The Great Outdoors
The big six-cylinder Perkins diesel engine roared to life. The entire red frame of the big Massey Ferguson shook under my rear end as the tractor transformed from a sedentary red rock, quiet and still, to a fire-breathing amber dragon billowing smoke, all with the simple twist of a key.
I affectionately called her “Besty.” Truth be told, I referred to every truck, boat, tractor, canoe, kayak, lawnmower, or other device that I could ride on or in as “Betsy.” My Old Towne canoe is Betsy. My black Dodge truck is Betsy. And yes, my Massey Ferguson 4263 is Betsy. This Betsy was a shiny, red, 1999, 100 horsepower tractor. She was my first tractor. My daddy owned several tractors on his small horse and cattle operation in Baldwin County. I remember how much my 13-year-old self felt like a “man” when I climbed up on that big Ford. I used to volunteer to bushhog, especially out by the road. “All the cute girls always wave to a boy on a tractor,” I’d tell myself. And they did. I’d smile big as the moon and wave like a dog’s tail as they passed by. Years later, I shared those recollections with my dad. He laughed and remarked that he already knew of my predilection for waving at girls from the tractor, “so I got some of the girls from up the road to drive by and wave and honk, because I knew you’d keep bushhogging until sundown on the hope they might come back by.”
I plowed my first “real” garden with Betsy. Not one ear of corn came out, and the stalks looked like the variety of clowns you’d expect to find at the circus. This one tall, that one short, this one with long leaves and this one with none. But the next year corn grew plentiful, and for years since, so have the potatoes and onions, sunflowers and zinnias. Ole Betsy has turned many a row in her life. And so has my father-in-law’s old John Deere. He taught me how to turn rows on that tractor. 
I’ve spent many an hour on an orange tractor, a blue tractor and a green tractor. But Betsy… she was “my” first tractor. Not my daddy’s or my father-in-law’s, but mine. And it wasn’t until I had “my” tractor that I came to appreciate what they mean for a family. “Don’t you drop her,” Hannah yelled over the growl of the motor. Banks was maybe six months old, and she was madder than a hornet. I swaddled her up in the blanket and cuddled her in my left arm. “Come on girl, we are going to make laps like Talladega,” I whispered in her ear. She had been crying for an hour, and Hannah was nearing her wit’s end that afternoon. When she came out on the back porch of our tiny farmhouse, I knew she was spent. I throttled the tractor down to idle and walked over to the porch. “Come on, I have a plan.” I led her back to the still growling tractor, climbed back up to my seat, and held my hands out. “Hand her to me.” I shifted Betsy into a lower gear and eased off the clutch. We crawled forward at no more than a dog’s trot. Banks settled down a little as the world started passing her by. I steered out into the pasture, and the tractor bumped along, never absorbing any of the divots or holes her wheels found. With each jolt, Banks’ head rested heavier and heavier on my chest. By turn three of our four-mile-an-hour racetrack, Banks’ eyes were closed, and by the time I did the second lap around the pasture, she was sound asleep and limp as a wet noodle. I drove around for another 30 minutes as Hannah watched from the swing on the back porch. My arm was cramping, but I fought through the discomfort, knowing that Hannah was enjoying the peace. As we passed near the house, she waved and blew me a kiss … “Still got it,” I chuckled. I grinned from ear to ear and said out loud, “Cute girls like boys on tractors.”
Betsy has been a good tractor. She still is. We still plant with her and do our food plots. Once, Bay got my truck axle stuck in the mud, and Betsy pulled it right on out. Cape still likes to drive Betsy around sometimes too. Banks has a time or two as well. That old John Deere is still around too, and we added a little orange to the mix with a Kubota mini excavator. Those tractors have a lot of miles on them. A lot of hours too, turning rows and plowing fields so we can feed our stomachs. But they are so much more than machines, because best of all, we’ve made a lot of memories on those tractors and one day my girls will tell stories about “my daddy’s tractor,” and that feeds the soul.
-Walt Merrell is a Christian Outdoorsman who writes of his adventures with his family, with the hope that others might be inspired and encouraged to embrace God’s tapestry, otherwise known as the great outdoors, as a means of finding Common Ground. You can follow him at Shepherding Outdoors on FB, YT and IG and at shepherdingoutdoors.com.
