A Short Essay

A short essay my father wrote for an English class in high school. He graduated in 1946. In the summers, he worked in his father's apple orchard, which was behind their house in Westford, Massachusetts. I've copied his handwriting as closely as possible. At the top of the page, it was graded in a faded red pencil with a B+. It's a cute story, I think!

An Unlucky Day by M. Seavey

"Oh, what a beautiful morning," I thought as I skipped merrily down to my farm work one bright summers day of August. I joyfully did my chores, loaded the trailer with the apple boxes, and got in the tractor. Singing lustily, I stepped on the starter, but, the starter would not step. With my spirits still high, I hopped out of the tractor and began to crank it, but, the crank would not budge. With my spirits decreasing, I gave the starter a few whacks and again got in the B-17, as we call the tractor, and stepped on its starter, but, the starter would not step. With my spirits at a low ebb, I grabbed all the wrenches within my reach and commenced to take the stubborn starter apart. In about three quarters of one hour, I thought I had the thing fixed. I jumped in the bomber again, and, ah, the starter stepped and the engine began to churn. Making a deafening roar, the B-17 pulled out of the barn and lumbered down to the orchards. As I was rumbling down over a hill, the usual backfires turned into an explosion which rocked the bomber and smoke began to pour from her dirty engine. B-17 coasted silently down the hill and stopped. "What's the matter with the thing now," I asked myself as I lifted the hood and peered in at the smoking engine, or what was an engine. Disgustedly, I slammed down the hood and trudged doggedly back to the barn. Well, I had to borrow a neighbor's truck that ran, for the rest of the day. I got down to the apple picking about two hours after I had come to work. But my troubles were not yet over, for when I was at the top of the 26 foot ladder, I reached out for the last dangling red apple on the limb. My fingers touched it, and, slip, snap, crash, slush I found myself stuck in a box full of rotten apples. The ladder was divided across the borrowed truck. No words could express my fuming anger.

I could go on and tell you about more unlucky things that happened to me that dreadful day, but I hate to be reminded of them. So, a moral of this story could be, "NEVER be overconfident."