Jesse edged around the plow horse, brushing her down after a good day's work. Tomorrow they'd harrow the field, preparing to plant a winter crop of wheat.

The mare munched on grain in her feed pail. Chickens cackled out in the farmyard. Wind sighed in the eaves of the barn.

Another sound joined the mix. A distant motor. Not a car, from the gravelly growl. The engine revved and dropped, revved and dropped. A motorcycle, Jesse determined, and growing closer. It had left the county road, must be coming up the dirt lane to the farmhouse. He patted the mare on the rump, hung the brush from its nail, and went out to see who was coming to visit at his oldest brother's homestead.

Raymond was 40 that autumn day of 1928. Never married, he'd welcomed some of his younger siblings in when life grew too abrasive at home a mile to the west. He and Silas, age 26, were off in the distance mending fences. George, age 24, had hitched a ride in to Grantsburg that morning.

Jesse -- at 17 the baby of the family -- shaded his eyes. Yup, a motorcycle. In fact, a Harley Davidson, a topic the brothers had discussed many an evening.

Jesse squinted at the rider, then whooped and slapped his leg.

George wheeled a tight circle in the yard, throwing up dust, then cut the motor and hopped off with a grin.

Jesse had to hear every detail of the bartering it took to acquire the used motorcycle. He inspected every moving part of the marvelous machine. He swung a leg over and tried the seat and handlebars.

"Hey, take it out for a spin!" George said. "Just kick the starter there."

It would not start. George took the seat and gave it a more experienced hand.

Still nothing.

The brothers considered the motorcycle, scratched chins, scuffed dirt.

"How about we push start it?" Jesse said. "Or tow start it. I'll get a rope and hitch you up to my Model T."

The old jalopy hiccupped to a start. Jesse started off slow until he'd taken up the rope's slack, then accelerated up the track, George swaying to keep balance and trying to rev the cycle's motor.

It caught. The motorcycle roared to life and took off like a jack rabbit.

George swerved to miss Jesse's car. The motorcycle ran to the end of the rope, and jerked like a lassoed steer.

Jesse saw George fly past, head over heels, into the cushion of that freshly-plowed field. The younger brother screeched to a halt as the older one rose shakily to his feet, wiping good Wisconsin soil from his face and arms.

"Nah," George said. "Let's not try that again."

.

In his life story, Jesse wrote, "A few days later George was soldering a leak in the gas tank when it blew up. He didn't get hurt, but decided to junk the motorcycle for good."