Jack, the Crackerjack Mechanic

Last Friday was our first spray day of the season. The first time is always the most challenging. The temperature (not too hot or cold) and wind speed (not too breezy or dead still) have to be just right. You need to remember your rate of speed, just where to start your turns so you don't take down the fence or damage a tree, just how much throttle makes the sprayer hum, how to recognize the sound it makes when you are almost empty. Our 300-gallon sprayer is older than sin but, fortunately, not terribly temperamental. It has an ancient Wisconsin air-cooled engine in it, which is extremely loud, but also amazingly simple. Even I can discern most all of the visible parts.

Maintenance beyond what we can do on the sprayer and tractor is done by a bona fide Montana native by the name of Jack. Albert calls him a “crackerjack” mechanic. Me…I think of him as a MacGyver of the engine. A piece of tin foil, some chewing gum and an eraser and he can make anything work. He was the first true character we met when we moved here. I have never seen him without a woolen watch cap, whether it is January or July. He smokes hand rolled cigarettes while working and drinks cheap beer. His property is scattered with the remnants of myriad machines and he buys old vehicles he spots in his travels just because they fascinate him. His house and shop look much like his yard. I think I counted five or six stoves inside? He drives an old Saab and keeps at least one more in his yard for spare parts. The car doesn’t always start and I have had to give him a push a couple of times to get him going. He often wanders off in the winter to warmer climes. His family has been in the area long enough to actually own an island out in Flathead Lake.

It took him a while to warm up to me. I am not sure he is used to dealing with women regarding farm equipment or in his other job, working on boats. But I think he appreciated my earnestness and willingness to learn about our equipment. He commented that I am one fine assistant. He is fond of telling me how to troubleshoot some engine problem over the phone to keep from having to come out here. More than once I have held the phone up to the sprayer or tractor so that he can hear what it’s doing.

Today I dropped off some parts we pulled for him to replace. He is actually building us some new spark plug wires as he doesn’t trust the commercial ones we could buy at NAPA. Our conversation ran from catalytic converters, acid rain and CO2, to music and computers, international politics, and tree felling, all the while guitar jazz played in the background. I am sure I left something out. While we chatted he showed me how his cat fetches and shared stories about how gentle his dog is.

Like many of the long time or native locals we’ve met in Montana, he isn’t interested in the trappings of life. There isn’t one scintilla of pretense in the man. He is what he is, take him or leave him. I don’t think he really cares either way. The dichotomy between someone like Jack and the folks who breeze into our community for a few weeks or months each year is astounding. I can’t imagine what they might ever have to say to one another. But imagine how much richer their lives would be if they spent just a little while getting to know Jack.

Give me more of the Jacks of the world.

Orcharding is nothin' but glamor, baby!