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J.C.
Milliman
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Old tractors : Good
bye to the time Machine
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J.C.
Milliman
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Old tractors : Good
bye to the time Machine
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H.G. Wells never penned such a simple conveyance
as my 4-cylinder, internal combustioned, steel-seated, big red time machine.
To you (or my mother), it was merely an old tractor, sorely in need of paint (and a muffler), good only for the prosaic tasks of the farm. 7,000 pounds of unglamorous drudgery in motion, just another tired Farmall M.
But not just another Farmall M, or any of a number of similarly age-distressed tractors dotting the countryside. This tractor just happens to be the very first tractor my family ever owned -- a steel, rust and rubber embodiment of my family's agricultural heritage. To me, in addition to being a monument to the Milliman family's contribution to agriculture (or lack thereof as the case may be) it was a single-seat time traveler capable of whisking me back in a moment to an era of fireside chats and the youth of the Greatest Generation.
Farming with this ancient behemoth in the 21st Century is, perhaps, merely one step away from being Amish. You may not have to rest the tractor at the end of each row like you would a team of Belgian draft horses, but your (mine, anyway) butt could use a break from that metal seat. There are other features of this rolling anachronism that limit its usefulness in our wonderful hurry-up, appearance-conscious, convenience-dependent, what-have-you-done-for-me-in-the-last-20-nanoseconds world we currently live in. It was, after all, designed during the not-so-Great Depression, and well before cell phones, pagers, laptop computers and Information Super Highways bringing us more, more, more, now, now now!
Sigh.
When this time machine rolled out of the Chicago Farmall Works, people had patience. Things happened slower. Information, like news, didn't come over a wire called an Internet. We, as a Nation, were wireless then. You got your news once a day, after dinner, with everyone sitting around a wonderful invention called a "radio." Life moved along back roads at a dirt path pace.
There weren't any stylish gym franchises back then. The only "World Gym" most people went to for a workout was called a "farm." How many fat people do you see in photos from the '30's and 40's? And they did it without ephedrine, designer diets, no-fat milk or gym memberships.
Life itself was enough of a work out. Like driving a Farmall M. Shoot, just getting into the driver's seat nearly raises a sweat. Most folks I know mount these old tractors from the back by stepping up on the drawbar, up to the left axle bolster, swinging the right leg over the seat and then settling down into it with both hands on the steering wheel -- much like one settles into a P-51 cockpit.
One misstep and you crack a shin on the axle bolster.
Comfort, ease of operation, safety -- look for none of that on the Farmall. It was designed and built to farm and it expected you to know what you were doing -- The rest of that pansy crap was up to the operator.
And believe me, the Farmall would keep you busy enough. With a high center of gravity and narrow front end, the Farmall developed a reputation for rolling over on hills. For tractors like these old ones (without Roll Over Protection Systems) where the operator sat high, a roll over usually means death. And rollovers take two general forms. Most common is the rollover about the x-axis (sideways rollover) because of the instability associated with the tricycle layout. Also common is the rollover about the y-axis.
Because the four-banger engine turned out so much low-revving torque to the rear axle, if you stopped the tires from rotating (by chaining the tractor to a heavy log, for instance) the tractor would simply rotate about the tires and flip over backwards -- if you weren't paying attention and dumped the clutch in time. Just nodding off, easy enough to do on a hot, breezy summer day while mowing a large paddock, and you could tumble off the seat and down into the mower.
Ouch.
So unlike modern tractors designed with safety and comfort first, working ability second, these old tractors tended to keep farmers on their toes in a Darwinian sort of way. And driving it, I found I couldn't really let my mind wander too far.
Still, because it was my time machine, I would let it take me back now and then to an era when fedoras were not some stylish affectation but were required. A time of wing tips, Lester and Earl and foiling the commies with the Berlin Airlift.
But it really wasn't a very good time machine -- like a barn-sour horse, it kept running home with me to the present. Metal fatigue would raise its ugly head and I would be jerked back to the present by the sound of metal clanking to find my disc well behind me, still attached to the drawbar which had just fallen off.
The choice is a cruel one. Keep escaping to the past and fall prey to the tyranny of the urgent, or close the time portal and leap headlong onto the squirrel wheel of 21st Century life -- a present filled with litigation, stress, mindless urgency and the hatred of evil men who fly airplanes into buildings?
As dad would say, "Damned if you do, damned if you don't."
I opted for the here and now. I guess it was the right choice. You can't live in an illusion, you know, as attractive as it might seem. So Saturday we brought home a shiny new diesel-powered, hydrostatic transmissioned marvel of 21st Century technology, complete with adjustable padded seat, handholds, steps and a beverage holder.
The biggest blow, I guess, is that all the technology embodied in this one machine is the great leveler of our time. Anyone can operate this machine, even my daughters (complete with headphones and sunscreen).
They say pride is the last to go. But I took pride in being able to not only drive a Farmall, but also to work well with it. To keep my furrows straight and the shares buried. It was hard, and the harder a task, the greater the satisfaction in performing it well. I derived much satisfaction from farming with a Farmall. I also slept very well.
Despite all the plastic on this new machine, I have to admit it will be a bridge to a more efficient future. As rich a future as the past proved to be? I doubt it. Hard times like the Depression and the dust bowls produced the generation that won World War II, fought a Cold War successfully, landed on the Moon and invented cellular communication. My generation? We just whine about how hard that 'ole Farmall seat is.
Because I am such an unworthy steward of my family's agricultural heritage, the Farmall will be going to a new, more-worthy owner. Francis collects Farmalls and has every model except for the largest, the Farmall M. My time machine will complete his impressive collection. Francis says it will never work another day. Isn't that what we all want for our babies? A secure future and to be taken care of?
In the meantime, as I do my work on my new timesaving tractor, I sneak a glance over at the time traveler. It just sits there hating me. What goes around comes around, though. As I recall, my Great Uncle Glover put his team of Percherons out to pasture in 1951 to buy ... a Farmall M.
In time, the time traveler may forget this present pain as it whisks Francis back to the Swing Era. So too will my pain pass as I adjust, albeit haltingly, to this quick and shallow world we live in.
I wish I didn't have to.
I wish time wasn't in such a state of constant flux. As Hereclitus the Obscure said (If you'd heard of him, he wouldn't be Hereclitus the Obscure, would he?), "You never step in the same stream twice." I wish I could.
I'd go grab those Percherons...
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