Today was a day like many others in the late summer: hot air, dry fields, the hum of machinery, and the steady rhythm of work. I had been combining for a few hours already, and it was time to unload into the auger cart. As I maneuvered closer to the cart, I noticed something odd — a vehicle creeping by slowly, then pulling off to the side.
At first it was just a curiosity. I wondered if the driver was lost or curious about the machinery. But after the vehicle stayed, I grew a little uneasy. I spotted three small faces peering from the windows, watching me. I decided to walk over.
When I got closer, the driver let down the window. A grandmother explained that her grandchildren were visiting from Florida, and they’d never seen farm machinery up close before. There were two boys, bouncing with excitement, and one little girl who stood a step back, quiet, her eyes moving furtively.
She kept turning away — it caught my attention. At first, I thought maybe she was just shy. As I chatted with the boys and the grandmother, I caught glimpses of something on the girl’s cheek: a birthmark or scar, perhaps. My heart tugged — I hated feeling like I was staring, but I couldn’t help noticing.
The grandmother thanked me for stopping and apologized for interrupting my work. She said they should get going — she knew farmers ran on tight schedules, especially this time of the year. I waved them off gently, but just as they were turning to leave, one of the boys called out, “Are you going again soon? We’d like to see the machine move!” I felt a rush of joy at that simple ask.
His grandmother quickly tried to hush him, but I cut in: “Would you like to ride in it?” She immediately shook her head. “You’re way too busy,” she said, with a hint of apologetic politeness. But I told her, truthfully, I was working alone that day and had some breathing room. I said, “It’s okay — I’ve got time.” The boys’ faces lit up. The grandmother asked the boys. They answered eagerly. The little girl stayed back.
I turned to her: “Would you like to come, too?” She looked uncertain. “No thank you,” she whispered. I asked again. She shook her head quietly. As I walked toward them, I asked softly, “Why didn’t your sister want to come?” The brothers murmured: “She’s shy.” Then I asked, with trepidation, “Do you mind if I ask — about your face?” Their mother figure looked uneasy, but the boys answered: “It’s a birthmark. She gets teased about it sometimes.” My heart clenched. I walked them back to their vehicle, and quietly said, “You know — there are girl farmers, too. I had a young girl in the cab just yesterday. Would you like a ride?” She hesitated and looked to her grandma. Finally, her lips nodded: “Go ahead, if you want.”
Her face changed — a flicker of hope. I asked the grandmother: “Do you have a phone? Can you video this ride?” She laughed gently, saying she always knows how to use a smartphone when grandchildren are involved. So we loaded her into the combine cab, and I explained I would turn on the flashing yellow lights so her grandparents could capture the moment.
Inside the cab, I let her grip the steering wheel, though she looked at me as if I might be joking. I said quietly: “Not everyone gets to do this, but people in the ‘special face club’ — we get to drive. It’s a secret. Don’t tell anyone.” We pinky-swore. She broke into a radiant smile — a kind of joy that reaches deep into your chest.
As we rumbled around the field, turning toward their vehicle, I flicked the yellow lights on. Her grandmother filmed. The wind stirred her hair; her grin widened. When we stopped, I helped her out. She dashed over to her grandmother: “Did you see me? Did you see me drive?” Her brothers shot curious glances. She turned to them, brow lifted in certainty: “Because girls CAN farm.”
My allergies tickled my nose again — I think there was some bean dust in the cab. But none of that mattered. She ran up to me, arms wide, and planted a hug. She whispered “thank you.” The grandfather came forward, shook my hand, patted me on the shoulder. “I don’t know what you said to her,” he said, voice soft, “but that’s the biggest smile I’ve seen on her vacation so far.” The boys shook my hand. They drove off, their vehicle disappearing down the road, leaving me alone in the field.
As I watched them go, my thoughts drifted. If the combine hadn’t broken down yesterday, I would’ve been on a different schedule today. I might never have been in that spot, alone, at that moment. And I wouldn’t have met those three beautiful faces — especially hers.
All day her image stayed with me. Not because of the birthmark but because of the unguarded delight in her eyes, the confidence that flickered when she got behind the wheel, and the quiet assertion she made to her brothers. She didn’t need to prove anything outwardly — she just did it.
My grandfather always told me to be patient with children and people we meet. He used to let me “drive” the tractor when I was little. I remember the exhilaration, the sense of possibility. I promised him, long ago, that whenever I was older, I would try to make others feel that way, too. I’ve failed sometimes — a lot of times — but today, I think I got a little closer.
Thirty minutes out of twenty-four hours — that’s not much. Yet sometimes, that small slice is everything. Today was a good day. One I won’t soon forget.