attachment into the air. The wheels spun backward instead of forward and he ran over a clump of daffodils. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure this out. I’ve seen fourteen-year-old kids driving tractors all over town.”
    Fourteen-year-old kids were more adept than him at working a computer, a cellphone, and an iPod too, but I kept the comment to myself. A tractor was BIG—a man’s undertaking. After years of wearing tights and choreographing ballet, my husband deserved an all-man toy if that was what he wanted. I was just glad he hadn’t lusted for something more dangerous, like a crossbow.
    The tractor had feet that dug into the earth for traction and arms that were interchangeable. One end of the machine was used for digging, the other for hoisting, so Mark simply had to spin in the seat to shift from one chore to the next by changing the direction from which he operated the two-headed monster.
    “You’re doing great, babe,” I called over his mumbled swearing, thinking he reminded me of Ripley in Aliens when she strapped the loading dock machine to her body so woman and machine could become one finely-tuned weapon of efficiency.
    Watching his arms tug at levers as he tried to steer at the same time, his body swiveling to and fro in the cab, was like witnessing my former dance man in a silent tango with frustration rather than the graceful duet that our neighbor farmers seemed to pull off.
    He’ll get it, and I’ll never see the old boy in tights again , I thought to myself.
    Not that I was bothered by the idea. I thought Mark looked just as good in overalls as he once had in tights. I even liked the way the sun was bringing out the gray in his new mountain-man beard.
    Eighteen years with the man had taught me never to be shocked by my husband’s ever-changing looks, life ambitions, or attitudes. Inside his wedding ring were words I’d engraved when we first fell in love: You are all men, a romantic tribute to his diversity and constantly changing persona. I believed his eclectic interests, multiple talents, and morphing personas meant I’d never need or want any other man. Here was a partner who embraced the talent, excitement, and charm of every man.
    Only later did I realize his varied talents and interests were a result of hopes and dreams that swung like a pendulum, dissatisfaction seeping into the seams of whatever he did once his initial obsession with a project waned. I loved him fiercely, but I never knew which husband I’d have from year to year. His weight escalated or dropped a hundred pounds or more at least three times during our marriage. Sometimes he stopped eating all together, becoming so slight that the veins stuck out along his neck and his hips disappeared. Other times his obsession with working out and taking protein supplements made him look like a puffed-up cartoon