It was a day of packing straw in a barn. On the fifth load, one of the bales broke and sprayed slabs of straw across the mow. My great-nephew, Patrick, kicked the hunks on the backs of Holsteins in the stable below.
            “You look like Moses!” I yelled above the screech of the elevator.
            He frowned. 
            “You know, Moses , hurling stone tablets on the golden calf.”
            “Ain’t no gold in those cows!” he shouts, referring to the low milk price.
            I motion to Sam who’s unloading the wagon. “Slow it down! Your brother’s getting tired.”
            Patrick is 23. I’m 68.
            Truth be told, I could use a break—and a nap—if I’m going to host Sam and Patrick for brats and beer after evening chores.
             I’ve been on vacation for a month, visiting family and friends, helping on the farm and spending time in prayer. To top it off, I’m staying at a cabin next to a pond in my brother’s woods. Henry David Thoreau would be jealous, given the setting. As would be St. John of the Cross, given my time for prayer. As would Blessed Stanley Rother, given my time on a tractor. Hands down, this vacation—the first since I retired—has been the best vacation in my life.
            On the drive from the barn to the cabin, I postpone the nap to work with some 4-H steers at my brother’s farm. While looking for a lead rope, I discover an old tractor in the back of one of the sheds, an Allis-Chalmers D-17. The paint is faded, but it appears to be in good condition.
            Later on, at the cabin, I build a fire and wait for Sam and Patrick to arrive. The wind shifts and I catch a sting of smoke in my eye. I brush a tear aside. In a few days, I’ll be hitting the road and homesickness is starting to set in. A Miranda Lambert song unrolls in my head.

Up those stairs, in that little back bedroom
Is where I did my homework and I learned to play guitar…
I thought maybe I could find myself
if I could just take with me a memory
from the house…that built me.

             It's past nine o’clock when Patrick and Sam arrive.
             “You’re late.”  
             “Had to pull two calves.”
             Sam’s voice is soft and mellow. Two years younger than Patrick, Sam prefers to work with animals as opposed to machines. Patrick, on the other hand, was born with a wrench in his hand. They farm with their dad who brags on their complementary skills.
Sam stabs a brat with a roasting fork. “We gigged lots of frogs from this pond last spring.”
            “You fry the legs?”
            “You bet!”
            I catch a whiff of manure from their boots.
            “You guys wash your hands?
            Patrick reaches in the cooler. “You’re not going to make us wear face masks, are you?” He throws me a beer.
            I raise the bottle. “To the young and dumb.”
            He ponders a comeback. “To the tired and retired.”
            We laugh and clink bottles.
             Night is falling and bull frogs start to croak in the distance.
            “They’re taunting you, Sam.”
            “They’re lucky we got brats to eat.”
            I glance at Patrick. “There’s a D-17 in your grandad’s shed. It looked familiar. Where’d it come from?”
            He smiles big. “Found it on an auction two years ago. Dad recognized it right off, said it was the first tractor he drove as a kid.”
            “No kiddin?”
            He nods.
            I hadn’t thought of that tractor for years. I fix my eyes on the flame. “Me, too,” I mutter. In my mind, I see a young boy working the tractor’s hydraulic clutch. Behind him, a baler chugs and bucks like a bronc.
           Just a memory from the farm that built me.
           Patrick squares his shoulders. “I got it running in two weeks.”
          “Not surprised.”
           We eat our first round of brats. Patrick and Sam discuss cars, then soy beans. From there, they move on to muskrats and conibear traps. At one point, Sam tells Patrick he doesn’t need advice about dating a girl from Dayton.
         I give Sam a thumbs up. He hands me another brat.
         “You did wash your hands after pulling that calf?”
         “Probably.”
         Guapo nudges my knee. I pat his head and remember a collie named Skip, and a heeler named Pete, dogs that helped me gather cows when I was ten.
          A breeze rattles the leaves of a cottonwood. I lean back against the canvas of the chair. Tonight, my heritage feels as snug as a steel-toed boot. Whoever said you can’t go home again was dead wrong.
          Patrick stirs the fire.
          An updraft of sparks, red as the blood in our veins, swirls in the air.