I have written much about being a little girl and growing up on the farm in the early part of my life. There are so many memories that are still very vivid for me.
One of the things that stands out so clearly is the sound of Dad’s tractor. He owned a Massey-Harris tractor, which was a common sight in those days. They were solid, simple machines that looked very different from the modern tractors sold today.
The engine of those tractors made a steady, rhythmic sound that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.
I remember playing in the yard and listening to it. Knowing that Mom was in the kitchen, and being able to hear Dad working in the fields made me feel safe.
I liked hearing it, but after moving from the farm I never heard it again. As the years passed, I assumed I never would.
Until… One day, about thirty-five years later. I was standing in my kitchen with the windows open. I was home alone, and it was spring planting time.
Suddenly, I heard the distinctive put-put-put of that engine once again, and I was suddenly six years old again listening for my Dad working in the fields.
But this time it wasn’t Dad’s tractor. It was one that a neighbor had acquired.
For several years afterward, I welcomed the sound of that tractor every spring. For a few minutes I was transported back to a time of innocence long ago.
Ironically, Carl purchased another Massey-Harris tractor sometime in the 1980s to use for cutting and hauling firewood, but the engine was bad. He replaced it with the engine he took out of his 1969 Pontiac Firebird when he sent it to the scrap yard, but that is a story for another day.
Through My Eyes, Gently 