Machines inspire stories

I was messing around on the internet the other day and decided to check out the first place I ever lived. I typed in the address and was surprised to find that the property is for sale. I was also surprised to find out that it is now a warehouse and previously had been an auto repair shop.
When I relayed this information to my mother she told me that it wasn’t an auto repair shop or a warehouse. Her parents had sold the property to a Polish guy named Julian and he had built a boat motor repair place there.
I didn’t bother to tell her that was almost 50 years ago and that nothing stays the same for 50 years. I don’t think Julian still owns the place as the last owner I could find was for Rocky’s Automotive. She wouldn’t have believed me anyway. I also didn’t tell her that the neighbor’s property was also included in the warehouse and its parking lot or that the bike shop on the corner no longer existed. Let her remember her childhood home as it was.
I think that is part of the attraction for all the antique engine and tractor enthusiasts that are or will be visiting our town this week. All those displays are concrete evidence of what once was. The rows and rows of antique tractors are guaranteed to have lots of people saying, “We had one of those.”
At the fairgrounds this week the old engines will still sputter and belch great clouds of smoke just like they used to. The tractors have been cleaned of all the chaff and other debris they picked up in their working lives. Now they are like aging dowagers content to mutter quietly and to be admired.
More important than the machines themselves are the stories they inspire. If I go out there with one or both of my brothers, and we find an ancient orange tractor with a crank start we will tell the stories of how our grandmother almost tipped one just like it over in the little hayfield and how Michael got it running again long after it should have been retired.
Other people will also tell stories associated with the engines. Life was simpler when the displayed tractors and engines were in their primes. Or at least that is what we tell ourselves. Was it really simpler to cook a full meal every night than to throw something into the microwave? Was it better to live without air conditioning and indoor plumbing? Was it simpler to start a tractor by cranking it than by turning a key?
Memory is like that. We remember the warm sun shining down as we plowed the fields. We conveniently forget how hot that same sun was in the middle of August. We choose to remember the good times. If we are lucky we also look back on the not-so-good times with laughter or at least a sense of satisfaction at having survived.
Whatever problems we are having at the moment outweigh anything that happened in the past. That makes the past seem rosier than it really was. We forget all the little inconveniences that went along with a simpler way of life.
What we are really remembering is ourselves before responsibility weighed heavily on our shoulders. We are remembering a time when we did not know words like Plavix or Coumadin.
We remember when it didn’t matter what the stock market did and whatever war we were fighting was far, far away. We remember when the adults were in charge of all that and all we had to do was enjoy the long summer days riding on the back of a tractor.
When we walk through the rows and rows of machinery and other displays we can forget for a little while that now we are the adults. It is our children fighting the wars. It is our parents who are on Plavix and Coumadin. We are the ones living our lives without a road map but with more aches and pains than we ever knew were possible.
At the fairgrounds this week we can go back in time and and remember what once was. If we squint just right we can imagine that the years have melted away and that things are the same as they once were. Maybe we will even see Julian.[[In-content Ad]]