I blame Michael Perry
Michael Perry is an author.
His writing reminded me of driving tractor. Sitting on the metal seat of a Farmall and holding the spindly, hand-blackening steering wheel. I would stand and steer like it was a ship. After all the steering wheel was vertical. The exhaust would roar which was good because there was nothing else to do but think or sing and I sometimes did both at the top of my voice. At the end of the day, my hands would vibrate from the pull of the terrain and the churning of the engine. The big tractor was a different ride. The seat had a cushion, the steering wheel adjusted (I think). One had a cab and a radio. Yet the main difference I think was that these tractors had fenders over the wheels. Something you could rest your hand on or a rider could sit on. It was just more substantial. Yet looking back, I miss the small tractors. Seeing the v-shaped tread go past like a water mill. You got on the platform between the two turning giants wheels and you were as basic as the transmission box.
We had our trees. There was the big pine near the house. The dogs laid under it, the perfect location of coolness and closeness to a bone thrown out the door. We had the tree down the yard. Convenient, especially as a brake when theyoungest put a car in neutral and went for a ride. There was the trees in the back, one forked and the canopy for the sandbox. Then there was the rows of pines for a windbreak that was close to the house and yet it was possible to go to a different world as we scrambled among the branches. We cleared a path. There was a sunny world just beyond it. Weedy graveyard of used up farm equipment and the fields beyond that. I suspect beyond that was the world, but I never found out.
The trees of my dreams, however, are the two trees between the barn and the house. Along the walkway but set back on the lawn. That was where the lawn chairs were setup. Whether it was a party or grandpa and grandma or just us kids, it was our patio, our visitors center.