Allis in the Field
I saw it in the distance, it looked liked a late 40's Allis Chalmers. There was a tall bed of grass surrounding every part of her and I wondered how many decades she had sat there. I wondered what caused such a wonderful thing to be walked away from and left to slowly decay. And I wondered how many thousands of others were sharing the same fate. Tractors to me are more than just simple tools they capture an America that used to be. A time when Mom new how to make bread from scratch and linen sheets smelled liked the cool fall air that danced across the prairie. A time when Dad's hands were calloused and the smell of farm animals was the smell of future meals, money for the five and dime, new shoes from the Montgomery Ward catalog, or maybe just an ice cold root beer on a hot August day. A time when a woman was proud to stay at home and on Sunday the aroma of Mom's perfume could not only be smelled throughout the house but would drift out to the tire swing where I spun and looked at the clouds and wondered if there really were Martians up there. I wanted to take that old Allis home with me, dig it out of that grass pile and at least get her under cover. In some way I felt as if I could just get her home, clean off the dirt, change her oil and see if her engine could spin something would happen. Maybe, just for a moment, I could smell Mom's perfume in the air, feel that tire swing spin or hear the tired comforting voice of my Dad calling from the field. That old Allis whispered to me that day, whispered please remember; and I will.