Old-Tractor Folk

In northwestern Pennsylvania, owning a tractor is a big deal.  It seems everyone has one.  In addition to the tractor dealers that display the latest and greatest in new farm machinery, used tractors seem to be everywhere.  I'd be hard pressed to drive five miles in any direction, without running across a used tractor parked at the end of some country driveway, a hand-made for-sale sign, dangling across its grill.

I used to wonder, what on earth anyone would do with an old-rusty-tractor.  Then I went to my first tractor show, and found all the old-rusty-tractors, painted, polished, and proudly paraded to the applause of a crowd of old-tractor enthusiasts.  There were weathered farmers in bib overalls, young farmers in jeans and t-shirts, sixty-something-sneaker-clad women wearing straw hats and sunglasses, young women in cut-off shorts and tank tops, and fresh-faced-adolescent boys, all driving old tractors.  I was thoroughly intrigued by the lovingly restored pieces of old farm machinery, and the people that cared for them.

Going to a tractor show, is like going to one of those vintage car shows, where people walk around oohing and ahhing, remembering the good-old-days.  Tractor folk spend hours debating the merits of the different makes and models. Everyone has their favorites (I'm partial to the McCormick Farmall).

I used to tease Rick about using our clunky, old, orange Simplicity riding mower (circa 1973), to maintain the cottage grounds, goading him to buy a newer, cooler model.  He responded by saying there was a certain prestige in being the owner/operator of a vintage lawn tractor.  I honestly thought my dear husband was pulling my leg, until I saw our tractor's twin, parade by at last year's tractor show, its chesty driver, beaming with pride.  I took the Simplicity a little more seriously after that.

This spring, Rick climbed aboard the old girl for his first mow of the season, turned the key in the ignition, and nothing happened.  I knew something was wrong, when I failed to hear the roar of her engine across the acreage.  A while later, Rick appeared in the cottage, grease on his shirt and hands, a concerned look on his face, and pronounced we had a problem.

I'm not altogether sure, what the problem was, but it was resolved with the help of our neighbor-friend, the one with 1957 Allis-Chalmers tractor.  The Simplicity spent a week or so in his barn, alongside his two vintage lawn tractors.  I still hold my breath when Rick goes out to the shed to start her up. It would be a shame to have to replace her.

Last week, while attending the first of this season's tractor shows, I overheard an elderly woman recalling childhood memories of riding along on her father's lap, as he plowed the family's fields.  I took a seat on a bench in the barn, that doubles as a church on Sunday mornings, and listened to the music of the bluegrass band.  It could have been the late 1940s or early '50s.  There was a quiet innocence in the crowd around me, and I couldn't help but feel as though I really didn't belong among them.  They were a community unto themselves, with a shared history.  I envied them that.

Perhaps I'd feel differently next year, if I could talk Rick into showing the Simplicity.

I'm Too Darn Old

I'm not a kid anymore! That's one message I took away with me Saturday night, as I left Heinz Field in Pittsburgh, after a country music concert.

It wasn't the volume of the music that turned me off, or the behavior of the crowd during the show.  It was what went on before the concert that convinced me that I just might be too darn old to party all day with a bunch of strangers in a parking lot.

Pittsburgh's north-shore riverfront is home to both Heinz Field, and PNC Park.  The river-walk, from which one may view the city center, Mount Washington, and Point State Park, provides easy pedestrian access to both.  It also serves as mooring for pleasure boats, water taxis, and Pittsburgh's famed Gateway Clipper fleet.

Last Saturday, the river walk, as well as the parking lots surrounding the football stadium, served as a playground for thousands of concert-goers waiting to attend a late afternoon music-fest.  By all accounts, a staggering amount of alcohol was consumed outside the stadium in the hours before the concert. I repeat, staggering!

Please don't misunderstand, I'm no tea-tottler.  There's nothing I enjoy more on a sultry, summer afternoon, than sipping a slushy Margarita.

What appalled me most about this drinking crowd, was the revelers blatant disregard for the immediate environment. Granted, there didn't seem to be any real effort made on behalf of the city, or the stadium to provide trash receptacles, but come-on folks!  It's 2011!  Didn't we renounce the public disposition of our personal trash back in the 1960s?

While the party raged, it was difficult to really assess the amount of trash accumulating on the ground around us.  Not so, after the concert, when the virtual mine field of plastic cups, broken bottles, and empty beer cans that littered the landscape between the stadium and our car was clearly visible.  I can still hear the crunch of broken glass under the exiting auto tires.

The relationship between the the local police and the tail-gaters was also quite intriguing.  The merrymakers didn't seem at all intimidated by the police presence in the parking lot.  Apparently, there are few, if any restrictions on open containers of alcohol in the city, because the police made little if any effort to rein anyone in.

Totally unreasonable, was the prohibition against awnings and canopies.  With temps in the 90s, it only made sense to get out of the sun, but each time a canopy went up, the police arrived with instructions to tear it down.  Call me out-of-touch, but I have to wonder about a city code that blesses beer bongs and Margarita machines, but outlaws a basic 10 x 10 EZ-Up.

All in all, I tried to be non-judgemental, and to look the other way when they hauled our inebriated neighbor off to the first-aid center.  I wanted to fit in, honestly I did.  But, in spite of my kick-ass cowboy hat, I couldn't forget that I was five somebodies' grandmother.

Maybe next time I get the urge to play dress-up with the kids, I'll skip the tail-gate party, and just set-sail with Captain Morgan instead!

All photos taken by Mrs. Green Jeans at Farm Fresh Photography, 2011

House in the Big Woods

Another post in the My One Little Word Series - Mystery

The reality of any place, is what its people remember of it.  Charles Kuralt

Three years ago, we bought a little cottage on a sleepy creek in a very big woods.  At the time, we knew little of the area, only what we remembered of it as visitors, years before.  Our memories were good ones, and the cottage seemed sound.

We couldn't have known then, that we'd love the big woods, as much as we do, or that once gone, we'd long for the sound of the rush of the water as it tumbles and spills through the rugged little creek bed.

Our weekend visits became more frequent, and the days spent at the cottage were extended.  We were simply enchanted by the peaceful, serenity of the place.

With a heavy heart, we turned the key in the lock of the cottage door at the end of each fall, and counted the days 'til the spring thaw, when we'd unlock it again.  We began to think that perhaps we belonged in the big woods, on the banks of Mill Creek, in a real house, along side the cottage.

This autumn, when the leaves have all fallen, and the little cottage is covered with frost, we won't fret having to leave the peace and gentle quiet of the big woods.

We'll lie in bed each night, contentedly listening to the rush of the water over the rocks, as it makes its way down the creek bed past the cottage, and our new house.

All photos taken by Mrs. Green Jeans, 2011