I’ve made no secret of the fact that, in writing my novel, The Land, I used my brother-in-law’s organic farm as a rough model for the setting. And while the characters — husband, wife and two boys — bear a superficial resemblance to my brother-in-law and his family, it doesn’t take too many pages before any resemblance evaporates. The fictional husband is a gun-toting whack-job plagued by dreams of his embalmed mother and the youngest son is a bug-eating sociopath. What sets the novel in motion is an accident. The older son wants to learn how to drive the tractor, so the father sets him loose cutting the lawn, which is fine until the son shows off for his mom. On May 29th, while visiting Pine House Farm, guess what? John decided it was time for his oldest son to learn how to use the tractor, so he set him loose cutting the lawn. To my knowledge, John hadn’t read my book, and I hadn’t told him about the scene I wrote. Spooky! Here is the relevant excerpt from The Land:
When Ford sees me cutting the grass for the home-schooler’s little garden party, he pesters me something fierce, so I promise that after school’s done for the year, he can have a go at it. The boy’s almost as tall as me so there’s no question anymore of him reaching the pedals. On the morning when Em tears off to the spa, Ford and I walk through the fields to the drive shed which is on the south side of the barn. It’s a newer building of corrugated steel and set on a smooth concrete pad. I pull the tractor onto the gravel in front of the shed and shut it off, then get Ford to climb up with me so’s I can show him the throttle and the ignition, the clutch and the gear shift, accelerator and brake. It’s not at all like Em’s car with its automatic transmission. That’s what Ford knows best. At first it seems confusing to him; he can’t believe driving a tractor is so complicated, but I ease him into it by telling him to treat the whole business of driving like it’s a game. There’s a big enough space out there that he can ramble around without fear of hitting anything. He can practise starting and stopping, shifting into gear, slowing into turns, backing up with a hitch, popping wheelies. Maybe not popping wheelies but I add that to see if I can put a smile on his face. He’s been sitting all this time with a grave look on his face like he’s deciding the fate of nations. While Ford sits in his high chair reviewing everything in silence, I haul out the mower and hitch it to the tractor. Then I tell Ford to start her up.
It’s painful to watch Ford jerk forward, then skid to a halt on the gravel. The uncertainty. The knowledge that I’m watching. The fear that I’m judging. There comes a time when I have to turn my back and give him the freedom to feel his own way, but I got no idea how to judge when that time has come. I guess turning my back is my gift to him. But knowing when to do it is my gift to me. Ford eases up on the clutch and the tractor lurches forward again. He smiles at me as his head snaps forward. I smile back, motioning for him to steer off the gravel and into the field. The tractor bumps and lurches and Ford sways from side to side, and when I see him, anxious at first but grinning broadly as he catches on, I discover for the first time in months that I’m happy. It ain’t that I was unhappy a couple months ago and only now have turned happy like a change in the weather. It’s more a change of my inclination. The dreams have stopped. I’m feeling rested again. My mind is clear.