A Time to Reminisce- By Max Armstrong
On these tractor rides you are seeing a lot of red tractors, a huge array of green ones, along with orange, blue and grey ones, as well as some you just don't see that often. Old Iron, some people call them. Ageless is another term you hear. They are classics, some might say.
Most of these machines here look different now than when they were made. Many of them look better than when they rolled off the assembly line five decades ago at a place like Waterloo, Rock Island, Charles City or Racine. With sandblasting, glossy paints and superbly remanufactured parts, these tractors truly are "standing tall."
Then there are some that just have not yet been to the paint shed. They are wearing their "work clothes," and there is good reason for that. Some of these old machines truly do get worked yet today. That they are still so functional is a testament to the magnificent engineering that went into these machines all those years ago.
And some might suggest that the finish on that steel is nothing to get too worked up about anyway. While a mirror reflection in that paint sure is something to be proud of, we might hasten to point out that these tractors through their lives have all had their share of dirt and mud and manure…of chaff and weed pollen…of grease smudges and oil puddles and gasoline spills…and of scratches and fading. And to us real tractor fans, as the true character of that tractor still comes through, even that well-worn appearance looks remarkable.
It seems to us that this avocation of collecting, restoring and parading old tractors is different than the old car craze. For many of the tractor boys and girls there is a very strong family tie with the tractor of their affections. It may have been Dad's or Grandpa’s. It may have been just like the one Uncle Frank had. It could be the very same tractor we started farming with many, many tractors ago. But because it was in the family, the connection, it appears, is stronger than with an old car.
Sitting on that seat brings back a flood of family memories. There are recollections of the changing seasons…births and deaths…first dates and graduations…plowing, planting, cultivating, spraying, mowing and harvesting….sweating and freezing…and dreaming and scheming.
As young people out on the farm, we contemplated the vast world of experiences ahead of us, with no clue of what was really yet to come and with no idea that decades later those days and those experiences with these tractors would come to mean so much.
Most of these machines here look different now than when they were made. Many of them look better than when they rolled off the assembly line five decades ago at a place like Waterloo, Rock Island, Charles City or Racine. With sandblasting, glossy paints and superbly remanufactured parts, these tractors truly are "standing tall."
Then there are some that just have not yet been to the paint shed. They are wearing their "work clothes," and there is good reason for that. Some of these old machines truly do get worked yet today. That they are still so functional is a testament to the magnificent engineering that went into these machines all those years ago.
And some might suggest that the finish on that steel is nothing to get too worked up about anyway. While a mirror reflection in that paint sure is something to be proud of, we might hasten to point out that these tractors through their lives have all had their share of dirt and mud and manure…of chaff and weed pollen…of grease smudges and oil puddles and gasoline spills…and of scratches and fading. And to us real tractor fans, as the true character of that tractor still comes through, even that well-worn appearance looks remarkable.
It seems to us that this avocation of collecting, restoring and parading old tractors is different than the old car craze. For many of the tractor boys and girls there is a very strong family tie with the tractor of their affections. It may have been Dad's or Grandpa’s. It may have been just like the one Uncle Frank had. It could be the very same tractor we started farming with many, many tractors ago. But because it was in the family, the connection, it appears, is stronger than with an old car.
Sitting on that seat brings back a flood of family memories. There are recollections of the changing seasons…births and deaths…first dates and graduations…plowing, planting, cultivating, spraying, mowing and harvesting….sweating and freezing…and dreaming and scheming.
As young people out on the farm, we contemplated the vast world of experiences ahead of us, with no clue of what was really yet to come and with no idea that decades later those days and those experiences with these tractors would come to mean so much.
Road Gear-By Max Armstrong
What is there about these old tractors? What is there that makes us so thoroughly enjoy driving these old machines down the road with other fans of vintage farm equipment? For me it is some very special memories of “road gear.”
It is true that these machines were designed to spend more time in the field than on the road. But the movement of tractors and their implements from farm-to-farm and field-to-field was an exciting experience for young farm boys back then. And now some 40 to 50 years later the thrill has really never faded. We remember what it was like to pull out onto the road and shift into “road gear.”
The days of working these tractors across those fields were very long days. We thought we would never get done. The work started early, and with many acres to cover before dusk, there was no time to waste. Hour after hour we looked around to check the results of that moldboard plow as it turned over the soil back behind the tractor. We watched the Kewanee disc slice through the plowed ground, preparing that seedbed for the planter. Or a few weeks later we stared down at those rows of corn as they passed between the cultivator shovels, mile after mile and hour after hour. It is no wonder that some of us grew to dislike so much back then the same tractors that we have come to love so much today.
But as that sizzling sun that had tortured us all day settled behind the tree line, it was time to head to the house. There just were not many things that felt better than pulling the implement out of the ground, easing the tractor out onto the blacktop and shifting into “road gear.” With the blast of the cool evening air taking some of the sunburn sting away, and heading up the road at a blazing 15 miles-per-hour, it felt so good to have done a day’s work, especially knowing what was waiting at home.
Coming around the curve down by the barn, I could catch the first glimpse of light from the windows of that old farmhouse. Even “speeding” along in road gear, I couldn’t get there fast enough. I knew that on that kitchen table in there was some of the tastiest pork and gravy, flavorful garden sweet corn, luscious home canned beets, soft homemade biscuits and the richest blackberry cobbler a farm boy had ever known. My “bottomless pit” needed filling, and Mom knew just how to do it. There were not many things that she seemed to enjoy more.
And after 30 years of broadcasting, traveling to some 30 different nations, seeing the most awesome mountains, lakes, sunsets and skylines on this planet, I have to tell you that they all truly pale by comparison. From the seat of this same old Farmall that took me full-throttle home for the night, with the sensations of “road gear” coming back, I can honestly say that hardly anything has ever looked as pretty to me as the warm, yellow glow in the darkness from Mom’s kitchen window.
It is true that these machines were designed to spend more time in the field than on the road. But the movement of tractors and their implements from farm-to-farm and field-to-field was an exciting experience for young farm boys back then. And now some 40 to 50 years later the thrill has really never faded. We remember what it was like to pull out onto the road and shift into “road gear.”
The days of working these tractors across those fields were very long days. We thought we would never get done. The work started early, and with many acres to cover before dusk, there was no time to waste. Hour after hour we looked around to check the results of that moldboard plow as it turned over the soil back behind the tractor. We watched the Kewanee disc slice through the plowed ground, preparing that seedbed for the planter. Or a few weeks later we stared down at those rows of corn as they passed between the cultivator shovels, mile after mile and hour after hour. It is no wonder that some of us grew to dislike so much back then the same tractors that we have come to love so much today.
But as that sizzling sun that had tortured us all day settled behind the tree line, it was time to head to the house. There just were not many things that felt better than pulling the implement out of the ground, easing the tractor out onto the blacktop and shifting into “road gear.” With the blast of the cool evening air taking some of the sunburn sting away, and heading up the road at a blazing 15 miles-per-hour, it felt so good to have done a day’s work, especially knowing what was waiting at home.
Coming around the curve down by the barn, I could catch the first glimpse of light from the windows of that old farmhouse. Even “speeding” along in road gear, I couldn’t get there fast enough. I knew that on that kitchen table in there was some of the tastiest pork and gravy, flavorful garden sweet corn, luscious home canned beets, soft homemade biscuits and the richest blackberry cobbler a farm boy had ever known. My “bottomless pit” needed filling, and Mom knew just how to do it. There were not many things that she seemed to enjoy more.
And after 30 years of broadcasting, traveling to some 30 different nations, seeing the most awesome mountains, lakes, sunsets and skylines on this planet, I have to tell you that they all truly pale by comparison. From the seat of this same old Farmall that took me full-throttle home for the night, with the sensations of “road gear” coming back, I can honestly say that hardly anything has ever looked as pretty to me as the warm, yellow glow in the darkness from Mom’s kitchen window.
