He wore his name on his belt.

It wasn’t his entire name. Just “Bob.”

His brother asked why I thought Bob Frapples had his name on his belt.

I didn’t know.

“It’s so that one day when he pulls his head out of his rear end, he will know who he is,” said his brother.

Like most men with their names on their belts, Bob Frapples wanted a Cadillac. He worked and saved and one day, he had enough money to buy a Cadillac. It was brand new. It had that new car smell. I’ve never been sure what that new car smell is. I’m guessing it’s the smell of a baby car’s diaper.

Bob Frapples was proud of his purchase. He showed the car off to everyone he met. He bent many an ear in his quest to let everyone know that he was a Cadillac owner. He did everything but take someone for a drive. His generosity had its limits.

Bob Frapples drove his Cadillac out to our farm one day. We were busy baling hay, but Bob knew we wanted to take a break so we could admire his Cadillac. He had driven just under 1 mile per hour on his way to the farm. We lived on a gravel road. He pulled into the yard, parked, and honked the horn. It was a haughty honk.

Bob pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the dust gently from his Cadillac. He was using a white handkerchief. White! I used a white handkerchief only for church. The rest of the time, I used a red, orange, or blue one like any normal fellow would.

Bob baby-talked to the Cadillac as he did this. He said things like, “And who’s a good car. You are. That’s right. Sure, you are.”

I know what he said because I was standing not far from the Cadillac. I was holding the tongue of a hayrack. If I weren’t so weird myself, I would have thought that Bob’s behavior was strange. Talking to a car isn’t normal. At least that’s what I told the hayrack. The hayrack didn’t say anything. It couldn’t. I was holding its tongue.

I was holding the tongue of the hayrack because it needed to be at the right height to hook it to the hitch of the tractor that Bob Frapples’ son, Bunky, was backing toward me. The tractor that he was backing toward me at breakneck speed.

I tried to maintain my position, but I’d never heard about the captain going down with the hayrack. Besides, I wasn’t a captain and had I been one, I would have quickly resigned my commission and retreated.

Let me paint the scene. Bob Frapples, with his name on his belt, was delicately wiping the dust off his Cadillac with a white handkerchief when it wasn’t even a Sunday. I am standing nearby, holding the tongue of a hayrack as Bob’s son, Bunky, backs the tractor toward me in a speed that would qualify for the Guinness Book of World Records for the fastest speed ever attained by farm equipment going backward.

It bothers me to admit this, but I wasn’t as concerned about the well-being of the wagon tongue as I should have been. As the tractor sped toward me, I dropped the tongue and sprinted for safety.

Bunky, in the driver’s seat of the tractor, had clearly lost control, not only of the tractor, but of all of his motor skills as well.

I will say this for Bunky, he tried to do the right thing. He twisted the steering wheel in order to avoid running over me. Bunky realized that if he’d eliminated me, he would have become the dumbest kid in our class.

Bunky jerked the steering wheel, causing the tractor to veer away from the hayrack and toward Bob Frapples’ Cadillac.

One of Bob’s eyes became as large as Rhode Island–the other the size of his Cadillac. Bob said, “Nunhoorkle blagswit!”

Those were his exact words. I think Bob was hooked on phonics.

The tractor hitch rammed through the driver’s side front door of the Cadillac. As Bunky searched for the brake, the back wheels of the iron horse spun, leaving skid marks on the Cadillac’s paint.

Bunky turned the tractor off, leaving a deafening silence except for Bob’s sobbing.

Then Bob made up some other words.

While I consoled a weeping Bob Frapples by telling him that at least he still had his health and a belt with his name on it, Bunky jumped down from the tractor.

Bunky walked over to the Cadillac. He took his old red handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a bit of dust from the Cadillac.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.