The Tractor

      It stood useless for almost two years. No, wait a minute - not useless. Unused would be a better word. It was a big old Massey-Ferguson farm tractor, perfect for grading the driveway, or moving snow in the wintertime, or mowing vast fields of grass. It was my husband's "baby," purchased even before we built the house. His prized possession, complete with a roll cage and enough shifting levers to operate the Hoover Dam. I always said that if I ever tried to drive the thing, I'd be in Toledo, Ohio, before I could figure out what all those levers and gear-shift doo-dahs were for. It stood about 17 or so hands high, towering over me and thee - and the only other person who could understand how to drive it was my son-in-law, who said it was entirely too huge for any of his needs, plus the fact that he had nowhere to store it. And none of my other children had the space or the need for it.  The left rear tire had gone flat as a pancake, and the one on the right was beginning to look a little deflated. The only "person" using it was a stray barn cat who slept on the comfy seat when it suited her, leaving behind mountains of cat hair.
       So, my husband died almost two years ago, and the old tractor stood patiently under the shed roof of the barn. And one day my friend, Owen, who periodically does mowing and yard work for me, said, "Why are you keeping this tractor?" And I replied that I couldn't bear the thought of parting with it because it meant so much to my late husband. And Owen said, "Well, it would be a shame to let it just sit here and deteriorate." (Owen's a farmer by career, so is well-acquainted with all kinds of farm equipment.) His comment kept flying around in my brain, and the word, "deteriorate," kept haunting me. "You have to be practical," I told myself. "It's just a tractor, made of steel and pistons and God knows what else. It's not a living thing." Deciding to square my shoulders and to be a big girl and do the right thing, I reluctantly put the word out - and I had a taker within a month. By the light of flashlights and floodlights, a nice young farmer from somewhere up in Pennsylvania appeared one evening in a giant roll-off truck with a winch, loaded the tractor,  and handed me a roll of hundred-dollar bills. The tractor started up without hesitation, and almost purred as it was being loaded, even with a flat tire, and it wasn't long before truck and tractor rolled out of the driveway, leaving me in the red backwash of tail lights.
     "It's just a tractor," I sobbed to myself as I made my way up to the house from the barn. The memories rolled over me: the excitement of taking delivery of the tractor so many years ago; visions of my then-young and healthy husband riding along on the tractor with one or another baby grandchild on his lap, (the babies were either terrified or fascinated); mental images of my husband working with the tractor in all kinds of weather, bucket up, blade down, mower whirring, and he was grinning from ear-to-ear.
      Then the realization hit me. It wasn't just a sold tractor. It was the end of an era, a machine wrapped in dreams and memories and hope and satisfaction - and it was gone, just as my husband was, never to return. I never contemplated this, this pain of letting go - this emotional trip-wire with Massey-Ferguson stamped on its grille. And it's just not within me to dismiss a piece of machinery, as just that, a piece of machinery. The tractor represented so many things - it was the beginning of our "golden years," when we bought our land and started building our house. Its sale marked the end of the "golden" period and the beginning of the alone-ness, the gold now chipped and tarnished with the reality of being one instead of two. Half of a whole. No more you and me - just me now - and it's such a sad and empty place to be.
     Oh, sure - I know the pain of separation will lessen, and the day will come when I will be grateful for having one less "thing" to be responsible for. Intellectually, I know all of this. Emotionally, part of my heart went along with that tractor, which I pray will be a happy beginning for someone else - a machine to make dreams come true.