“Your water bottle is right by the tractor,” I called out and returned to my phone conversation with a friend that I had been catching up with since my move. “Those are words I never thought I’d hear you say,” she said and laughed.
It’s true. We have a tractor. There is more to do on this land than cut grass, there are trees to haul as most of the land is on a slope, so – tractor. A quick look on-line yields $18,000 Kubotas for new vehicles, and yes, there are payment options. I had no idea. So, Craigslist and a confident partner who is not afraid to repair a tractor if need be.
After texts and calls, we hitched our trailer up and headed out on an adventure into farm country (which most of this is). Highways are an interesting word out here. Little two lane roads with no shoulder and tractor trailers flying past with a roar made us wish we had attached the sway bar (I am learning so much). Too many little highways later, we arrived at a tidy farm, over the railroad tracks, just as the farmer said.
His name was Ivan, he was German and reminded me of my aging father with fairer skin and bright, blue eyes. Ivan dressed the part in his cowboy boots and hat, and as my father would say, in his dungarees. He had two old tractors ready for test rides and his business persona revealed that someone else was heading out to see them too. They were gorgeous antiques that purred to life, standing in the shadows of larger, newer tractors.
Ivan’s shop had a lifetime collection of equipment, all stored more orderly than I’d expected. I spied two child’s chairs up on a shelf. Each chair had a wood slat seat with a ladder back. They looked out of place around so much equipment, so I imagined they were precious in some way and it seemed too personal to ask. During negotiations, he produced a replacement part and a book with specs for the tractor. He owned and used the yellow and white tractor for the last 30 years and was the second owner. He reminisced about how strong and reliable it was and bragged about it pulling a trailer with 70 square bales of hay.
Ivan genuinely seemed sad to sell the sturdy little tractor. He told us about his recent recovery from a triple bypass and a lung cancer diagnosis. That explained his coughing into a handkerchief throughout our visit. His lifetime of work was evidenced by a well maintained farm, cattle and equipment. He said he didn’t want his wife to have to deal with selling everything off. We loaded the tractor into our trailer and he even ran back and gave us one of his hand fashioned drip pans to protect the trailer’s wooden floor.
We weren’t excited about retracing our journey back and said as much upon parting. Ivan considered our journey and told us that he and his wife drove all over for square dances back in their day. Better than Maps, he offered us directions home and wished us well. He directed me to write down his address as we were sending a check for the extra part we bought.
Our way home was much better (even with one correction) and I was so happy that I had decided to go along for what sounded like a dry, business deal, where my presence wasn’t really needed and I had other tasks waiting at home. We’d heard that tractors were often named after mules and debated over various mule names, settling on Daisy.
The next morning Ivan called around 8:30 to make sure we made it back okay. He realized his error in directions and felt badly about it all night. After the call, we agreed that as a farmer from his generation, he’d been up for hours and waited for a polite time to call.