Confessions of a Tractorholic

The affair started at the tender age of six has seen no cessation. Everyone had to have a job when it came to haymaking and I was assigned to the tractor. It may seem a bit strange to those unfamiliar with the process of making hay before the invention of the bale thrower. We had two choices: we could borrow a baler, but the bales had to get from the ground to the wagon; a fact that required several sets of very strong arms. Without the baler, the hay was put up loose and no, we did not rick the hay into teepee looking stacks that would remain in the field. The loose hay would be loaded from the field to the wagon with pitchforks. Not big enough or strong enough, I was out of luck again. If it weren’t for the tractor, I would have felt entirely left out. The farm tractor has been my faithful companion ever since.
I am no expert and if the truth be known, am pretty hard on the equipment. I would be lost without good neighbors and excellent mechanics.
Getting really close to the creeks is a particularly nasty habit of mine. At least once a year, I overestimate the solid ground. I’ve learned how to get myself out of some bogs, but when she is in the creek for a good soak, I thank my lucky stars for good neighbors with bigger tractors.
I used to think of myself as a trail blazer, plowing through dense thickets and clearing undesirable vegetation. My trailblazing days ended after I punctured one of the big tires and had to buy a new one to the tune of $400.
To those of you obsessed in a similar manner, you know that a tractor is naked without accessories. I had the rotary mower, the sickle bar mower, the scraper blade and a single bottom plow, but I lusted after a front end loader. Oh, the things I could do with a bucket on the front of my tractor.
With great purpose, I set out for several hours of work with my new- seven years ago now- blue tractor complete with mower on the back and bucket up front. I push down trash trees and annihilate underbrush.
The weather canopy over my head has been caught on one too many trees to be useful, I haven’t had to replace a tire in years, Cletus, the master mechanic at the new Holland/Ford dealer keeps me operable and the farm is looking great.
There is absolutely nothing more cathartic than to ride the tractor at dusk across the rolling fields. As the pasture is freshened by the mowing of the grass, the swallows dart to and fro in the path behind me feasting on the newly exposed insects and I ponder the simplicity of life while watching the sun sink behind the magnificent Blue Ridge.

The Farm Lane

The farm lane that lies between me and the rest of the world is not all that long but chocked full of adventures, surprises, heartache and promise. It is a thread, the connector. When I am away it is my life line to sanity and security, it is my enabler, my life force.

When I am home it is the conduit to everything that the farm cannot provide and frankly that isn’t much. However, it became the channel to advanced education, supplementary employment, and social networking.

Not gated with moats and alligators, there are many who have traveled down the lane, some invited and some not. Some would leave an indelible mark, some would come and go and never be remembered, others would never leave.

The farm has always been a destination and arrival tantalizing. The simple ride down the lane from the turning off the main road to the capping of the three knolls-first you see it then you don’t, then you do again- is awesome, thrilling and spectacular. It never fails to evoke an aura of paradise, wonder, and expanse. “Oh, my where have I landed?”


I have no memory of the very first time I came down that lane, but I must have been beyond myself with excitement. In 1951, the family had purchased the farm consisting of an estimated 152 acres with an old farm house and numerous decrepit-looking barns –all of these situated almost precisely in the middle of the land.


Work kept Jack-my Dad-at our home in Florida, but my Mom, Betty, my three brothers and I joined grandmother and granddaddy for a glorious summer on the farm in 1951. I had arrived and my life had officially begun.

Something new or nothing at all

That's my immediate opinion of the possibilities that may or may not accompany this new adventure. But then there is always the "nothing ventured nothing gained" ideology, maybe that is more fitting. Regardless of the future outcome, I am starting now and that in itself is an accomplishment.