Riding the Tractor Seat

Event Date: 1979–1984 Drafted: 2025-11-23

There was nothing in the world like riding on the tractor with Dad.

His Allis-Chalmers — that classic orange — didn’t have a buddy seat. No tractor did back then. Kids didn’t need safety rails or harnesses; they needed balance, awareness, and trust in the strong adult beside them.

I’d stand on the narrow platform next to Dad, one hand on the fender, the other gripping the side of the metal seat. The engine’s vibration moved through my shoes, up my legs, into my chest — a full-body hum that felt like stepping into the skeleton of the farm itself.

Dad rarely talked while driving. He communicated in gestures: • a tap on the fender meant “hold on” • a tilt of the head meant “look over there” • a quick smile meant “you’re doing good”

I studied the way his hands worked the levers, the clutch, the throttle. He seemed fused with the machine, as if tractor and man were one organism built for hauling, pulling, making things grow.

When we rode along the edge of the field during hay season, wind whipping my hair back, sun in my eyes, I felt so big — like I had been given access to a world only men and machines knew.

Sometimes he’d let me steer — his hand still hovering near the wheel, ready to correct. The tractor would wobble down the row, bouncing over ruts, but I felt like a god guiding a metal beast.

Those moments taught me something without words: The land is worked with hands, sweat, engines, and love — and you’re part of it.