The good old days

“Check it out,” says Jack. His cellphone screen displays a 1966 Massey Ferguson 165, exactly like the tractor we had when we started farming.

“Gas?” I say, “Multi-power?” Jack nods vigorously.

“Wow,” I say, duly impressed.

“Yeah, and it’s a pretty good price compared to the others.”

“Others?” Aha! There’s more to this conversation than day-dreaming about back-when.

“But this is the only one that’s exactly like ours,” he says.

“Except it’s nearly 60 years old now.” (Let’s be reasonable.) “I suppose it might look good on the front lawn. Or you could drive it in the Canada Day parade.”

Ignoring my sparkling wit, Jack continues enthusiastically, “I need something to run the big grain auger. And I have lots of other small jobs to do with it.”

I know when I’m licked.

A few days later he pulls up with the ancient treasure strapped onto a trailer. I run out to inspect our new old tractor. Honestly, it’s a sight for sore eyes. All at once I’m back in the 70’s.

47 years of seeds

Jack started farming with a couple of hefty mortgages, a $500 car and $1500 in his bank account to see him through the first three months. There wasn’t a dime to spare for equipment. By the time we were married a year later he had acquired a 12-year-old tractor and used snowblower (essentials in this part of Ontario).

Piece by piece he added to his line of implements until he was able to crop the land himself. Chickens provided our steady income, but Jack lit up every year as springtime approached. There was something sacred in cultivating, planting and watching a crop grow into a harvest. He frequently poked his fingers into the soil, eager to see plants develop. So often he expressed fascination for how God grew abundant crops out of tiny seeds. Even now, 47 years later, he’s still thrilled to participate in the miracle.

Our new old tractor

I climb onto the weathered beauty. The paint is flat and faded, a little rust here and there; the gauges are a bit off-kilter and several wires dangle in the wind. A thin patina of mildew and dust coats some of the lower parts. Jack starts the tractor and the engine coughs reluctantly at first. Then like a bear disturbed during hibernation, our old friend roars to life. He looks at me with a grin and hollers over the noise, “You two look just like 40 years ago.”

I laugh, remembering my first time on a tractor, dragging the cultivator, a cloud of dust billowing behind. Fully tutored by Jack I happily worked the front field on a warm spring afternoon. Eight acres of heaven.

I know Jack. He will restore this old girl to her former glory, complete with flaming red paint, new decals and shiny silver rims sporting brand-new tires. I’ll help him hunt for parts online, steady the wrench when he’s working on some impossible bolt below and encourage him as he painstakingly replaces or refurbishes each little piece.

Nostalgia can be tricky. It can drag you into an unhealthy longing for the past. Or it can remind you of a lifetime of blessings, doing what you love. I smile at my husband and realize, even if I could go back in time – I’d stay right here (to echo Carly Simon), “‘cause these are the good old days.”