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.