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“Time to get to work, little man.”
    In the first light, Russ ran across the yard holding Shawn above his head, pretending he was an airplane. Making a loud sputtering sound, he spun him around and headed toward the barn. “This crazy pilot is flying backward!” he shouted playfully. Shawn, who was facing the house, squealed when he saw Root and Runnel bounding out the dog door. For them, today was a special day, too. It was the day they would harvest their Rainmaker.
    In the barn, Russ nestled Shawn in the hay, covered him with his red quilt, then focused on his old John Deere tractor, its green paint chipped and faded. It was on its last legs, and he hoped it would get him through another season. He fetched his toolbox and prepared to battle the quarrelsome engine one more time. He tweaked the timing with a screwdriver, then fiddled with the carburetor, adjusting the flow of gas. When he looked up from his work, Shawn had kicked off the quilt.
    Afraid his son might get a chill, Russ set his tools aside and went over to cover him, but when he got there, the quilt had been neatly retucked right to Shawn’s chin. Mystified, he was staring at his giggling son when he heard what sounded like a tiny sneeze. Unnerved, he saw two pair of turquoise eyes looking up at him from inside the hay. There was a possum family living in the barn, but possums didn’t have eyes like that. He grabbed a pitchfork to shoo away whatever it was, when, behind him, the tractor sputtered to life. Russ rarely cursed, but this time he did. “Godzilla!”
    Spooked, Russ went over and turned off the engine, but when he returned to the hay, the eyes had disappeared. He gathered up Shawn and buckled him into his special homemade seat atop the tractor, which adjoined his, but faced backward. He climbed aboard, not noticing that Root and Runnel, with hay still stuck in their hair, were now concealed under the fender. Shifting into gear, he steered the noisy tractor out of the barn and headed for the north slope. He looked back at his son with a resigned smile. “They don’t call ’em Johnny Putt-Putts for nothing.”
    In the empty barn, the toolbox creaked open and a nine-inch, grease-stained Puddlejumper emerged. Chop wasn’t going to miss the big day, no matter what he’d been told. He convinced himself it was a good thing he’d come. After all, he’d just saved the day by starting the tractor. To reward himself, he feasted on milk from the big black-and-white cows.

    Once Russ lowered the cutter and began to harvest, he felt again the simple pleasure of knowing he’d found his place in life. He admired the trees along the boundary fence, especially the oaks and maples dressed in their fall colors. He took a deep breath. There was a sweet crispness in the air that promised winter but remembered summer.
    The hours passed quickly as the tractor made its way back and forth across the field. Russ sang and told Shawn stories, his own versions of Jack and the Beanstalk and Pinocchio. At the top of the knoll, he pointed to the woods beyond the boundary fence. “Paul Bunyan himself asked me about cutting down that timber. He was riding Babe, his big blue ox,” said Russ. “But I told him, ‘Not on your life, Mr. Bunyan, I’m saving those woods for Shawn.’ When you get a little older, we’ll go up there and I’ll show you all my favorite spots.”
    Shawn giggled and Russ laughed. He was sure his son was responding to what he’d said, but Shawn wasn’t even listening. He was watching a tiny Puddlejumper skittering across the field, staying close. Russ turned to check on his baby just as Chop vanished under the mown wheat. The only thing he saw was how much Shawn seemed to be enjoying the harvest.

    In near darkness, a score of Puddlejumpers watched from their roost along the rafters of the barn as an exhausted Russ, with Shawn in his backpack, fed and watered