I'm not the only person working on the Fourth, a fact that I take advantage of with coffee, donuts and conversation at the 7-11 store on the way to the job. The morning is warming fast as I proceed down route 7 toward the Shenandoah River. The traffic here is normally a headlong charge toward Loudoun County but today I'm practically alone. A distant glint of brass and red paint in the other lane soon takes the shape of an antique fire engine on its way to join a parade somewhere.

Exiting at Purcellville, I proceed down Main Street. I soon notice that the street is empty and the sidewalks are packed with people in lawn chairs. Picnic coolers are everywhere—here and there, a vendor is set up. I've slipped in just ahead of the Independence Day parade. Some of my customers, friends, business acquaintances and readers are in the crowd. Scattered whistles, cheers and greetings erupt. A glance in the rear view mirror shows my face crimson. I gotta get out of here!

The holiday job site is selected well in advance. I've chosen a gated thirty-five acre property along Goose Creek. There is no residence on the property and its owner, who phoned from Kiev, probably won't be around today. Since an unlocked farm gate acts as a magnet to kids on ATVs, I'm instructed to lock myself in upon arriving.

My “patient” awaits me in a creekside pasture. Goose Creek is listed as a “Wild and Scenic River” by whomever decides these things. It's far from being a modest trickle as many local creeks are at this time of year. The creek features many deep fishing and swimming holes and, except for in the driest seasons, is navigable by inner tube.

Oh, yes, the patient is a newly acquired Oliver 55, one of the best tractors ever made and another reason this particular site was chosen for today. The Oliver shares an old oak board shed with a new L-series Kubota, the property's workhorse. What the Kubota could not do, however, was to provide its owner with the nostalgic pleasure of operating an old tractor. This customer often spoke of driving a 55 on the family apple orchard in Faquier County as a teen. He had been looking for one for some time when he found this rusty yellow, green and red treasure on the internet and bought it from God knows where.

My assignment is to get it running smoothly, change the fluids, and in general make it pleasurable to operate. The tractor starts easily enough but emits a loud explosion and a long flame from the upright exhaust. The hornets nesting quietly in the shed's rafters hold a quick meeting and decide to make their displeasure known. Upon releasing the clutch, I'm somewhat displeased to find that I have managed to seek out reverse on the first try.

Backing out into the sunshine, the explosions become more frequent, firing into the sky from the tall upright exhaust. By the time I park the tractor next to my service truck, one would almost expect to see Zeros and Messerschmits falling from the sky. A check of the ignition points reveals that someone has applied great gobs of Lubriplate to the points cam and some of the stuff was thrown onto the points. After I install a new set with the proper lubricant, the old Oliver decides to abandon its antiaircraft ambitions.

Following are the usual tractor mundanities; dump the sediment bowl, change fluids, grease the fittings, etc. If you're looking for an easy-going (I'm almost inclined to say cooperative) old tractor, the Oliver 55 and 550 are well worth considering.

The air temperature continues to rise as I work. I keep a tall glass of ginger ale on ice within easy reach. I set the portable radio on the tool boxes and tune in Public Radio. This being a national holiday, the theme is exclusively devoted to American composers: Scott Joplin, Aaron Copeland, Glenn Miller, Hoagy Carmichael. The sound of musketry and old black powder cannon echoes softly from some distant reenactment along the creek.

The hornets in the shed are still on hair-trigger alert but I manage to extricate the Kubota before they can select their target. I disconnect the five foot bush-hog type mower and mount in on the Oliver. A short period of mowing is followed by a small adjustment to the ingenious independent PTO clutch. I stop my billing time at this point—there is usually no charge for therapeutic mowing; I'm thankful that the machine's owner doesn't charge me! After exploring the property in this manner for about an hour, it's time to get in the water to cool off.

A look behind the service truck finds winter's insulated coveralls. I've forgotten to install the usual swimming trunks there, a part of the truck's seasonal maintenance. However, this far from the road, the traditional, time-honored attire of remote swimming holes is acceptable. I chuckle as I run the worst-case scenario through my mind—the customer showing up unexpectedly. He's a retired military physician; he probably wouldn't even notice.

The time to leave this private little paradise finally arrives. The residents of the shed can be seen swarming about, so I leave the tractors outside. I'll be in the area tomorrow when, hopefully, all will be forgotten. Still, I leave a note to that effect: “Sorry, had to leave tractors outside—bees P.O.ed.”

During the drive home, a familiar car joins the traffic ahead of me as I pass Wal-Mart. It is driven by a young parts counter man who I regularly deal with. His wife and two preteens are along. Further down the road, we both stop for gas. At the pump, after the usual pleasantries and grousing about the ever-rising gasoline prices, he notices by the grease that I'm wearing that I've worked on this special day.

“Well, I guess you've got to do what you've got to do,” he offers consolingly.

Not feeling the need to explain, I simply reply, “Yes, things are tough all over.” In the car, I notice that the kids are hot and fussy. His wife, her lips a thin, taut line, barely acknowledges my presence. After supper, they'll fight traffic in order to observe the public fireworks display. Perhaps we'll join them.

At home, I present this possibility to my wife. She takes the glass of ginger ale that I've been sipping and freshens it with more ice and a shot of bourbon.

“I'm guessing I should take that as a no,” I respond.

We sit on the porch in the gathering darkness. Across an open field, a big party is gathering momentum and some of the local pyrotechnical talent is putting on a very impressive fireworks display there. We soon reason that we couldn't justify the cost of gasoline to go to the fireworks display at the fairgrounds, about thirty miles away. Indeed, things are tough all over!