As a seven or eight year old, I have vivid memories of getting brief tractor rides with grumpy Grandpa Herb as he plowed the fields on his Christmas tree farm. I lived for those rides. The noise and the smell of hydraulic fluid. I loved those rides, however infrequent and short.
My good friend, let’s call him Old Man Earl (several months older than me), just called from his pheasant-hunting property in Eastern Washington where he had just finished using his tractor and brush-hog to mow down great swaths of undergrowth. He was high on life. It didn’t hurt that he had a whiskey and ginger highball in hand with a ribeye on the grill and his trusty canine companion Hank by his side. Oh, but the city-boy turned gentleman-hunter was reveling in the pure joy of manly-man, machinery mojo! Caterpillar Second Shift Steel Toe Work Boots. Carhartt Duck Bib overalls. Farmer’s tan. Nearly-callused hands. Heaven.
Maybe I’ll pick up one of those little green lawn tractors. Not only would it cut down my mowing time to about three minutes total but it could bring back the all-consuming joy of riding the mighty, snorting, mechanical steed.
– Jet Cannon
