Old Tractor

Through every season that old tractor remained idle, rooted to the ground in a way that made it seem as though it had always been. It had been blanketed in snow, sprayed by the soft rains of spring and pummeled by the harsh rays of the summer sun. The tractor had become a part of the scenery, a permanent fixture, like the ugly brown, floral chairs my grandma has in her basement. The high fenders sheltered knobby tires, and long strips of faded chrome filled the front grill like teeth. Even the orange color, shades of rusty caterpillars, and dying prairie flowers, failed to make it stand out anymore. It had been taken for granted. It became the landscape as much as the sky and the gentle rolling hills of the prairies. Unnoticed topography, until it was no longer there

The missing tractor was a 1948 Case DC4, and according to my grandfather it had been "a real beauty in its time." The DC4 is a bulky tractor by modern standards. In comparison with its potential horsepower (such were the drawbacks of 1948 technology). The panels were covered in dents, a headlight cracked and sagging, the tractor's pristine condition was traded for experience long ago. Sitting on four foot tires, each with deep treads showing the battle scars of previous experience, the DC4 was the product of a past era. The front end of the tractor was punctuated by a large handle, like a jack-in-the-box, a few cranks and this handle brought the slumbering contraption to a coughing, hiccupping, and snorting wakefulness.

On this particular day; however, the tractor was missing and its absence made me recognize it more than its presence had. It hadn't been running in over twenty years and my grandfather's slow labors in attempting its rebirth seemed futile. With this in mind I was just about to dismiss its absence. I figured my grandfather was trying to hide the fact it wouldn't start from his sons, who had been giving him a hard time about the tractor taking up space in the yard. Just then I heard it. It began as a low rumble and grew into a loud groaning as my grandfather fired around a row of bins and into view. Nearly out of control, the ol' D12 seemed about to take flight, if tractors made in 1948 had speedometers it would have surely been at its max. The engine wined in complaint as he slammed on the brakes and hand-over-hand cranked the wheel, the tractor skidded sideways to a stop in the gravel only feet in front of where I was standing.

To this day I will never forget the look on his face; his hat pulled low over his brow and a grin that covered the rest of his weathered face.. In bringing back to life a piece of his past, a contraption left behind in changing times, my grandfather brought to life, a piece of his youth. In that moment he was transformed into a younger man, full of dreams and brimming with the strength and means to make them a reality. In that moment I knew that not only had this man enjoyed a life that brought him joy but that given the chance he would do it all over again. As he pushed the throttle in and brought the tractor's engine down from vibrating roar to a slow purr, he looked me in the eye and with a wink exclaimed, "How do you like them apples!"

My only response was to stare back smiling dumbly at my grandfather perched upon the metal seat. There was no response that could match his enthusiasm and I could not let myself ruin his moment with my inexperience. He pushed the choke all the way in, cutting the machine from its supply of gasoline. Slowly through a series of death snorts, the engine returned into an uneasy silence.

Jumping down from the driver's platform, my grandfather slapped me on the back and headed off towards the house for dinner. His stride turned into more of a skip from the days events, a maneuver that seemed a bit unstable performed on the two inch heels of his cowboy boots. I watched him go, and silently hoped that when I am seventy four I will still be able to get around so nimbly. My grandfather began farming full time when he was sixteen, he has worked long hours in a harsh environment for his entire life. This life time of penance has allowed him to build a farm, a family, and on that particular day, allowed him to go back in time.

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Tending fence is a job that is as regular as the melting of snow or the harvesting of crops. Each year I walk miles upon miles along barbed wire fence. I check that posts have not rotted or been broken, counting the four staples that hold each wire in place and ratchet the wire tight so that a single vibration can be felt a mile down the line. I trudge along beside this man made control usually tripping in a gopher hole or two, unseen in my clumsiness. Tending fence means time alone; there is not a soul for miles and I have time to absorb my surroundings. The evenly spaced posts stretch ahead of me until some distance ahead they blend into a solid line, a path I must follow for as long as it leads me. Check the post, count the wires, one, two, three, four, next. The very ideas of fences, at their symbolic level, are formed in complete opposition to nature. As the west was being settled fences were the first signs of human encroachment upon the land. Previously unbroken grasslands were divided and dismantled into productive landscapes. In this context, I question my motives for maintaining the fence line as an idea rather than as a physical characteristic. The necessities of modern agriculture and the reality of an altered landscape keep me walking and tripping, gracefully along. This may not be the nature that my ancestors saw the first time they ran steel plows underground upturning long furrows of rich dark soil. Things have changed, time has passed, and now, in my view, I no longer build a fence to divide and conquer the natural world. Rather, in a way I am putting a fence around what I value most, areas of grassland that remain largely as they have always been. I do not build a fence, but a great wall that holds back the fields and tractors, the plow and the people. I protect the soft hills of green and gray grasses, the spring flowers, and the small prairie coolies, valleys that have become a refuge of sorts for deer, fox and coyote.

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