Buried Memories

I awoke from my decades-long slumber when I heard the snapping of twigs and creaking of the surrounding wood and voices closer to me than I had heard in countless years. The cold January air penetrated my rusty, metal exterior and leaked through my old, flattened tires. The voice of a strange man pierced through the quiet. 

“Hey, Mom, what kind of tractor is this?” it asked, followed by happy children’s feet running past the collapsed barn that had become my tomb. “Kids, please be careful!” he exclaimed, and the pitter-patter of their feet against the dirt stopped. 

“Sorry, Grandpa,” one of the little ones said.

And then, I heard her. I heard the girl that I hadn’t heard in a long time. Barbara Jean. But now, her voice sounded much quieter, and each word came out a little slower. 

“Oh, that was my daddy’s old Farmall,” she said fondly. “I haven’t seen it in such a long time.” Hearing her voice again unlocked a vault of beautiful, buried memories. My soul smiled, warmed by the same sounds of happy children that used to fill this farm daily…

I arrived to the Smith family farm decades earlier, on April 13th, 1939. I was brought to the farm by a dealer on their transport truck. The warmth of the morning sun was getting absorbed into my large, black tires. Cows mooed, chickens clucked, and little goats' gentle “baa’s” filled the air. Leonard, the dad and the man who quickly became my best friend couldn’t have been more excited upon my arrival. My humming engine echoed in the small, old barn as Leonard circled me, inspecting every inch of me. 

He had left my engine on from the time I was rolled off the truck until he heard Myrtle’s voice calling for him from the porch, trembling and cracking from pain and fear. My engine sputtered off, and he rushed out of the barn, leaving the doors wide open. The sun had risen from the east and was slowly beginning to set in the west, and all the while, I could hear Myrtle’s screams from the tiny little farmhouse. Finally, just before the sun kissed the horizon, a new sound entered into the mix of busy farm animals and the cries of a mother in agonizing pain: The cries of new human life. From that moment on, I knew I had a bigger purpose: to be there for this family through every triumph, struggle, and change. 

Each day on the farm was spent working from dusk until dawn. Every morning, Leonard would take me on a ride through the fields, whistling while plowing, hauling, tilling, harvesting… My favorite time of the year was Spring. I loved nothing more than the smell of freshly turned Earth and planting new seeds to grow into plentiful crops that would feed my family and provide food for others. Not only did I get to watch new crops grow each year, but as time passed, I watched the little girl, Barbara Jean, grow. Every Spring, she would ride on Leonard’s lap, giggling and cheering as we planted new seeds. Among my treasured memories is watching Barbara Jean’s legs swing back and forth as she sat atop the new barn that Leonard was building. She was just a girl then, so full of joy and happiness. As the years passed and she grew older, I saw her change into a lovely young woman who yearned for a life of her own. 

I remember when Barbara Jean left for college. It was a day that would stick with me, because Leonard never whistled while he worked again. He stood in front of the open barn door with Myrtle and watched as the cloud of dust behind Barbara Jean’s car grew more distant. Myrtle held on to Leonard, her sobs silencing all of the animals on the farm. Leonard wrapped her in a tight hug, although not much could be done to stop his or her tears from flowing. I couldn’t help but feel sad myself as the cheerful little girl I watched grow up drove away to begin the rest of her life. 

One day, in the summer, Leonard had just parked me back in the barn. It was sweltering that afternoon; even I couldn’t handle the unbearable summer heat. I could feel my tires sinking into the dirt more than they normally would. Leonard had been getting progressively slower, and he sold off large portions of our land because he couldn’t handle too much work anymore. Myrtle had sold all of the farm animals a couple of years prior because even walking had become too difficult for her. 

But that hot summer day, I could tell something was off. After he parked me in the barn and climbed down from my seat, he became unsteady and his knees buckled from underneath him. I felt helpless as I watched him crumble to the ground. Thank God Barbara Jean had back home to visit that summer. Myrtle had noticed that he hadn’t come back in from working the crops and she called her to help. She rushed him to the hospital where he received immediate help. Leonard found out he had suffered a stroke. He was heartbroken when the doctor told him that he could no longer farm.

A few days later, Leonard came into the barn for the last time. He rested his trembling  hand on my tires and wept harder than I had heard him weep before. His tears absorbed into my worn and cracked tires. I could do nothing but be present for my lifelong friend, who knew nothing but farming his whole life. It was just as hard for me to let him go as it was for him to finally allow himself rest. 

Before I knew it, the farm fell silent. There were no crops to harvest, no roosters crowing early in the morning, no mooing cows to milk… My only job was to sit in the barn and watch as it became overrun by weeds and listen as the beams weakened with every season. The rotting wood eventually became too weak to support the heavy load, and the structure collapsed on my weakened frame. With no other purpose, all I could do was sleep. 

My soul had finally been awakened by the sound of Barbara Jean’s loving, heart-warming voice. I wasn’t sure who the man was, but when he laid a gentle hand on my old, flattened tires, I felt the same care and compassion that Leonard used to carry. I had suddenly been given new life. 

“Daddy loved this tractor. Once he bought it, he never wanted to buy another one again,” Barbara Jean said. “I wish there was something we could do with it.”

A smile unfolded on the man’s face, and he spoke softly to me. “Don’t worry, old girl.” Something about his words was giving me new hope. “I know exactly what to do.”

A few days later, Barbara Jean’s son returned to the farm with a crew to remove me from the collapsed barn. I was brought to a garage and was restored. My tires were no longer cracked and were fully inflated, the rust had been removed and given a fresh coat of paint, my engine was replaced, and every nut and bolt was replaced and tightened to make me feel like I did the day I was brought to the Smith family farm.

Now, I sit here in this town museum, proudly displayed at the front entrance as a tribute to all the hard working farmers who provided for their families and others during times of hardship. Now, I sit in the museum, restored and shining, a testament to the treasures that endure beneath the rust.