It's a difficult thing to write an article about driving a tractor. Wait - let me rephrase that. Thanks to an entire generation of modern-day country music, it's a difficult thing to write about driving a tractor, and sound intelligent while doing so. I could come right out and announce, "I drive a tractor, and this is why I like it." Having heard any one of a number of country songs would stir your subconscious. My words would thus come across as good-ol'-boy clucking, "Hey y'all, this here life on that there farm's a real ho-down."
Thank you, country music.
It was a spectacular autumn evening, the kind of dusk that rarely coincides with this kind of fieldwork. Typically it seems that we are rushing, in adverse conditions, to finish up. Not tonight. We weren't rushed. It was not late in the harvest. I was working tonight because I wanted to. The weather was just too good to pass up.
The last fits of daylight were melting beneath the horizon. To the east, deep purple ink was overtaking the sky. With it, a sense of calm ensued. The wind died down, the clouds dissipated. This would be a spectacular night, indeed.
I approached the machine that would do my heavy bidding for the next few hours. She looked good, classy with age. My dad had purchased this tractor brand new, nearly four decades ago. A lifetime of careful maintenance, conscientious handling, and one new paintjob later, she looked great. Like the American muscle cars of the 1960s, this machine was engineered to always look good. Tastes, styles, and fads may change, but this machine will always turn heads. They don't make 'em like that anymore.
I gripped the handles and hoisted myself up. Familiar territory. I was taught to drive this tractor long before I could reach the pedals. I would stand on the platform, brace myself against the steering wheel, and stand on the clutch in order to switch gears. I can still see my grandmother cringe and look away whenever she saw me do it. Now, those days are long past.
I turned the key. The inline six-cylinder diesel engine turned over three times. On the fourth, she caught. Just like always. I let the engine warm up for a few moments, enjoying the familiarity of it all. This machine sounded good, the engine growling quietly, well balanced and perfectly synched. It sounded like a vintage airplane going through a run-up, and I loved it.
Everything about this evening was pleasant. On this old tractor, I felt unrushed, able to savor the taste of this autumn harvest. Only eight forward gears, two reverse. Her newer counterparts have four times that, with electronic shifting. But here, tonight, on this machine, I was in no hurry.
Amazing, how each season of farm work brings with it a unique aroma. A fresh-plowed field smells like spring, as does the first cutting of alfalfa. Dried bales of hay remind me of the scorching days in July, while the acidic scent of corn silage brings to mind September, and the start of school. Autumn was in her full glory on this evening as I drove down the gravel field access road.
Beneath the tires, leaves crunched. A burst of air from the radiator fan sent the bits swirling. There was no other movement. The dual headlights shone straight ahead, illuminating only the path where I was headed. The tractor had no cab, adding to the authenticity of the evening. Had I chosen one of our new cab tractors, my perimeter would be awash in artificial light. I would be basking in climate-controlled artificiality, no doubt drumming my fingers on the steering wheel to music. No, there was something much more valid to this experience. Besides, a cab would have masked the view to the north.
For the first time in my life, I saw the aurora borealis. Curtains of neon glow shimmered up, from the northern horizon. Entranced, I watched the display morph from green to pink, to green again. The light flickered, expanded, and spread like a puddle across the sky.
I turned into the grass waterway, where a wagon was loaded and ready to go. Over the crest of the hill, my dad operated the combine, his presence betrayed by a dust cloud illuminated from within by the work lights. It reminded me of a cloud internally lit by lightning, another of nature's awe-inspiring phenomena.
The old tractor strained as I pulled the heavy load back the way we came. The final stretch was a long, gradual incline. I grabbed sixth gear, and added throttle to compensate for incline. The sound of the engine changed, from a purr to a roar, the same way that a father may change the tone of his voice to convey discipline. The giant was awakening.
Halfway up the hill, our momentum bled away. This machine would run out of weight, before she ran out of power. The lugs in the tires clawed at the gravel, and then caught. A stream of blue-black exhaust shot heavenward as the beast roared ahead.
Only once did this tractor actually break loose while hauling a load. On one broiling humid day, she strained up a hill. o hot was the pavement, that both tires continued spinning forward, even as the tractor was being pulled backward. The result were two horrible burnout marks sufficiently long, wide, and black enough to turn any redneck John Deere Green with envy.
Kind of sounds like the making of a country song, hey.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Thank you, country music.
It was a spectacular autumn evening, the kind of dusk that rarely coincides with this kind of fieldwork. Typically it seems that we are rushing, in adverse conditions, to finish up. Not tonight. We weren't rushed. It was not late in the harvest. I was working tonight because I wanted to. The weather was just too good to pass up.
The last fits of daylight were melting beneath the horizon. To the east, deep purple ink was overtaking the sky. With it, a sense of calm ensued. The wind died down, the clouds dissipated. This would be a spectacular night, indeed.
I approached the machine that would do my heavy bidding for the next few hours. She looked good, classy with age. My dad had purchased this tractor brand new, nearly four decades ago. A lifetime of careful maintenance, conscientious handling, and one new paintjob later, she looked great. Like the American muscle cars of the 1960s, this machine was engineered to always look good. Tastes, styles, and fads may change, but this machine will always turn heads. They don't make 'em like that anymore.
I gripped the handles and hoisted myself up. Familiar territory. I was taught to drive this tractor long before I could reach the pedals. I would stand on the platform, brace myself against the steering wheel, and stand on the clutch in order to switch gears. I can still see my grandmother cringe and look away whenever she saw me do it. Now, those days are long past.
I turned the key. The inline six-cylinder diesel engine turned over three times. On the fourth, she caught. Just like always. I let the engine warm up for a few moments, enjoying the familiarity of it all. This machine sounded good, the engine growling quietly, well balanced and perfectly synched. It sounded like a vintage airplane going through a run-up, and I loved it.
Everything about this evening was pleasant. On this old tractor, I felt unrushed, able to savor the taste of this autumn harvest. Only eight forward gears, two reverse. Her newer counterparts have four times that, with electronic shifting. But here, tonight, on this machine, I was in no hurry.
Amazing, how each season of farm work brings with it a unique aroma. A fresh-plowed field smells like spring, as does the first cutting of alfalfa. Dried bales of hay remind me of the scorching days in July, while the acidic scent of corn silage brings to mind September, and the start of school. Autumn was in her full glory on this evening as I drove down the gravel field access road.
Beneath the tires, leaves crunched. A burst of air from the radiator fan sent the bits swirling. There was no other movement. The dual headlights shone straight ahead, illuminating only the path where I was headed. The tractor had no cab, adding to the authenticity of the evening. Had I chosen one of our new cab tractors, my perimeter would be awash in artificial light. I would be basking in climate-controlled artificiality, no doubt drumming my fingers on the steering wheel to music. No, there was something much more valid to this experience. Besides, a cab would have masked the view to the north.
For the first time in my life, I saw the aurora borealis. Curtains of neon glow shimmered up, from the northern horizon. Entranced, I watched the display morph from green to pink, to green again. The light flickered, expanded, and spread like a puddle across the sky.
I turned into the grass waterway, where a wagon was loaded and ready to go. Over the crest of the hill, my dad operated the combine, his presence betrayed by a dust cloud illuminated from within by the work lights. It reminded me of a cloud internally lit by lightning, another of nature's awe-inspiring phenomena.
The old tractor strained as I pulled the heavy load back the way we came. The final stretch was a long, gradual incline. I grabbed sixth gear, and added throttle to compensate for incline. The sound of the engine changed, from a purr to a roar, the same way that a father may change the tone of his voice to convey discipline. The giant was awakening.
Halfway up the hill, our momentum bled away. This machine would run out of weight, before she ran out of power. The lugs in the tires clawed at the gravel, and then caught. A stream of blue-black exhaust shot heavenward as the beast roared ahead.
Only once did this tractor actually break loose while hauling a load. On one broiling humid day, she strained up a hill. o hot was the pavement, that both tires continued spinning forward, even as the tractor was being pulled backward. The result were two horrible burnout marks sufficiently long, wide, and black enough to turn any redneck John Deere Green with envy.
Kind of sounds like the making of a country song, hey.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
