It’s all about perception

This coming weekend, the Best Show on Tracks will take place in Woodland, CA with an insane display of antique tractors and farm equipment. Tractor buffs from around the world will descend (no really, they will) for the weekend, showing their restorations, swapping tales and reveling in the company of fellow grease addicts. I have always loved to watch the tractors and equipment run. The raw power is combined with a freaky kind of grace that takes a special kind of eye to discern.

The Heidrick Ag History Center is a sponsor of the event. The museum is home to my grandfather’s collection of antique tractors and farm equipment, one of the largest in the world. Prior to its completion, the collection resided at my grandparent’s farm in a series of massive barns.

Growing up, I didn’t really know that this collection was anything other than our extended playground. Grandpa never told us to get off the machines, or to stay out of the barns where the rare, one-of-a-kind, and massive machines rested. We climbed all over, breathing in the greasy paint smell of the barns and shop as if it were a fine floral bouquet. I knew that people came from all over to see my grandparents and the collection, but I thought it was only because they were, like, the coolest grandparents ever. The tractors were just gravy.

I learned to drive on a 1920 something flatbed Ford truck when I was about 11. I could also drive a tractor that had wheels. But driving a track tractor was beyond my comprehension. It still is. I can’t figure it out. From my viewpoint you steer the things with what looks like a stick and some pedals, probably some spit too. And when it turns, or maybe pivot is the right word, it sounds like it’s going to fall apart amidst the squeals, shudders and rusty pings.

All the grandsons in the family received a Caterpillar 10 tractor on their 10th birthday (maybe? I could be making that part up). I remember the row of 10s, each with a white nameplate with red lettering for the cousin or brother to whom it belonged.

I never felt like there was any inequity in this. After all, us girls got to go shopping with Grandma and help make dinner for the men folk. (sarcastic pause) No really, I didn’t want a Caterpillar, but I do remember, distinctly, asking Grandpa if instead of a Caterpillar, could I please have a Butterfly?

In my childish perception of the restoration process, I thought of Grandpa’s shop as some kind of magic assembly line. A tractor or old car went in one end, some cartoon-esque assembly line music played, and out came out the final product, completely transformed. Never mind the hundreds of hours spent restoring these mammoth machines to working and show condition.

So naturally, why couldn’t he put an old gray caterpillar into the barn, flip a switch, and voila – out comes a Butterfly all pretty with swirly colors all over. And with easy to use steering controls thankyouverymuch.

I don’t remember what Grandpa’s response was. I really wish I did. I really really wish I did. I have a feeling he probably put his hands on his hips, tilted his hat back, paused, and simply offered to build something else for me in his shop to distract me from my wild notions of a purple tractor.

If you’re in the neighborhood, check out the show.