Brianna Walker

French philosopher Paul Valery once said that history repeats itself in a series of cycles. As the cups squeaked open and closed while they turned, I amended Valery’s quote in my head, changing cycles to wheels — transplanter wheels, to be precise.

The more life changes, the more it really does stay the same. I began riding this very same transplanter when I was a kid.

No amount of shop time has ever fixed this one particular squeak as the cups deposit the plant in the ground and come back up. With each clink, clap, squeeeak, I’m transported back to yesteryear, riding it with my mom.

We spent days every spring transplanting melons. Some days so cold we were bundled up like Eskimos trying to keep our fingers warm enough to pull those little plants out of the trays. Other days it would be so hot, we’d be in tank tops, sweating and itching from the fiberglass chairs.

Life has changed a lot since those days — and yet in moments like this, it’s the same. My youngest son is riding beside me, his feet banging against the metal safety shield as the wheels clink, clap, squeeeaked.

I remember when my dad welded that shield on. My sister, whose legs were too short to reach the foot pegs, had set her feet onto the bar directly underneath the spinning transplanter cups. As the wheel rotated, her foot was smashed in between the bar and the cups.

Thankfully, she was wearing solid shoes as she ended up with little more than a bruise on her foot. Afterwards, my dad built a footrest for the shorter-legged humans, and then welded on a shield so no one else would be able to put their feet on the bar under the rotating wheel.

After five hours, my youngest decided that he’d pulled enough melons — he was ready to ride in the corn planter with air conditioning. Riding the transplanter alone is tough, so as as soon my oldest son finished raking hay, he came to join my listening to that same clink, clap, squeeeak of the wheel.

But it’s different, because now I’m sitting where my mom always sat, and my son is in my old chair. The rhythm is the same, but the music in my head is now different. Mine is a bit nostalgic, while my son’s is quite realistic.

He’s determined to mount a Bluetooth speaker on the machine somewhere so we can have music. I remember also wishing for music during those long hours in that fiberglass chair. I never did anything about it. My son, however, will quite likely make it happen.

Summer decided to come out of hiding, and soon I could feel deep heat on the back of my neck and arms. My son’s neck and arms are fiery red. Every sunburn has a story — ours usually starts with watermelon planting.

The day wore on, and the sun’s rays seemed to pierce more deeply than ever. The rows looked so pretty, the black plastic reflecting those fresh green plants, with strips of barley as windbreak in between. I found myself taking quite a number of pictures — just like my dad used to.

As a kid, I never understood why he would take pictures of all the melon fields — I mean, after all, they looked the same year after year after year. He filled up carousels of watermelon slides. And the only difference I could find between a melon plant in 1981 and one in 1991 was the coloring faded in the older slide.

Yet, as the seasons go round and the painted ponies go up and down, I find myself part of that same circle of life, its ongoing loop filling up my “phone carousel” with more photos of watermelons.

The wheels never go backward — we can’t return. We can only look back as we keep going around in our own circle and reflect on how our experiences mold and shape us.

As the transplanter continues to clink, clap, squeeeak its rotations, and my son and I alternate dropping our plants into the always-hungry cups, it feels as if I have come full circle — but the beauty of a circle is that it never completely ends.

I wonder if at some point my son will be sitting where I am now, listening to the clink, clap, squeeeak and reflecting on life’s ongoing loop. Or maybe by then someone will have actually fixed that squeak and it’ll be quiet enough to hear a Bluetooth speaker!

Regardless, I believe that if this transplanter survives another generation, that rhythmic, clink, clap, squeeeak of the wheel, even if disguised with music, will still bring the realization that life repeats in a series of circles.